(no subject)
He is beautiful. Chestnut curls, bright blue eyes, lean and elegant. He is so bloody beautiful and I am old. Older than I should feel, in any case. Worn and old and full of sleep and nodding by the fire, as it were. Beauty will do that. Callous, malicious trait. It makes us remember who we once were and how long ago it was. What we lost. He approaches me and leans on the rail next to me, I am certain he just does that to spite me. To make the ages cling to my face, dry and roughen my features. He’s doing it on purpose, I’m sure. It's what I would have done had I been the younger one. Old men bring it over themselves, particularly when they look disheartened. And I must look as dismal as old men get.
It would be ridiculous to say I fell in love that very moment, so I won't.
“Afternoon.”
It isn't until he speaks that I fall in love. A voice clear, with a sharp edge, but with such warmth and such a divine London accent. Perhaps I should add I probably would have fallen in love with anyone with a British accent at this point. My heart skips a beat. I have, no doubt, been reading too much Austen and Elliot recently. (Incidentally, where is my copy of Middlemarch? I don’t remember packing it. Did I leave it in Washington?) For a moment I imagine the rest of my life, our lives (the ocean air has turned me into old maid). From our to-be conversation here on deck to how we might elope together. How he would say his goodbyes to his dreary life and I would not show up at home. How we would book a cruise on the Mediterranean, then vanish off the ship and spend the rest of our lives in Morocco, possibly Algiers. An adventure. A warm country. A comfortable anonymous life. Dreary, but doable.
I realise I just planned the rest of a (ridiculous) fantasy life, but I haven't answered the greeting.
“Afternoon.” My own voice, more unsteady than it should be, gruff, smoke-filled and old. Thoughts of alternate lives have only brought me only a firm realisation of the only one I am leading.
“London?” He asks, I merely nod. I don't believe my own answer. I don’t believe Kim. A free trip from Washington to London? I think not. London will not be my last stop, I fear.
“So am I.” He continues.
I would have invited him over to my hut at this point; it seems to me that sort of a conversation, but I am far too occupied moping and staring at the waves below. I always liked the sea, the ocean. I was going to be in the Navy. Never thought of it as a missed chance. Now all I can think of is where might that have taken me? Glory, disgrace, a uniform heavy with medals and death on the bottom of the ocean? The waves glister in my eyes. It wouldn’t have been a bad life. It wouldn’t have been a bad end. It isn’t a bad end. To hell with England, to hell with Moscow, to hell with whatever plan I am not being informed of, to buggering hell with Kim Philby and all the rest. I never complied with anything in my life, so why start now?
A gasp (a moan?) brings me back and I turn to the beautiful young man to find him smiling, his mouth slightly opened, as though wanting so say something. A moment passes before he does.
“Do it.”
Had we been elsewhere, say, up against at tree in the park, undressed in a shaded room or managing in the confined space of a toilet cubicle, I would have taken his words and his husky tone of voice as permit for penetration. Here however, they seem horribly out of place.
“What?” I ask and look him in the eyes. Only then do I see they are not blue at all, but deep, infinite pools of black.
“Do it.” He repeats, same husky, delicious voice, and without taking his eyes off mine, he puts a hand on my arm, kind and elegant, but firm, determined and harsh at the same time.
Then the dark eyes look back to the waves. And so do mine. One foot steps on the rail. It would only take me three steps. Three steps and a dive. I will dive, I decide. It would be utterly ridiculous to jump. I can swim. No, I shall dive and keep going until everything is silent.
The young man leans in, mouth slightly opened, eyes slightly closed. To kiss me. And he does. It's less sweet than I imagined it would be. Quite bitter, in fact, but longing and full of want. I kiss him back.
He's taller than I am, but we are now on the same level. I have stepped up. Two more to go. Two steps and a dive.
I am suddenly reminded of my last day at Trinity, ready to jump into the Cam. Off to do Great Things. Then the BBC, the Anglo-German idiots Julian's death, the Secret Service, the Fawkes institute, the war, the end of the war, London and Washington, all the parties, all the miseries, everything passes my mind. At this point I don't know what to make of it all (has it all been to a purpose, has it all been good, has it all been worth it?), but that doesn't seem to be the point.
I end the kiss.” Can't.”
“Why not? What have you got to live for?” His voice is positively orgasmic and his mouth is so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my lips.
“Don't know. Don’t care. Not my thing, really.” I say - almost a shrug - and step down again. Then I smile at his beautiful bright blue eyes and abandon him there while I leave. I think I shall stay below deck for the remainder of this trip to England.
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Written for The Writing Workshop. Goal:
Your character gets a visit from Death. What does Death look like? What props does Death carry? What does Death tell your character?
Can your character duel or bargain their way out of it? Or is Death only a message-bearer?