R for a few words
better late than never - and since my muses are totally rebellious and won't give me anything else but that snippet , I had no other choice but to post this.
no betas were harmed
characters not owned by me - luckily. no copyright infridgement intentend. Eek - hope those were spelled right
poem at the beginning of the snippet
There's Nothing in Here
There's nothing in here
Beginning from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock":
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
***********
"I've often wondered about us. Not wondered, but obsessed over the idea of us. Whether you'd ever notice, whether I'd ever come on to you, whether it would scare you to death. Bloody hell; that was never my intention. Not to start this entry like this, with my usual questions. I see you pouring scotch in a small glass, your hand grasps the bottle with certainty, and yet with gentleness, the liquid falls with a warm, laughing sound, like rain drops and it catches the light as you pour it, making it look like a veritable river of fire. I concentrate there, and not on your fingers. Your fingers are fairly coarse, big and square, inelegant, practical, strong, like your palm. You have the hands of a warrior. And I can't help thinking of your hand squeezing mine during sex, your fingers curled around my wrists, your whole weight pinning me down, or forcing me up, or you surrendering to my touch, opening your legs wantonly for me to lick you and then f--- you. Shit, I'm growing hard and it suddenly feels very warm in here, and I also think I'm blushing, but you're too preoccupied with your pretty friend to notice any of that. Luckily for me.
"I shift in my chair and continue writing. Oh, I always loved writing 'now I'm going to continue writing,' as though the action is not visible on the paper, as if it has to be stated to become substantial, as if the act and the marks of it (scribblings on a smooth surface, etchings on the side, all made with pure ink on good quality paper - one doesn't get my age without having certain fixations), are not enough. As though I have to write and name the action so it can have meaning, so that it can be claimed as an action. Anyway, I am certain that in one of my diaries (when I was really bored and had nothing better to do) I have fully analyzed the art of writing according to Methos. Made a catalogue of all my favourite papers (needs to be updated), and a list of my pen collection.
"So, that brings me back to you, my Dark Warrior. And that pretty thing you're trying to seduce under Joe's soft, sexy music. Joe knows you and what you have in mind and he's willing to help you along. His music is perfectly suited to your plans. And it's working. She's looking at you with huge eyes, she smiles whenever you say something charming, laughs when you're being witty and sighs whenever she can.
"And I can't even feel jealous. I'm way past that. After all, I'm glad you finally found some meaning in my existence in your life. The world according to Duncan MacLeod. "I don't know who you are, but you've taught me about change," or something like that. I stopped listening after that 'I don't know…" you said. Okay, so I'm not jealous because I'm enraged and bitter and I'd gladly take your stupid head with my bare hands and bite hers off of her silly neck. I still haven't gotten over the shock of hearing you being so f---ing ignorant and callous and totally sweet to every one else. But I can't hate Joe or Amanda for receiving your affection and your love. I can't even hate you. I can only rage and pretend that everything is alright in my world, as I sit at the bar, writing down and sipping from my beer. I can only be angry.
"Part of this anger is directed toward me. For being such a f---ing masochist, happily trailing your footsteps from the moment you reappeared. As if I have no life of my own. Not that I do - I still have no job, I still use Pierson's name, although I have a dozen aliases ready to take the place of that wretched bastard, I still keep a house in Paris and one at Seacouver. I'm pathetic.
"No, I'm in love. She says something and you laugh. Why did you have to sit so close to me? I can hear your laughter, a weapon against which I never had any resistance. But you never knew it was a weapon. Same way you never knew that you were using the same seductive/manipulative techniques on me that you use on Amanda when you want things to go your way. You always thought that you could cower me into action, while you were always luring me into it. Ignorant, innocent fool.
"You're touching her hand now, lightly, gently, lovingly. How on earth had I ever thought that there'd ever be time for you and time for me? We'll never be, never a 'you and me' or a 'together.' Perhaps a casual friendship is the best I can hope for now. And pray that you won't lose your stupid head over another moral crisis, because I'm a really temperamental watchdog, MacLeod and I can feel my patience (at this absurd situation I've put myself in) wearing thinner every day. Because even you'll have to admit it to yourself one day that I have done more than teach you about life's changes, and that I've saved your life more than once. And I can't stand being treated with such… coldness. f--- it, I say. Norway is nice this time of the year, I should go there for a change."