Wednesday wish-place and a short piece to honor that
Since we were talking about Christmas lights yesterday -- this Wednesday wish-place is appropriate: a park, with twinkling tree lights and glimmering path. How lovely to stroll through that on a mild winter night.
And it got me thinking, too. I suspect that's not London, but it will be for this small offering. On the summer solstice I wrote a slightly dark little piece with Amanda and Randall, two Very Old Friends (with fangs) meeting in "South Beach." Let's check on them again, because Randall has something to share....
She’s late.
Randall Dracul, vampire-about-several-towns, scowls into his Burberry scarf - purchased, thank you, not taken from anyone - and shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat. His bare fingers touch the small velvet box which is currently ruining the line of his coat. He scowls deeper.
Amanda told him she’d be here, in this idyllic London park, with damned Christmas lights outlining the trees, with the remnants of this day’s fog coating path and bench. He wants her here.
He wants her always, but he hasn't quite had her. Something about ethics, about his roving eye and unchecked appetites - she’s so inflexible.
After their last meeting in Miami on the summer solstice (their passionate reunion in the old hotel room, sea outside rushing like blood to the skin of a young stupid woman, no, wrong, he’s not thinking like that any more) , he’d gone back to Caracas and started to brood. He hated brooding, so hackneyed. But there it was.
He wants her always. It’s been over two centuries. Time to stop running.
He hears the tapping of high heels at the end of the path. He smells her. He smiles, and turns, and blows her a kiss. “Hello, lover,” he calls.
Amanda Cochran, sleek, ageless, wearing a Dior coat he’d bought her in 1952, strides toward him. Her smile is a little… disappointed, as it has been since she first abstained from human blood. Her eyes catch the light from the twinkling display overhead, though, and he sees the love.
She does love him in her own way, he knows. And he’s about to prove he loves her too.
His fingertips caress the velvet box once more.
“Darling, so sorry. Couldn’t get a cab.” Her kiss is sweetly cool. She’s had an aperitif, he can taste it - one of her blood-orange mimosas, with a hint of pig’s blood. “Why ever didn’t you come to the flat when you arrived? I have your room ready.”
“Because I wanted to show you something. On a long night, so that you know I mean it.”
She smiles, a little quizzically, a little sadly. “Yes, night-creature. If you must.”
He brings out the box. He doesn’t let her take a step back. “Amanda, for you. Please open it, and… I hope you understand what it means.”
His indomitable darling doesn’t fumble the opening of it, but with his hand around the nape of her neck, he can feel the tremors in her down deep.
A silver chip catches the lights, reflects them in colors he finds wholly appropriate. The etched number brightens. That Caracas sorcerer knew his stuff.
“Randall,” she says in that deep, throaty voice which enthralled him the first time he heard it, that cold night in Boston so long ago.
“Do you see?” he says, and draws her closer.
“It’s… 62.”
“And it will say 63 tomorrow,” he whispers. “And 64 the day after that, and 65, and so on. For you, lover.”
She turns the chip over and reads aloud the word etched there. “Abstention.”
“If it’s the only way I can have you, well, then….” He shrugs, making light of the thirst he still has, the yearning he will suppress for her.
She does understand, and takes his mouth in celebration.
In an idyllic London park, with damned Christmas lights outlining the trees, with the remnants of the day’s fog on path and bench, he at last has what he wanted. And so does she.
May you have the right lights today, and may you find unexpected gifts. :)
And it got me thinking, too. I suspect that's not London, but it will be for this small offering. On the summer solstice I wrote a slightly dark little piece with Amanda and Randall, two Very Old Friends (with fangs) meeting in "South Beach." Let's check on them again, because Randall has something to share....
She’s late.
Randall Dracul, vampire-about-several-towns, scowls into his Burberry scarf - purchased, thank you, not taken from anyone - and shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat. His bare fingers touch the small velvet box which is currently ruining the line of his coat. He scowls deeper.
Amanda told him she’d be here, in this idyllic London park, with damned Christmas lights outlining the trees, with the remnants of this day’s fog coating path and bench. He wants her here.
He wants her always, but he hasn't quite had her. Something about ethics, about his roving eye and unchecked appetites - she’s so inflexible.
After their last meeting in Miami on the summer solstice (their passionate reunion in the old hotel room, sea outside rushing like blood to the skin of a young stupid woman, no, wrong, he’s not thinking like that any more) , he’d gone back to Caracas and started to brood. He hated brooding, so hackneyed. But there it was.
He wants her always. It’s been over two centuries. Time to stop running.
He hears the tapping of high heels at the end of the path. He smells her. He smiles, and turns, and blows her a kiss. “Hello, lover,” he calls.
Amanda Cochran, sleek, ageless, wearing a Dior coat he’d bought her in 1952, strides toward him. Her smile is a little… disappointed, as it has been since she first abstained from human blood. Her eyes catch the light from the twinkling display overhead, though, and he sees the love.
She does love him in her own way, he knows. And he’s about to prove he loves her too.
His fingertips caress the velvet box once more.
“Darling, so sorry. Couldn’t get a cab.” Her kiss is sweetly cool. She’s had an aperitif, he can taste it - one of her blood-orange mimosas, with a hint of pig’s blood. “Why ever didn’t you come to the flat when you arrived? I have your room ready.”
“Because I wanted to show you something. On a long night, so that you know I mean it.”
She smiles, a little quizzically, a little sadly. “Yes, night-creature. If you must.”
He brings out the box. He doesn’t let her take a step back. “Amanda, for you. Please open it, and… I hope you understand what it means.”
His indomitable darling doesn’t fumble the opening of it, but with his hand around the nape of her neck, he can feel the tremors in her down deep.
A silver chip catches the lights, reflects them in colors he finds wholly appropriate. The etched number brightens. That Caracas sorcerer knew his stuff.
“Randall,” she says in that deep, throaty voice which enthralled him the first time he heard it, that cold night in Boston so long ago.
“Do you see?” he says, and draws her closer.
“It’s… 62.”
“And it will say 63 tomorrow,” he whispers. “And 64 the day after that, and 65, and so on. For you, lover.”
She turns the chip over and reads aloud the word etched there. “Abstention.”
“If it’s the only way I can have you, well, then….” He shrugs, making light of the thirst he still has, the yearning he will suppress for her.
She does understand, and takes his mouth in celebration.
In an idyllic London park, with damned Christmas lights outlining the trees, with the remnants of the day’s fog on path and bench, he at last has what he wanted. And so does she.
May you have the right lights today, and may you find unexpected gifts. :)