Sunday, July 17, 2005
Unbidden
He stood across from her just listening to her, and watching her eyes...
*****
He remembered :
a time long ago, in the darkest of winters on a dimly lit doorstep, with the cold wind biting at them both, his overcoat billowing out around him and the frigid night air damp on his face, as he watched her reaching for her keys.
He reached out then, and brushed a strand of stray hair off her face. She smiled shyly, and looked at her feet. It was, by her account later, a touching moment for her, one that she recounted often.
Sometimes it made him feel guilty, the way she cherished that moment so much, the way she recalled his footsteps slowing down as they neared the house. (Something which, try as he might, he could not recall doing either intentionally or otherwise) It had clearly been touching for her...
Less so for him.
It had been premeditated... calculated. He had wanted to do it out of a cold, clinical curiosity, to find out what happened next... to find out what it felt like, to be normal.
*****
...and not for the first time that evening, he had this crazy urge to reach out and touch her face...
... unbidden. Unthought of. And nigh impossible to fight down.
He sat in the still of his car later, hands grasping the steering wheel - academic, given that the keys were still in his pocket - wondering why the hell he was even fighting it...
Maybe just force of habit. Or some ancient instinct from his past life for self-preservation.
Or maybe it just frightened him just a little... too old for this rubbish. Too old, at heart.
*****
He remembered :
a time long ago, in the darkest of winters on a dimly lit doorstep, with the cold wind biting at them both, his overcoat billowing out around him and the frigid night air damp on his face, as he watched her reaching for her keys.
He reached out then, and brushed a strand of stray hair off her face. She smiled shyly, and looked at her feet. It was, by her account later, a touching moment for her, one that she recounted often.
Sometimes it made him feel guilty, the way she cherished that moment so much, the way she recalled his footsteps slowing down as they neared the house. (Something which, try as he might, he could not recall doing either intentionally or otherwise) It had clearly been touching for her...
Less so for him.
It had been premeditated... calculated. He had wanted to do it out of a cold, clinical curiosity, to find out what happened next... to find out what it felt like, to be normal.
*****
...and not for the first time that evening, he had this crazy urge to reach out and touch her face...
... unbidden. Unthought of. And nigh impossible to fight down.
He sat in the still of his car later, hands grasping the steering wheel - academic, given that the keys were still in his pocket - wondering why the hell he was even fighting it...
Maybe just force of habit. Or some ancient instinct from his past life for self-preservation.
Or maybe it just frightened him just a little... too old for this rubbish. Too old, at heart.
