night-owl-query

[night-owl-query]

Winter

With each pass of his needle the corner of his lips began to curl. A reserved expression that could be considered elation or content by his standards. The unforgiving atmosphere would not allow him the pleasure of a genuine smile as the stress would split is dry lips. His wilted fingers were wrapped with bits of cloth to conceal his collection of needle pricks riddled his skin. He had only recently added sewing to his list of hobbies out of necessity. He grew impatient when thought moved quicker than his hand, leaving fits of discontent and scars scattered across his hands. Still, this would not deter him from meeting the goal in question.

With the final pass of the needle, He placed the thread between his teeth to break it. Pierced the pin cushion secured tightly around his wrist as the string dangled from his mouth. Caressing the finished piece of fabric between his frail fingers before setting it down on the desk. With a feeling of relief, he sat back in the chair. Head tilted to stare up to the tight curves of the ceiling that creaked under the subtle shifts in balance being tested by the wind. The silhouettes pulsed to the dying fire and blended into the darkness. He retreated under the covers, collapsing in exhaustion to rest. Tomorrow he would have to come to terms with difficult decisions, for now it was time to sleep.

The snow settles on the branches outside his window. Desperate to carry the weight of the fresh powder slowly accumulating on its frail limbs. Muted tones twist wildly as the wind whipped, the towering pale torsos tremble resemble bone. The malevolent season casted its winter spell across the barren landscape leaving little hope. The faint flame grows weary, inconsolable whimpers for tinder to satiate its hunger as heat grazed his side. Life does not waver, it patiently waits as he tosses another log on the fire.

It's the 49th day in this small cabin. Provisions grow scarce as he grew more disheartened to discover the dwindling number of supplies shall leave him with less than a weeks-worth of food. Absent minded in his use of supplies not knowing how long he would be residing under the umbra of imperious sorrow. Some dried rabbit meat, a few jars of preserves, a pile of mangled branches to properly manage while the weather taunts him. A rusted hatchet, a few buck shots and a shotgun are all that separates him from the bleak realization of death knocking at his door. He must venture the vicious terrain if he wants to cling to the idea of surviving more than a week.

The sky is blanketed with grey, an occasional wink of a star to taunt any lofty expectations. The days sway from dusk to dawn as the sheet of clouds break against the shoreline of the horizon looming in the distance. He stretched his cold brittle appendages to circulate the heat back to his limbs. Limited movements to conserve the small reserves of energy between the pauses as he plans his next expedition. Only the tatters he fashioned together separate him from the clutches of the gelid milieu of death as its pervading influence has eroded any thoughts of luxury. The responsibility hinged on the expectations of the ambiguous apparitions that lingering outdoors.

Watching the light slowly pull from the corner of the window the sun was hung in its daily execution. He felt it was appropriate to feed his irrational state with patience reasoning a different approach. But it was never in his nature to let time play a factor when there was no preparation required to start. It couldn't be simpler, with no physical limiters in place it was his decision alone whether to move or not. It was the most appropriate opportunity to look for more supplies. He did not have the advantage of frequent trips as he felt an ominous presence beyond the vestige. It was a decision to either succumb to hunger or the unknown, as the choice where how to die which left him the most perturbed.

He gathered his supplies. Layers of warmth, a few pelts strung together, his hatchet, a shotgun, his remaining bullets, and a sack he slung over his shoulder. Only a short distance from the stove he felt the difference in temperature immediately as he prepared himself for the worst outcome. Clutching the door handle he felt the heat pull from his fingers. Adjusting his grip, he resolved himself to reason it would be his decision of how to die, bringing him little comfort as he forced the door open to the elements.

Across the dense thicket of varied shades of white concealed certain hardships as he reasoned to dismiss any claims beyond his understanding. The snow crunched under his feet as he hastily closed the door behind restricting any further heat from escaping. Even with the absence of a proper daily cycle distinguishing the time, he could only assert the faint light would linger long enough to claim a small bounty. Clutching his gun tightly he was abundantly aware of his lack of experience when it came to traversing the narrow passage. The hazy heat quickly vanished through the thick fabric shielding his face. The many layers of protection limited his movement as each over encumbered step sapped his energy.

In order to persevere, he would have to remove such disparaging thoughts from his mind. He scanned the environment, still unfamiliar. Paltry prints peppered the desolate scene giving him small bits of hope as he began to follow the tracks. He imagined a large rodent or rabbit in a small den. As his enthusiasm grew he began to follow the faint freckles indented in the snow. Tightly gripping his gun, he hoped for a modest bounty to take back to the cabin.

The wind bellowed in the distance as it weaved through the dense brush. Natures menacing manners treat him as an unwelcome guest. Only a few feet ahead he could see a burrow under a tree. With caution he lightened his step, managed his movements as the furs and fabrics caused friction making noise. He crouched as he could hear the dull thud of life stir. His knees cracked as he crouched to begin positioning himself with a more stable stance. Still no visible movement to be seen he stares down the barrel of his gun as the loosened parts shudder.

His heart races as he scans closely at the traces of tracks around only to hear a snap further behind the point of focus. Cautious in his approach as he carefully moves closer while avoiding any obstacle that might compromise the hunt. He could hear the thumping of his heart slam in his chest wildly. The small slits in his covering exposed to the cold allows the wind to slice against his skin as he winced in disagreement. He reserves his breathing as he furthers his attempts to focus his attention to his surroundings.

Again, he hears a quiet thud, followed by the crunch of snow in the near distance. He begins to wonder what’s lurking. As he did not consider the other residence in the area. The wind howls, carrying a subtle but noticeable stench as it moves across. Now reconsidering the ideas, he tried to push from his mind now slowly begin to resurface. The ominous unrelenting climate seems to carry more than frigid discomfort of winter. The smells of ash and leather drift though the air. The odd collection is familiar, yet he found difficulty in recalling, only that it made him more uneasy to continue the hunt until he was steadfast in his decision to not leave empty handed.

His hands began to tremble as if his instincts were telling him to flee but he couldn’t as his feet were firmly rooted in the ground. A heavier thud followed by a distinct crunch now broke him from his trance. As he began to frantically guide his sight with the tip of his gun. It only took the small upward motion to be welcomed by a piercing gaze across a large figure to cause his fingers to squeeze the gun’s trigger. The recoil cajoled him to the ground. Disoriented as he quickly gathers his faculties only concerning himself with the creature.

As he looked to the whereabouts of the indomitable figure now gone he did not hesitate to run. The icy air coated his throat as he raced back to his cabin in fear of the monstrous presence hidden beyond the white. Many thoughts raced through his mind as he retraced his fading footstep to the cabin. It wasn’t the first time he had ever fired a gun, but he couldn’t remember when. The nightmares that plagued his nights before sleep, unable to recall the shrieks that retched and festered in his mind left sores and blisters to be questioned.

The need to fear the woods beyond his limited imagination, still the lingering abyss harboring unsettling thoughts. His senses seemed to sensor any awful images and sights. But only the priority to shelter him stood at the forefront now. Against the backdrop of wind cracks, trembling branches and stirs of loose underbrush only taunted his comfort as he felt the now lustful gaze lurking around him. He was never lulled into a sense of ignorance as the many factors that poked and prodded him were not unnoticed. Finally arriving at the cabin, bursting through the door before barricading himself inside.

Forcing the bed and chair against the door, piling the fabric on top in a panic. As the mood began to wade onto him he felt helpless to the unyielding presence who made itself known. The fire danced against the dwindling surface of wood shifting to an ashen tone. The abrupt change in temperature began to sting the faint heat radiating from the stove to warm the small space. Attempting to reason the beast to be a bear or wolf brought a sliver of comfort. But the lack of defined features made it difficult to convince him it may have been something worse.

[night-owl-query]

Request

In the influence of this evening’s swill, perverse platitudes passed her plump persuasive lips. No more uncertain what I to presume the affectation she had applied to play the role of lascivious personified. Where I now played the role of her 5 foot 10 inch pair of heels. The scantily clad vixen with shade of midnight strewn about her face. I had every intention of not submitting to such lofty expectations as we commiserated on the pervading symptoms of our waning youth. Less the corporal condition, but that which we can interpret as despondent of clandestine origins known as uncertainty.

I remain attentive as I sip my carefully crafted mix of spirits, cream, and twist of orange while she circumvents the apothecary’s inquiry for another drink. Astringent, glacial-viscosity, bold, harboring nutty notes of almond. Amoretto. It sounded better than it tastes. What could I expect from a derelict establishment devoid of prevalent patronage on a Friday night. The neon sign in the window solicits all you can eat boneless wings. The precipitation of pre-prepared frozen margaritas, tiny umbrella included, stagnate from bystanders resigned to rudimentary observations of the lighting.

Enamored by her. Enchanted by exaggerated expressions, perfectly synchronized subtle responses. It’s in her eyes, I feel the need to support myself against the bar. To the enervating thighs leaving no definition to the bend in my knees. Intoxication? Temptation? Or maybe prayer as I embark on what looks to be a scintillating tale of folly. The toss of her hair alone has inspired lengthening list of arousing anatomy as I catalog for my latest manifesto of lost loves. How I wonder the etymologist’s investigation for the conception for the word felicitous to such abstract ideas. The readjustment of her hips in a tight slip laced in benediction.

A volley of witty banter ensues. Postulating proposed positions performed in tandem with reciting childhood traumas. An anecdotes to discredit playground politics. I quickly knocked back the bits of backwash leaving my glass empty. My mouth full of lingering ambitions as I attempt to quell this urge to hot lust the ravenous the nape of her neck in an objectionable display of enthusiasm. A full frontal assault to taste the proprietor of my evanescent desires. My heart sent aflutter. A touch of whisky masqueraded as whimsy perfumed from her breath as her lips brush against my cheek as she leans in to whisper in my ear:

“I want you to kill me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I want you to kill me.”

“No, I heard you. I just don’t understand.”

“It’s not that hard to understand.”

“You said you want me to kill you.”

“See you do understand.”

“Maybe it’s because we’ve only just met, but it sounds a bit...”

“I’m sorry, but maybe that came a little out wrong.”

“How do you think it came off?"

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”

“I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

“That seems a bit much.”

“You just asked a stranger to kill.”

“We’ll think you are quite interesting and funny.”

“That doesn’t really help”

A cavalcade of correspondence, questionable at best in their quandary of collated disarray. My train of thoughts derail from the others. When all I want to tell her, “I must admit, I like the way your pants fit, and how your face is my top 3 favorite places if want to live.” But no, I forbid myself to be so honest when ingratiating myself to that which requires admittance to my own or lack their credibility as a potential exploit. I can’t help but conform to the status quo and not expose myself as more than anything less than a supporting role in someone else’s anecdote admonishing the application of cordiality with stranger men alone at bars. Repression is a virtue among the catholic church, or so I have heard.

Though I still wonder if there is a happy ending embedded in the circumstances presently proposed provided I assist in her life’s cessation. Her bliss. A hopeless romantic with a long list of hijinks disguised as conversational lubrication before alcohol became my liberator of awkward idiosyncrasies, is what I tell myself. A declaration to debauchery. A misstep into misinterpretation perhaps. To snuff the candles wick between by two fingers. Coincide with coincidental quarries of copulation conducted by mismanaged codependence as we capitulate to shallow desires. How could I not indulge my most basic of instincts, exigent and critical to human survival on the caveat considered taboo.

Devoid of detours on our destination to disaster. I can only assume that she has every intention not existing, either through my hands or that of any other eager enough to handle such a delicate flower. Do I consider myself fortunate? A beauty, an iridescent callow, sultry soothsayer in need of penance for the improper imposition shackled to my hip. Could I really be in such a state where I would consider contravening common sense? This is no illusion or spell I am under. But my libido petitions with polemic assertions as I too am convinced there is something more to gain than a close quarters confrontation with rose tinted spectacles. My appetite was aroused by a morbid curiosity as I try to interpret this new development. Contingent on conditional kinesthetics.

But I digress. While consistently putting myself on trial for disorderly displays of misappraising phrases as they swung from my tongue. How would I manage my conflicting urges. I am not convinced they can coexist. Curiosity killed the cat, not the other way around. To play the role of executioner. But as a gentleman I must take her request with the up most consideration. The lackadaisical nature of her approach. How might I ascertain the fortitude necessary to entertain aberrant solicitations to a partial acquaintance. It would only be natural for me to acquiesce much to my chagrin. I feel it inappropriate to pursue with cavalier postulations lacking the confidence to concede to the pulchritudinous fairy’s invitation. My conspiracy.

And this is how I first met the woman of my daydream delusions.

[night-owl-query]

Redundant

How trite, to enquire about a piece of information you have no interest in past the repetitive responses given more times than I can count. Maybe I’m just exaggerating. Either way, there isn’t a need to make such a production of pleasantries. A simple salutation accompanied by the appropriate amount of physical contact. A handshake, hug or for the more… European approach, a kiss. Perhaps I’m just a misguided misanthrope middling on mildly attractive, minding my mannerisms. Low standards to accompany a low self-esteem. A façade, less important to how the on lookers may judge, more to how I want to appear to myself in a group. My next therapy session is the following Tuesday.

It's that vacant stare. Thick manicured eyebrows, a balance beam held walking a tightrope steady to not appear more than effort so the conversation can end between any pause provided puttering pedantic points to pander to her pseudointellectual company of shallow shills. A forced smile. The theatrics applied to appear attentive and considerate are imperative while waiting for the next opportunity to talk about themselves. None of which memorable beyond a bit of cleavage. And a well placed rose gold pended nestled between. Tacky, but a good excuse to stare. Perky.

Her eyes wander. The freckles on her cheek. A point of interest. A welcome distraction. I read somewhere when a girl plays with her hair is an indicator of interest. It just seems like boredom. So why do I find myself more than a little enamored by her pretention as the effort she used to move me as such. Maybe I was quick to judge, it’s plausible. It was less than sudden, nor was it gradual. Always in the background, a supporting role in this, what is this exactly. A friend’s, friend’s girlfriend’s birthday party. Sure, it all makes perfect sense. Is this what would be referred to as an actual conversation? As she curls the curtain of hair behind her left ear. A pause. I can only assume she is flipping through the rolodex of canned ardent antiphons arranged to fit our current context as she builds little anticipation to finally say:

“Wow that’s so cool. So, what’s like your specialty?”

“Oh, I really don’t have one.”

“So, what is your signature dish?”

“If I’m being honest, I really don’t have one. It all depends on what I want to make really.”

“Well, what would you cook for me?”

“What do you like to eat?”

“Everything. Except sour cream. I had a bad experience when I was younger.”

“Now I’m curious to know the story behind that one.”

“My older sister dumped expired tub of it on my head at a sleepover. Whenever I even think of the smell, it makes me want to puke.”

“I could imagine. No sour cream then. What else?”

“Do I like, or won’t touch?”

“Either or I guess.”

Good. Keep it going, she just opened the door to childhood traumas, a treasure trove of tribulation, common experiences embellished. Something I can work with. She looks the type who wanted to be a princess when she grew up. Sure, it’s cliché, but who wouldn’t want to be loved, pampered, and be surrounded by animals. Unless your allergic. I’m getting ahead of myself. How to best navigate the terrain, tip toe around the landmines, avoid getting caught in the crosshair of the sniper camped out in the punch bowl. Someone said love is a battlefield, love is war, love is… This isn’t love, but I’ve moved pass the state of infatuation, I’m already imagining less than appropriate public displays of affection.

Is it the primal side in me? Something to say, “this is mine”. I understand we live in very progressive times, and woman are not property. But it still does stop the instinct to protect what we chose to value. And right now, those lips, those hips, that nose is a hot commodity. That smile is a national archive. I see the sharks circling, noticing her bloom as we begin to loosen our lips with more meaty topics. Blood in the water. It’s a question of courage. No! Survival. This is why I am able to sacrifice a piece of dignity in pursuit of a possible happily ever after. Sacrifice is willing to give something up, it isn’t when you lose something that you never had control over in the first place. Yes, but now begs the question, if I have no dignity to lose, then what is holding me back? As we commit moving forward towards the order of operations building report she retorts with:

“Well, I was never a fan of chocolate.”

“Chocolate, huh.”

“I feel like your judging me.”

“Listen, I’m going to judge you the way I’m going to judge you. Don’t let that stop you from being who you are.”

“So, you are judging me.”

“I mean it’s not that weird, just. I guess, I can’t say I am the biggest fan of cheese so.”

“I am also lactose intolerant.”

“So, what aren’t you allergic to?”

“You’re still judging me. I am probably your worst nightmare then.”

“No. I just building a profile, so if I ever was ever to cook for you I’d know what can kill you.”

“That sounds creepy.”

“I like to be thorough.”

Still not sure of what to make. It limits my options. No, a welcome challenge to only serve as the vector as I valiantly veer into the vicinity of the vivacious vixen with visions of rom-com hijinks. Sagacious in considering a confrontation with the candor of her smile. Maybe this is destined to end when she figures out how uninteresting my life really is. Acumen to understand the importance of the role I was given, though I can still take creative liberties to still shine while the material given to the before mentioned supporting role. As she thinks of how to reply, with a cagey grin. Maybe not from the pile, perhaps wait awhile and absorb her perfuming smile. I think I’ve managed a genuine smile. Please, it’s too soon for wedding bells. Perhaps, a potted plant?