(no subject)
”Let’s make a videotape.”
He had a vision of her, in his mind. A vision from the moment he saw her, standing there framed by the doorway of her perfect little house, her smile tense and confused - You can’t be who I thought you were. He had a vision of her, immaculate and demure, with her Southern Belle accent and her charmingly gap-toothed smile. He had a vision of her, darker and less realized, naked and perfect and in the throws of joyous abandon, a vision he cherished. He cherished all of them. Every single one. The Donnas and Theresas and Sandras and all the Anns.
A woman, once, he’d met in California, red-headed and freckled, and another… a waitress in Texas with perfect musician’s hands… he’d seen more beautiful women than Ann Bishop Mullany, but suddenly he couldn’t recall a single one with any sort of clarity at all.
Let’s make a videotape
In a flicker, a blink, a heartbeat, the vision was gone. Gone, and she seemed suddenly, startlingly real. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, he felt knocked off balance by it. By her. By how harsh, how ugly - how beautiful she was, slouched in his desk chair, the fall of her wild hair across her face… He coughed, wrapped his arms across his chest, the tension in the room enough to make him feel shamefully sick.
“And what would you know about a normal frame of mind?”
They laughed, sharing a joke - how nice to know that about each other -- his voice calm and impassive while he fidgeted like a nervous child. “That’s a good question.”
He didn’t want to do this. Won’t do this. Won’t, it’s a bad fucking idea, but he sighs, and just like that he gives in. Just like that. Load a tape and turn on the camera. He walks close enough to feel the wisps of her hair brushing the back of his hand.
Load a tape and turn on the camera and for a moment, everything is easy. He looks up and she’s just any other woman. Through the lens of the camera, she’s a flat, two-dimensional face and they’ve always been strangers. Turn on the camera -
“Okay, I’m recording. Tell me your name.”
A mechanical whirr, an almost imperceptible shift…
What would you know about a normal frame of mind? he thinks suddenly, the sound of her voice echoing loudly in his head, and he barks out a quiet laugh… laughing, because she’s gone. In front of him is an empty chair. An empty chair in a busy, industrial kitchen, the camera heavy in his hands, warm and buzzing with life. He laughs again, setting the camera down and running a hand through his hair. Turning in a circle, frantic and not showing it, there’s a friendly smile and even a tentative wave to the strangers now surrounding him…
On the table, the camera is still rolling.
He had a vision of her, in his mind. A vision from the moment he saw her, standing there framed by the doorway of her perfect little house, her smile tense and confused - You can’t be who I thought you were. He had a vision of her, immaculate and demure, with her Southern Belle accent and her charmingly gap-toothed smile. He had a vision of her, darker and less realized, naked and perfect and in the throws of joyous abandon, a vision he cherished. He cherished all of them. Every single one. The Donnas and Theresas and Sandras and all the Anns.
A woman, once, he’d met in California, red-headed and freckled, and another… a waitress in Texas with perfect musician’s hands… he’d seen more beautiful women than Ann Bishop Mullany, but suddenly he couldn’t recall a single one with any sort of clarity at all.
Let’s make a videotape
In a flicker, a blink, a heartbeat, the vision was gone. Gone, and she seemed suddenly, startlingly real. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, he felt knocked off balance by it. By her. By how harsh, how ugly - how beautiful she was, slouched in his desk chair, the fall of her wild hair across her face… He coughed, wrapped his arms across his chest, the tension in the room enough to make him feel shamefully sick.
“And what would you know about a normal frame of mind?”
They laughed, sharing a joke - how nice to know that about each other -- his voice calm and impassive while he fidgeted like a nervous child. “That’s a good question.”
He didn’t want to do this. Won’t do this. Won’t, it’s a bad fucking idea, but he sighs, and just like that he gives in. Just like that. Load a tape and turn on the camera. He walks close enough to feel the wisps of her hair brushing the back of his hand.
Load a tape and turn on the camera and for a moment, everything is easy. He looks up and she’s just any other woman. Through the lens of the camera, she’s a flat, two-dimensional face and they’ve always been strangers. Turn on the camera -
“Okay, I’m recording. Tell me your name.”
A mechanical whirr, an almost imperceptible shift…
What would you know about a normal frame of mind? he thinks suddenly, the sound of her voice echoing loudly in his head, and he barks out a quiet laugh… laughing, because she’s gone. In front of him is an empty chair. An empty chair in a busy, industrial kitchen, the camera heavy in his hands, warm and buzzing with life. He laughs again, setting the camera down and running a hand through his hair. Turning in a circle, frantic and not showing it, there’s a friendly smile and even a tentative wave to the strangers now surrounding him…
On the table, the camera is still rolling.