SkeeK
The Original, Rock n' Roll Doggie, VIP PASS
The engine sighed to a halt. Splashes of headlight on the night asphalt faded.
On the porch of his squat brick house, he loitered several moments and breathed the cold clean air through his veins. He exhaled sharply, turned, and clattered through screen then wooden door.
Sat uneasily on the brown recliner?s ragged edge, he pulled off his battered shoes and dropped them one at a time into a lopsided sprawl on the carpet.
In twenty minutes, he sat in the kitchen, still wearing his coat, with his back to the window and his head bowed over yesterday?s lasagne. He raised the fork stiffly to his mouth, chewed mechanically, and swallowed. The pattern extended across twenty minutes. Supper was his least favourite time in the world. But you had to eat. He tried to breathe evenly. Tick. Tick. And Tick again.
A jolt of sudden and violent unease sprung through his stiffened arms. Pasta sailed through the air and the fork skittered to the floor. His teeth clenched; his eyes clamped shut. And he knew she was behind him.
Stooped over to retrieve the glittering utensil, he saw a fragment of straight blonde hair. Flash of quizzical lip. Flicker of pale, curved cheek. Steeled grey eyes.
It was always hard not to look at her. But it was far more difficult to meet that gaze, and so he kept his head turned and lowered. Sometimes he did dare to glance, or even to stare. He knew though that whatever he did, wherever he looked, it wouldn?t change a damn thing. Still the clenched stomach, the leaden fingers, and the constricting throat.
As he staggered back to his seat, the floor rolled dangerously. For a moment he was free of gravity, and when he tumbled back down, their eyes met. He hadn?t truly seen those eyes in years, and it had been almost as long since he?d burned every photograph where they appeared. But there they were again?identical to the very tilt of the eyelash. Precisely as they?d been on that last night.
As always, the accusation was plain. Sometimes he wished he could shout, ?You?ve got the wrong guy!? Sometimes he did anyway. And sometimes he thought he was lucky he lived alone so there was no one to think he?d cracked. But he regretted that thought as soon as the corner of it entered his mind.
He stood there, transfixed and unsteady. Bile churned and the room spun. His head thundered. A stampede of crushing memory surged through his conscious. A very real and vivid pain crashed against his ears and forehead. And always those eyes ? at the centre of everything.
In ?73, he?d finally put the house on the market. Two days later he?d called his real estate agent and cancelled. He was never sure why. Maybe there are just some things you can never run away from.
With supper finally finished, his shoes were on, and he dashed as best as he could down the walk toward the driveway.
He drove. The dark road swung out in front of him and shadowy trees loomed on either side. The creaks of withered tree-limbs, and the whistle of a violent wind (spun) through the rolled-down windows. Dotted yellow lines blurred together as they sped past him. His shoulders sagged into the soft car seat cushion, and he breathed in as much of the night air as his lungs could hold.
On the porch of his squat brick house, he loitered several moments and breathed the cold clean air through his veins. He exhaled sharply, turned, and clattered through screen then wooden door.
Sat uneasily on the brown recliner?s ragged edge, he pulled off his battered shoes and dropped them one at a time into a lopsided sprawl on the carpet.
In twenty minutes, he sat in the kitchen, still wearing his coat, with his back to the window and his head bowed over yesterday?s lasagne. He raised the fork stiffly to his mouth, chewed mechanically, and swallowed. The pattern extended across twenty minutes. Supper was his least favourite time in the world. But you had to eat. He tried to breathe evenly. Tick. Tick. And Tick again.
A jolt of sudden and violent unease sprung through his stiffened arms. Pasta sailed through the air and the fork skittered to the floor. His teeth clenched; his eyes clamped shut. And he knew she was behind him.
Stooped over to retrieve the glittering utensil, he saw a fragment of straight blonde hair. Flash of quizzical lip. Flicker of pale, curved cheek. Steeled grey eyes.
It was always hard not to look at her. But it was far more difficult to meet that gaze, and so he kept his head turned and lowered. Sometimes he did dare to glance, or even to stare. He knew though that whatever he did, wherever he looked, it wouldn?t change a damn thing. Still the clenched stomach, the leaden fingers, and the constricting throat.
As he staggered back to his seat, the floor rolled dangerously. For a moment he was free of gravity, and when he tumbled back down, their eyes met. He hadn?t truly seen those eyes in years, and it had been almost as long since he?d burned every photograph where they appeared. But there they were again?identical to the very tilt of the eyelash. Precisely as they?d been on that last night.
As always, the accusation was plain. Sometimes he wished he could shout, ?You?ve got the wrong guy!? Sometimes he did anyway. And sometimes he thought he was lucky he lived alone so there was no one to think he?d cracked. But he regretted that thought as soon as the corner of it entered his mind.
He stood there, transfixed and unsteady. Bile churned and the room spun. His head thundered. A stampede of crushing memory surged through his conscious. A very real and vivid pain crashed against his ears and forehead. And always those eyes ? at the centre of everything.
In ?73, he?d finally put the house on the market. Two days later he?d called his real estate agent and cancelled. He was never sure why. Maybe there are just some things you can never run away from.
With supper finally finished, his shoes were on, and he dashed as best as he could down the walk toward the driveway.
He drove. The dark road swung out in front of him and shadowy trees loomed on either side. The creaks of withered tree-limbs, and the whistle of a violent wind (spun) through the rolled-down windows. Dotted yellow lines blurred together as they sped past him. His shoulders sagged into the soft car seat cushion, and he breathed in as much of the night air as his lungs could hold.
