And The Clock Ticks On . . .

And the clock ticks on…

As a man like silk and ash sits contemplating the ornate linen of his table, tracing the patterns of an ivory napkin with his butter knife. Back and forth and round about, the swish of cloth and silver echoes between the chairs, frolicking with the oscillation of candlelight on knife and chair-back, while the man’s face glows in the dim like polished alabaster.

Across the empty expanse of the table sits a woman, bent rapt upon the inspection of her empty china. She has the look of a mannequin posed for photography, hands folded tidily upon her lap, lips more silent than dust in an empty attic.

They are utterly alone.

“Satine, love,” says the man, shattering the heavy silence into near-tangible fragments. “Should you fancy the opera tonight?”

There is no response from the woman, though a glimpse through the shroud of her parted gold hair shows a look of unwavering contempt.

“You cannot still be mad, love?” entreats the man (Something sharp twists his mouth askew upon the pronunciation of “v,” rippling the pallid beauty of his features.) “That was ages ago, and hardly a matter to dwell on. I have apologized for my selfishness long ago. And besides,” he offers a faint smile, “is it so very selfish if I would offer you the same? Even though you have denied me the pleasure on repeated occasions.”

He waxes reflective at this—the silence dark, tittering—then tilts his head to the right, like an inquisitive sparrow. “Ah, but it is the anniversary! I had forgotten. You are always so pensive, love, when you dwell upon the long ago. But must you continue to commemorate it? Can we not simply allow it to die? It has been five years, my sweet, and we have lived them in such harmony, each content with our respective choice.” He offers a sigh as charming and melancholy as the cooing of a dove. “You know quite well how I feared the lot of ordinary men. Must you perpetuate your displeasure year after year with the path I have selected?”

The woman’s demeanor remains unaltered, and so the man rises and begins to pace nervously at the head of the table. Gracefully he winds, panther-like, amidst the jungle of wooden legs, his pale cravat undulating with the pattern of his steps.

“Do you remember,” he breathes abruptly, “when we first met? You twelve and I fourteen, on the cold streets of London in winter? It was so dreadfully icy that year—what was it, 1816?—the year without a summer, they used to call it. You could see your breath like crystal in the air; words were solid and sighs vibrated like chandeliers. And there you were, love, like a frosty angel, all wrapped in white and lost in the snow, living from crust to crumb in the back alleys. My heart cried when I saw you amidst the ashes…” The man trails off, casting his ebon eyes to the table’s edge. “And I took you in, my feral love, though my home was hardly any better. But at least it had a hearth, some snippets of edibility. And in time we rose, in time we became something.”

The man pauses, examines the ceiling beams.

“But what does time mean, anymore? For me it has stopped. For you it is death. And still you refuse.” He glides along the periphery of the tablecloth to hover by her side. “You, Satine, with your satin hair, and satin voice, and satin skin. I named you for these, little lost one—as Adam named the beasts, so I named the wild beastess. And yet it is I whom you believe to be the beast…” He extends his hand, fingers slim and curled as a nautilus, and strokes her aurulent hair. “But I have accepted your choice. I allowed for your refusal; love should be affectionate freedom, not an obsessive cage.”

He turns away, remembering, revising.

“Of course I was furious at first. I wanted so badly for you to join me. But that is over, and we have lived in peace since that flare. And even in your eventual antiquation and demise,” he shudders at the word, “I shall remain at your side.”

He continues to caress her hair lightly, winding the white tips of his fingers through its lush shimmer, and in so doing, brushes the curls from her collarbone.

Upon the pallor of her arching neck, the ten livid fingerprints are readily visible, paired ovals to the front, two parallel lines of four in the back, like the clasps of a violet-hued necklace. And to the side, a matched pair of crimson piercings like rubies adorn the skin above Satine’s jugular; belated remedy, serving only to preserve but not restore.

The man lays his hand along her colorless cheek and smiles. “I understand, love. We do not need to go out tonight. Besides,” and he chuckles quietly to himself, “they stare so oddly at us anyhow…”