Working Title: Night
I wrote this little short story at work today. I'm proud of it. It's the first prose I've written in a long while that hasn't included preconceived characters, so that's a plus. Any feedback would be lovely.
I only ever saw him at night. I’d see him walking down the hall of the apartment building, his shoes barely making noise on the pale marble floors, fiddling with his keys or checking his watch. As if time mattered in the hours that I saw him. When he would look at me, with wide blue eyes that seemed to know all, I felt as if he was looking right through me. I paid little attention to him the first time I saw him, hurrying back to spend a few precious hours in bed before I had to return to work. He nodded as I walked by and I regarded him sleepily, and by the time I settled myself into bed, I had no recollection of him at all.
He was young; I imagined him to be around my age, but with an old-fashioned air, prim and proper. He was always dressed well: slacks, shiny black shoes, and button-down shirts. But to be honest, I never noticed much about what he wore. I was always too focused on his face. His intelligent eyes, long nose, thin lips, which always seemed slightly pouted, and the freckles which covered a strip from one cheek, across his nose, to the other. I suspected that he spent his time in the sun when he wasn’t haunting the halls of the apartment building. Perhaps he worked outside, I mused. After seeing him every night for a week straight, I found myself wondering if there were freckles on the rest of his body as well.
One Friday I returned from work late as usual, laden with books, heavy books at that. The research I was doing for my newest article was spilling into my weekend, but perhaps I’d be able to get it in on time, for once. He and I were both distracted, I assumed, because we walked straight into the other, sending books flying everyone and me to the floor. He looked terribly startled and offered me his hand.
“I didn’t notice you. Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, feeling foolish. “No. I guess I was just distracted.” I looked around the flurry of books littering the hallway. “Are you alright?” I asked, taking his hand.
“Indeed.” He helped me up and smiled, which brightened his face. “I’m Edgar James,” He said, bowing his head slightly.
“Elanor Davis,” I said, smiling, looking into his brilliant blue eyes.
We stood in silence for several moments, his hand wrapped around mine, before he cleared his throat. “May I help you take these books back to your apartment?” I felt a blush redden my cheeks and his lips twisted into a smirk. “I believe it my duty to help a lady in need, so even if you refuse, I shall accompany you.”
There was nothing I wanted more than for him to help me carry my books.
He set the books on my kitchen table and looked awkwardly around the room, taking in the photos on the walls, and the appliances. I opened my cupboard and nervously bit my lip.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“Brandy if you have it, scotch if you don’t.”
I had neither. “All I’ve got is a bottle of god-awful vodka,” I said, brandishing the half-empty bottle.
“God-awful vodka it is then,” He said, with a laugh, one as pure as newly-fallen snow, and as musical and church bells. “It will have to do.”
I don’t remember how many drinks either of us had but before I knew it the bottle was empty and I was in his arms, rolling up his sleeves and counting the freckles on his arms. I kissed the inside of his wrists and he cupped my face. I looked into his eyes and the question spilled from me: “Are there freckles on your chest as well?”
He laughed and teased, “I suppose you’ll have to find out yourself, now won’t you?”
And we were kissing and kissing and I unbuttoned his shirt and kissed the freckles I found there. He pulled my blouse over my head between kisses and after he fiddled with my bra for longer than I would have liked, I undid that myself. He took his keys out of his pocket and set them between the empty glasses on the coffee table. I lead him to the bedroom where we finished undressing one another.
He eased me back onto the bed, brushing my face with his soft hands. He kissed my earlobe and whispered in a pained voice, “It has been far too long since I’ve done this, Elanor. Forgive me if I’m terrible.”
I laughed and kissed him and gasped as he slid into me. All else vanished from me as he touched me tenderly, desperately, as if I was the last thing keeping him on Earth. He finally collapsed on me, his breathing fast and swallow and the last thing I remember was him kissing the top of my head as I lay contently in his arms.
I awoke in the morning to a bed I might have slept in alone. The covers were done up on the side he slept on. The pillow was free of any indentations, any tell-tale signs of use. This frightened me. I got out of bed, expecting to see his clothes but found only mine, making a trail back into the living room.
“Edgar?” I called, fighting back tears. “Where are y-“
My eyes fell on his keys, between our empty glasses from the night before. He wouldn’t have left without them, I reasoned. He’ll have to come back for them. I sat for the rest of the day, staring at them, refusing to touch them, lest they turn out to be imaginary. I gazed at the door occasionally, willing a knock to fall upon it. But all for naught.
Finally, as the sun began to set, I picked up the keys, curiously examining them. It was like going back in time. They were funny-shaped and none of them matched the ones our apartment used. What kind of joke was this? Determined to give him a piece of my mind I waited by the elevators. But he never showed up. I spent all weekend waiting for him, my work ignored, hoping he show up.
I keep the keys on my coffee table, proof that I did not imagine him. And whenever I hear soft footsteps on the marble floors, I like to imagine it’s him, the man I saw only at night.
I only ever saw him at night. I’d see him walking down the hall of the apartment building, his shoes barely making noise on the pale marble floors, fiddling with his keys or checking his watch. As if time mattered in the hours that I saw him. When he would look at me, with wide blue eyes that seemed to know all, I felt as if he was looking right through me. I paid little attention to him the first time I saw him, hurrying back to spend a few precious hours in bed before I had to return to work. He nodded as I walked by and I regarded him sleepily, and by the time I settled myself into bed, I had no recollection of him at all.
He was young; I imagined him to be around my age, but with an old-fashioned air, prim and proper. He was always dressed well: slacks, shiny black shoes, and button-down shirts. But to be honest, I never noticed much about what he wore. I was always too focused on his face. His intelligent eyes, long nose, thin lips, which always seemed slightly pouted, and the freckles which covered a strip from one cheek, across his nose, to the other. I suspected that he spent his time in the sun when he wasn’t haunting the halls of the apartment building. Perhaps he worked outside, I mused. After seeing him every night for a week straight, I found myself wondering if there were freckles on the rest of his body as well.
One Friday I returned from work late as usual, laden with books, heavy books at that. The research I was doing for my newest article was spilling into my weekend, but perhaps I’d be able to get it in on time, for once. He and I were both distracted, I assumed, because we walked straight into the other, sending books flying everyone and me to the floor. He looked terribly startled and offered me his hand.
“I didn’t notice you. Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, feeling foolish. “No. I guess I was just distracted.” I looked around the flurry of books littering the hallway. “Are you alright?” I asked, taking his hand.
“Indeed.” He helped me up and smiled, which brightened his face. “I’m Edgar James,” He said, bowing his head slightly.
“Elanor Davis,” I said, smiling, looking into his brilliant blue eyes.
We stood in silence for several moments, his hand wrapped around mine, before he cleared his throat. “May I help you take these books back to your apartment?” I felt a blush redden my cheeks and his lips twisted into a smirk. “I believe it my duty to help a lady in need, so even if you refuse, I shall accompany you.”
There was nothing I wanted more than for him to help me carry my books.
He set the books on my kitchen table and looked awkwardly around the room, taking in the photos on the walls, and the appliances. I opened my cupboard and nervously bit my lip.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“Brandy if you have it, scotch if you don’t.”
I had neither. “All I’ve got is a bottle of god-awful vodka,” I said, brandishing the half-empty bottle.
“God-awful vodka it is then,” He said, with a laugh, one as pure as newly-fallen snow, and as musical and church bells. “It will have to do.”
I don’t remember how many drinks either of us had but before I knew it the bottle was empty and I was in his arms, rolling up his sleeves and counting the freckles on his arms. I kissed the inside of his wrists and he cupped my face. I looked into his eyes and the question spilled from me: “Are there freckles on your chest as well?”
He laughed and teased, “I suppose you’ll have to find out yourself, now won’t you?”
And we were kissing and kissing and I unbuttoned his shirt and kissed the freckles I found there. He pulled my blouse over my head between kisses and after he fiddled with my bra for longer than I would have liked, I undid that myself. He took his keys out of his pocket and set them between the empty glasses on the coffee table. I lead him to the bedroom where we finished undressing one another.
He eased me back onto the bed, brushing my face with his soft hands. He kissed my earlobe and whispered in a pained voice, “It has been far too long since I’ve done this, Elanor. Forgive me if I’m terrible.”
I laughed and kissed him and gasped as he slid into me. All else vanished from me as he touched me tenderly, desperately, as if I was the last thing keeping him on Earth. He finally collapsed on me, his breathing fast and swallow and the last thing I remember was him kissing the top of my head as I lay contently in his arms.
I awoke in the morning to a bed I might have slept in alone. The covers were done up on the side he slept on. The pillow was free of any indentations, any tell-tale signs of use. This frightened me. I got out of bed, expecting to see his clothes but found only mine, making a trail back into the living room.
“Edgar?” I called, fighting back tears. “Where are y-“
My eyes fell on his keys, between our empty glasses from the night before. He wouldn’t have left without them, I reasoned. He’ll have to come back for them. I sat for the rest of the day, staring at them, refusing to touch them, lest they turn out to be imaginary. I gazed at the door occasionally, willing a knock to fall upon it. But all for naught.
Finally, as the sun began to set, I picked up the keys, curiously examining them. It was like going back in time. They were funny-shaped and none of them matched the ones our apartment used. What kind of joke was this? Determined to give him a piece of my mind I waited by the elevators. But he never showed up. I spent all weekend waiting for him, my work ignored, hoping he show up.
I keep the keys on my coffee table, proof that I did not imagine him. And whenever I hear soft footsteps on the marble floors, I like to imagine it’s him, the man I saw only at night.