LadyJeanne
deluded
- Joined
- Jun 25, 2004
- Posts
- 5,885
The ceiling fan clicked and wobbled on high, chain spinning wildly, alarming me as I lay beneath it on the clean yet thoroughly unappealing orange carpet in the dark room. Do ceiling fans ever just fall on people? I wondered. Do they ever just release their hold on the ceiling in one swoosh, humming and spinning madly out of control? I somehow couldn’t believe that kind of thing never happened, yet neither could I recall hearing any stories about somebody’s neighbor’s sister who was just lying in the dark, minding her own business, when the ceiling crackled and…
This is when he might have laughed and mentioned that, actually, he had a falling fan story he could tell me about, but I hadn’t spoken my questions out loud. It was too hot for words, too hot for anything but lying perfectly still on the orange floor, lazy under the only breeze in the apartment. It appeared to me as though we might be risking everything for that breeze, yet I did not suggest moving away.
The cd player sitting on the stack of books near my head didn’t drown out the noise of the fan. It was hard to say exactly when the player had been turned on; nor could I explain why it was playing the Big Bands. Eyes closed, I hear the trombones and oboes and tingling triangles. Eyes closed, my head floods with swing dancing and singing movies, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair movies. Eyes closed, I am hypersensitive to him lying inches away. Eyes closed, I imagine what he might be thinking. Might he possibly be remembering our first kiss, kisses? Remember? Under the trees at the corner? Night sky? Walking me home from the park? Eyes closed, is he thinking about kissing me now?
A ceiling fan on its last legs; wall-to-wall carpeting that had never had a good looking day; he and I lying motionless, hot, sticky and silent. Slightly tacky visual, even a bit sleazy, I thought. I fight the urge to lift my hand to touch him, to feel his skin, the pulse in his wrist.
I might have reached out, but no, I didn’t just go around touching people. And what if he were dreaming of one of his ghost stories about deserted forests and creepy, dismembered hands strangling unwary campers? If I were to touch him right then with my fiery, trailing fingers...well, actually, that might be kind of funny. But, no, he would never be caught unaware. He was always aware, always prepared, always alert. He was waiting, he always waited for me, for me...to do something... anything...whatever I wanted. He would do nothing first, of course, but he was aware, waiting.
The sky began to lighten. No sun yet, but it was on its way. The heavy, liquid air filled my lungs as I took a deep breath, still immobile. I barely noticed the cd track had changed – more trombones and clarinets and cymbals. Every musical had a happy ending, I recalled. Every grand finale where Fred and Ginger dazzled each other with ever quickening, ever dizzying steps toward the flushed and breathless finish would quickly be followed with a big THE END flowing across the screen in script. Those movies must have been written by men, I thought. A woman’s mind would see the intricate dances as a beginning.
Now I could see his profile as I tilted my head and half-opened my eyes. A tweet or two floated through the window as the early birds woke and called to each other, hot in pursuit of the worm, I suppose. If I wanted a worm, I’d stay up all night rather than waking at the crack of dawn, I thought idly. I would fly around in the dark, soaring and dipping under the stars, playing hide-and-seek with the moon. When the time was right, I would catch my worm and eat it and sing and dance, satisfied under the rising sun. I would flutter into my airy nest as the heat rose in waves, lazy and still, stirring only when my hunger grew as sharp and clear as the stars. If I wanted a worm, I would.
He turned his head, meeting my gaze. The trombones blared as he watched my eyes without speaking. I imagined the birds swooping toward their unwary prey in the breaking dawn. Eyes open, I grew restless under the intruding light of sun, painfully mirroring the orange rug beneath me, as intense and probing as his stare. Eyes open, he waited. Swick, swick, swick, swicked the fan. Tick, tick, tick, ticked my heart.
I lifted my hand, fingers outstretched.
Click. The trombones stilled.
Just the start of a love story - add your own or continue this one!
Edited to add: Or tell us about the start of your own love story with your SO...would love to hear those.
This is when he might have laughed and mentioned that, actually, he had a falling fan story he could tell me about, but I hadn’t spoken my questions out loud. It was too hot for words, too hot for anything but lying perfectly still on the orange floor, lazy under the only breeze in the apartment. It appeared to me as though we might be risking everything for that breeze, yet I did not suggest moving away.
The cd player sitting on the stack of books near my head didn’t drown out the noise of the fan. It was hard to say exactly when the player had been turned on; nor could I explain why it was playing the Big Bands. Eyes closed, I hear the trombones and oboes and tingling triangles. Eyes closed, my head floods with swing dancing and singing movies, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair movies. Eyes closed, I am hypersensitive to him lying inches away. Eyes closed, I imagine what he might be thinking. Might he possibly be remembering our first kiss, kisses? Remember? Under the trees at the corner? Night sky? Walking me home from the park? Eyes closed, is he thinking about kissing me now?
A ceiling fan on its last legs; wall-to-wall carpeting that had never had a good looking day; he and I lying motionless, hot, sticky and silent. Slightly tacky visual, even a bit sleazy, I thought. I fight the urge to lift my hand to touch him, to feel his skin, the pulse in his wrist.
I might have reached out, but no, I didn’t just go around touching people. And what if he were dreaming of one of his ghost stories about deserted forests and creepy, dismembered hands strangling unwary campers? If I were to touch him right then with my fiery, trailing fingers...well, actually, that might be kind of funny. But, no, he would never be caught unaware. He was always aware, always prepared, always alert. He was waiting, he always waited for me, for me...to do something... anything...whatever I wanted. He would do nothing first, of course, but he was aware, waiting.
The sky began to lighten. No sun yet, but it was on its way. The heavy, liquid air filled my lungs as I took a deep breath, still immobile. I barely noticed the cd track had changed – more trombones and clarinets and cymbals. Every musical had a happy ending, I recalled. Every grand finale where Fred and Ginger dazzled each other with ever quickening, ever dizzying steps toward the flushed and breathless finish would quickly be followed with a big THE END flowing across the screen in script. Those movies must have been written by men, I thought. A woman’s mind would see the intricate dances as a beginning.
Now I could see his profile as I tilted my head and half-opened my eyes. A tweet or two floated through the window as the early birds woke and called to each other, hot in pursuit of the worm, I suppose. If I wanted a worm, I’d stay up all night rather than waking at the crack of dawn, I thought idly. I would fly around in the dark, soaring and dipping under the stars, playing hide-and-seek with the moon. When the time was right, I would catch my worm and eat it and sing and dance, satisfied under the rising sun. I would flutter into my airy nest as the heat rose in waves, lazy and still, stirring only when my hunger grew as sharp and clear as the stars. If I wanted a worm, I would.
He turned his head, meeting my gaze. The trombones blared as he watched my eyes without speaking. I imagined the birds swooping toward their unwary prey in the breaking dawn. Eyes open, I grew restless under the intruding light of sun, painfully mirroring the orange rug beneath me, as intense and probing as his stare. Eyes open, he waited. Swick, swick, swick, swicked the fan. Tick, tick, tick, ticked my heart.
I lifted my hand, fingers outstretched.
Click. The trombones stilled.
Just the start of a love story - add your own or continue this one!
Edited to add: Or tell us about the start of your own love story with your SO...would love to hear those.
Last edited:
