Cyclamen - Game Over
Louisa sat, now alone, waves of grief washing over her as Jonathon left, slamming the door to the café as he walked away for the last time. Her hands curled around her warm coffee mug, as she replayed their last conversation over and over again in her mind.
It was over: She had won.
She closed her eyes, rubbing them with her hands, suddenly exhausted. She saw his face behind her eyelids, no matter how hard she tried to shake it.
He did this, every time he left, every time she said something wrong, every time he did something so unforgivable that she said he had to go: he took her heart with him.
And every time he came back, she felt healed. The feeling was mutual, she had seen his heart break and freeze over, in tandem with hers, as they said horribly brief goodbye.
It was a vicious circle, the pattern in which they had lived their lives. He lied, she cheated, and somehow she always believed that all the pain was worth it for the brief weeks or months they would have in the middle, where they’d be recklessly, wonderfully happy.
But no more. The circle was broken. She herself had broken it, with no more than a few choice words, a diamond ring, and a bright smile. It had been an understanding, an unspoken agreement between them that in the end, when all was said and done, they would end up together. At some point they would stop playing the games of the young, and settle into the stability of middle age and beyond. Together.
She’d broken that deal, and she’d given up her seat on their roundabout. She was sick of waiting for him to calm down, and tired of crying in the middle of the night. She’d endured it for years, thrived off it for as long as she could remember, her sanity kept going by the hope that one day it would resolve itself. But now she’d finally grown up. She’d taken the initiative, she’d ended it, futilely believing that maybe, when he was gone, the pain would leave with him.
She looked down at her hands where they still encircled the mug. The only warmth in the world that still seemed to touch her was the warm coffee in its striped cup, cradled between her ice cold hands. A white-gold, diamond ring glinted on her forefinger, as icy and frozen as the rest of her. For a moment, she hated the beautiful stone, as it sparkled on her finger. Because of this small, precious thing, she had lost something which now seemed infinitely more valuable.
She took a deep breath, and straightened her spine. Louisa Carmichael was never one to bow down and cry. She rubbed the few, final tears from her eyes. She had done it. Finally, she had had her victory over the boy who had taunted and tainted her life since she was fifteen. He was gone, and she had made sure that he could never come back. This was it, this was the way that she had planned for it to go.
“I am young,” she whispered to herself “I am free, I am engaged to a wonderful man. And everything is going to be perfect.”
So why did it feel like everything had just fallen apart?
Saturday 26 December 2009
Azalea (Touching a Ghost)
Opal sat alone, stirring her now stone-cold coffee, lost in thought. The café moved in a whirl of colour and sound, people going about their lives in fast-forward, while she moved in slow motion. Sealed off in her bubble of silence, of peace, she saw a face before her that was so very, very different than those of the others in the room. It was a beautiful face, scarred and lined from a million betrayals, but somehow more glorious for the fact that it had made it through all of them. This was a face that had seen the rain, and now shone in sunlight. It was a face she knew in her dreams, a face that looked at hers in equal parts adoration and intense, heartbroken longing.
Her features mimicked his, sadness and love aging her face long beyond her youthful years. His ghost-hand reached out its elegant, musical fingers and her small hand followed, until their fingertips met in the middle. A tear rolled down her cheek, as the beautiful image shattered before her eyes, her fingers still extended, reaching out to thin air.
Her features mimicked his, sadness and love aging her face long beyond her youthful years. His ghost-hand reached out its elegant, musical fingers and her small hand followed, until their fingertips met in the middle. A tear rolled down her cheek, as the beautiful image shattered before her eyes, her fingers still extended, reaching out to thin air.
Yellow Tulip (Please Look Twice)
Yellow Tulip (Please Look Twice)
Sally sat in Rosie’s Café, staring out of the window.
Her tea was cold, but if she noticed, she didn’t care.
Beep.
Her mobile buzzed: One new text.
Hey, do you have the final draft ready? I need it ASAP.
Cheers,
Aaron
And for a single, fatal moment, her mind drifted.
She saw him every day, in some form or another. As he walked past, her eyes were trained to his, and he was the only one in the crowd who mattered, no matter who else was there.
She knew him, so well, she had listened to every word he had ever said to her, every look was burned indelibly into her mind.
She needed him to see her. She did all she could think of: she stood in front of a crowd and risked everything for him to notice her.
She changed her hair, her clothes, her manners. She did everything she could to be the girl he wanted. But she still seemed as noticeable to him as wallpaper.
No-one could see, to look at her. Her face was blank, her eyes open to the world around her. No one could see that her senses were attentive to nothing but his every move, while her mind tried to rationalize this new presence in her consciousness.
She wanted him to see it too, but couldn’t say a word. A world was stretched between them, a world of his ignorance or indifference to her thoughts and her feelings.
She’s spent years just waiting for him to notice. A hundred times she thought that he had finally realized, and a hundred times she was proven wrong.
She knew that it would never go away. It was a shallow depth, a longing for the man in her head, not the man beside her. The perfect being who would see her for who she was, and give up everything to be with her.
And she knew it was stupid, and crazy, and self-destructive.
So she convinced herself to lock him out. Her heart and mind left, they dreamt about other faces as his sat, in profile, half a metre away.
She did this a thousand times. Every time, every lousy time, he found the key back in, without realizing he’d done it.
And he’d never look at her twice.
Her fingers skimmed over the keys of her phone, the words flowing as she wrote back:
I’m at Rosie’s Cafe. Meet me?
Sally
Her hand hovered over the ‘send key’. She sighed, and added one last line to her message:
xxx
Sally sat in Rosie’s Café, staring out of the window.
Her tea was cold, but if she noticed, she didn’t care.
Beep.
Her mobile buzzed: One new text.
Hey, do you have the final draft ready? I need it ASAP.
Cheers,
Aaron
And for a single, fatal moment, her mind drifted.
She saw him every day, in some form or another. As he walked past, her eyes were trained to his, and he was the only one in the crowd who mattered, no matter who else was there.
She knew him, so well, she had listened to every word he had ever said to her, every look was burned indelibly into her mind.
She needed him to see her. She did all she could think of: she stood in front of a crowd and risked everything for him to notice her.
She changed her hair, her clothes, her manners. She did everything she could to be the girl he wanted. But she still seemed as noticeable to him as wallpaper.
No-one could see, to look at her. Her face was blank, her eyes open to the world around her. No one could see that her senses were attentive to nothing but his every move, while her mind tried to rationalize this new presence in her consciousness.
She wanted him to see it too, but couldn’t say a word. A world was stretched between them, a world of his ignorance or indifference to her thoughts and her feelings.
She’s spent years just waiting for him to notice. A hundred times she thought that he had finally realized, and a hundred times she was proven wrong.
She knew that it would never go away. It was a shallow depth, a longing for the man in her head, not the man beside her. The perfect being who would see her for who she was, and give up everything to be with her.
And she knew it was stupid, and crazy, and self-destructive.
So she convinced herself to lock him out. Her heart and mind left, they dreamt about other faces as his sat, in profile, half a metre away.
She did this a thousand times. Every time, every lousy time, he found the key back in, without realizing he’d done it.
And he’d never look at her twice.
Her fingers skimmed over the keys of her phone, the words flowing as she wrote back:
I’m at Rosie’s Cafe. Meet me?
Sally
Her hand hovered over the ‘send key’. She sighed, and added one last line to her message:
xxx
Red Carnation
A/N all mistakes are mine and mine alone, as this is unBETA'd (my usual BETA is currently busy with one of our friend's new romance novel, and this is only little anyway)
Red Carnation
“Look at me.” Jack’s eyes narrowed, his tone harsh, but Molly continued to stare at her hands. His clear blue eyes bore into her forehead, willing her to meet his challenging gaze.
“No.” She couldn’t, she just couldn’t. Her eyes stayed on her napkin, as she wound it between her red-tipped fingers. Jack leaned back in his chair, feigning relaxation, pretending to be completely at ease with the situation.
“Man, who’d have thought? Molly Reynolds, shying away from a fight?”
“I’m not ‘shying’ alright? And it’s Molly Lawrence now.”
“You’re actually scared, aren’t you? Since when do you care about making a scene?” He was deliberately baiting her; the sound of her married name was upsetting him more than he would like to admit. When she finally looked up at him, the old familiar fire flashing in her eyes, it was almost like old times.
But then, sadly, she remembered herself, and her face resumed its expression of forced politeness. She had changed so much from the Molly he still had in his mind. She had cut her hair for one thing. Gone was the uncontrolled flow of dark hair down her back, so free and untamed. It now bounced, perfectly styled and highlighted, at her shoulders. Coupled with her white blouse and smart black skirt, she had the look and air of an important, businesswoman, tough, cold and strangely dead inside.
“Since I grew up.”
“Really? Huh, the girl I knew swore she’d never get old. Then again, the girl I knew would never be so cold to an old friend.”
“But that’s just it! You’re not an old friend, you’re an old nightmare!” The words hurt, though he would never admit it. They had been so close…was that really how she remembered him? As an unwanted memory?
“C’mon Mol, I know you’ve missed me…I’ve missed you…” The fight had drained out of him, he was nearly pleading. He reached out to touch her hand, and for just the tiniest moment, her hand flexed under his. Then she realized what she was doing, and she recoiled.
“Get off me! Fine, I missed you. God, if Aaron knew I was here…”
“Oh yeah, how is the Brit boy?” At once Jack’s warm tone turned to ice. He had only met Molly’s husband once, on their wedding day, but still the sound of Aaron Lawrence’s name set his blood boiling.
“You don’t need to sound so bitter.” His upset over the reminder of her husband had hurt her, just a bit, an echo of the bond they had once shared.
“I’m not bitter, no, not at all.” His tone was sarcastic “No, that guy only took you so far away from home that I had to take a nine hour plane journey just to see you.”
“Stop it. You didn’t have to come.”
“Oh, but I did. How could I have missed this? Molly Reynolds, all grown up? A million bucks couldn’t have stopped me.”
She was flattered, and she hated herself for it. His honest Southern-boy charm had gotten to her, again.
“So, what is it this time, then? Money? Did your last pay cheque bounce?” she sneered at him, hoping to wipe that tender, dangerous look from his face.
“No.” it was a murmur, but she heard it. He slumped back, defeated, his head bowed. Finally, he looked up again, meeting her now steady gaze.
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Jack?” she sounded concerned now, and for a moment he considered lying, just to have some more of that attention lavished on him. But he banished that thought almost instantly - she was right, she was an adult now. If she wanted truth, she’d get truth.
“No, I can take care of myself, keep out of trouble.”
She let out a short bark of laughter, “Really? My, I’m not the only one who’s changed. Since when do you keep out of trouble?”
He smiled, laughing with her. “Well, ain’t that the truth. Alright, I’m not in any trouble right now, that any better?” he straightened, serious now, all laughter gone from his face. She still knew him well enough that she wasn’t fazed by the sudden shift.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Are you happy, Mol?” he asked, suddenly, not answering her question.
“I- of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” she sounded confused by his question, she laughed, “You make it sound as if I shouldn’t be!”
He said nothing for a moment, just staring into her eyes. Finally: “The girl I knew couldn’t be happy here.”
Her eyes turned hard, all the sadness and fragility frozen into icy anger, “Well, maybe you didn’t know her that well, then.”
“Oh I think I do,” He smiled, that gorgeous, annoyingly cocky smile. “Better than most anyone else.”
“Really. So what would she do now?” she leaned back in her chair, her arms folded, an eyebrow raised.
“Right now, she would smile, like she was trying to keep it together,” he leaned in further, like he was telling her a secret, “But then she would waver, and I’d see that really, inside, she was falling apart.”
“Oh, really.” Her eyebrows raised, “Poor girl.”
“Oh I don’t think so. ‘Cause then she’d look at me, and tell me I was all that she needed. Like she always did.”
A million images flashed before her eyes, of the hundred times she’d done just that. The day when it was raining, and they’d huddled in the van, watching the raindrops on the windows and trying to stay warm. Many months later, when they’d sat in a swanky hotel room, and she was homesick. The countless times her mum had called, begging her to come home.
The memory of the genuine feeling behind the words, the complete youthful certainty of their truth was all too real. They pierced her heart like icy knives, breaking it where she had glued it back together.
“Come back, don’t let this ruin you.” He whispered, and she realised that, at some point, she had leaned in closer, so their foreheads were almost touching.
His words broke the spell, bringing her jolting back to reality. She wasn’t twenty, on the road, drunk on the notion of freedom and travel. She was a sensible, mature woman, in a grey café in England, watching as the man who was once her whole world tried to convince her to run away.
And she couldn’t take it.
She jumped back, grabbing her handbag and blinking tears from her eyes. “I’m not ruined, Jack, I’m just an adult. We live in the real world, whether you like it or not, and this is who I am.” She rose to her feet, and swayed slightly, trying to maintain her composure and stay upright at the same time. “I was stupid to come here. I… made a mistake. And it’s time to rectify it.”
“What do you mean?” He had that timeless expression; the lost puppy eyes that would have once turned her heart to mush.
“You were…you were the sun, when we were young. I wish we still were. But us meeting again - this - this was a mistake.” Then the apology in her voice died, replaced by stony command, “So leave, Jack. When I walk out of here, don’t follow me. Don’t try to convince me that this is right when you know it’s not.”
And with that, she left, her neat hair bobbing at her shoulders, her steps firm and determined.
And for once, Jack did as he was told.
Red Carnation
“Look at me.” Jack’s eyes narrowed, his tone harsh, but Molly continued to stare at her hands. His clear blue eyes bore into her forehead, willing her to meet his challenging gaze.
“No.” She couldn’t, she just couldn’t. Her eyes stayed on her napkin, as she wound it between her red-tipped fingers. Jack leaned back in his chair, feigning relaxation, pretending to be completely at ease with the situation.
“Man, who’d have thought? Molly Reynolds, shying away from a fight?”
“I’m not ‘shying’ alright? And it’s Molly Lawrence now.”
“You’re actually scared, aren’t you? Since when do you care about making a scene?” He was deliberately baiting her; the sound of her married name was upsetting him more than he would like to admit. When she finally looked up at him, the old familiar fire flashing in her eyes, it was almost like old times.
But then, sadly, she remembered herself, and her face resumed its expression of forced politeness. She had changed so much from the Molly he still had in his mind. She had cut her hair for one thing. Gone was the uncontrolled flow of dark hair down her back, so free and untamed. It now bounced, perfectly styled and highlighted, at her shoulders. Coupled with her white blouse and smart black skirt, she had the look and air of an important, businesswoman, tough, cold and strangely dead inside.
“Since I grew up.”
“Really? Huh, the girl I knew swore she’d never get old. Then again, the girl I knew would never be so cold to an old friend.”
“But that’s just it! You’re not an old friend, you’re an old nightmare!” The words hurt, though he would never admit it. They had been so close…was that really how she remembered him? As an unwanted memory?
“C’mon Mol, I know you’ve missed me…I’ve missed you…” The fight had drained out of him, he was nearly pleading. He reached out to touch her hand, and for just the tiniest moment, her hand flexed under his. Then she realized what she was doing, and she recoiled.
“Get off me! Fine, I missed you. God, if Aaron knew I was here…”
“Oh yeah, how is the Brit boy?” At once Jack’s warm tone turned to ice. He had only met Molly’s husband once, on their wedding day, but still the sound of Aaron Lawrence’s name set his blood boiling.
“You don’t need to sound so bitter.” His upset over the reminder of her husband had hurt her, just a bit, an echo of the bond they had once shared.
“I’m not bitter, no, not at all.” His tone was sarcastic “No, that guy only took you so far away from home that I had to take a nine hour plane journey just to see you.”
“Stop it. You didn’t have to come.”
“Oh, but I did. How could I have missed this? Molly Reynolds, all grown up? A million bucks couldn’t have stopped me.”
She was flattered, and she hated herself for it. His honest Southern-boy charm had gotten to her, again.
“So, what is it this time, then? Money? Did your last pay cheque bounce?” she sneered at him, hoping to wipe that tender, dangerous look from his face.
“No.” it was a murmur, but she heard it. He slumped back, defeated, his head bowed. Finally, he looked up again, meeting her now steady gaze.
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Jack?” she sounded concerned now, and for a moment he considered lying, just to have some more of that attention lavished on him. But he banished that thought almost instantly - she was right, she was an adult now. If she wanted truth, she’d get truth.
“No, I can take care of myself, keep out of trouble.”
She let out a short bark of laughter, “Really? My, I’m not the only one who’s changed. Since when do you keep out of trouble?”
He smiled, laughing with her. “Well, ain’t that the truth. Alright, I’m not in any trouble right now, that any better?” he straightened, serious now, all laughter gone from his face. She still knew him well enough that she wasn’t fazed by the sudden shift.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Are you happy, Mol?” he asked, suddenly, not answering her question.
“I- of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” she sounded confused by his question, she laughed, “You make it sound as if I shouldn’t be!”
He said nothing for a moment, just staring into her eyes. Finally: “The girl I knew couldn’t be happy here.”
Her eyes turned hard, all the sadness and fragility frozen into icy anger, “Well, maybe you didn’t know her that well, then.”
“Oh I think I do,” He smiled, that gorgeous, annoyingly cocky smile. “Better than most anyone else.”
“Really. So what would she do now?” she leaned back in her chair, her arms folded, an eyebrow raised.
“Right now, she would smile, like she was trying to keep it together,” he leaned in further, like he was telling her a secret, “But then she would waver, and I’d see that really, inside, she was falling apart.”
“Oh, really.” Her eyebrows raised, “Poor girl.”
“Oh I don’t think so. ‘Cause then she’d look at me, and tell me I was all that she needed. Like she always did.”
A million images flashed before her eyes, of the hundred times she’d done just that. The day when it was raining, and they’d huddled in the van, watching the raindrops on the windows and trying to stay warm. Many months later, when they’d sat in a swanky hotel room, and she was homesick. The countless times her mum had called, begging her to come home.
The memory of the genuine feeling behind the words, the complete youthful certainty of their truth was all too real. They pierced her heart like icy knives, breaking it where she had glued it back together.
“Come back, don’t let this ruin you.” He whispered, and she realised that, at some point, she had leaned in closer, so their foreheads were almost touching.
His words broke the spell, bringing her jolting back to reality. She wasn’t twenty, on the road, drunk on the notion of freedom and travel. She was a sensible, mature woman, in a grey café in England, watching as the man who was once her whole world tried to convince her to run away.
And she couldn’t take it.
She jumped back, grabbing her handbag and blinking tears from her eyes. “I’m not ruined, Jack, I’m just an adult. We live in the real world, whether you like it or not, and this is who I am.” She rose to her feet, and swayed slightly, trying to maintain her composure and stay upright at the same time. “I was stupid to come here. I… made a mistake. And it’s time to rectify it.”
“What do you mean?” He had that timeless expression; the lost puppy eyes that would have once turned her heart to mush.
“You were…you were the sun, when we were young. I wish we still were. But us meeting again - this - this was a mistake.” Then the apology in her voice died, replaced by stony command, “So leave, Jack. When I walk out of here, don’t follow me. Don’t try to convince me that this is right when you know it’s not.”
And with that, she left, her neat hair bobbing at her shoulders, her steps firm and determined.
And for once, Jack did as he was told.
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