So there I was again, lost in the story.
The story is here, now, and I am here to tell it. The people are here, in their faceless crowd. I see them behind me, looking over my shoulder, ready to speak, whisper, of unspeakable things. So I hear them, and I tremble, for the incoherence is shattering! I listen, and they speak. Their voices mingle like the voices in a crowd, alternating between loud and quiet, boisterous and conspirational. I see a tale they speak of unfold in multicolor, guided along by their many voices. I see actors, inanimate pantomines, take form and look at me, staring into my eyes. I see their environment as simple wooden pieces, taking shape, becoming furniture and windows from a fancier age. They stand, both of them, the man and the woman. They are both dressed in fineries from France's 17th century, in dentelle and coats of Royal blue and pale yellow. The woman, blonde, beautiful, young, with the face of an angel, curly hair twirling down near her bejeweled ears, eyes of brown chocolate sparking like morning dew, nose narrow, straight and strong, above small and pouty red lips, turns to me and in a blink of an eye and a sly upturned smile indicates that we are intimate. The man, older, stronger, a beast of a man with graying bushy eyebrows over darker-than-night eyes of prey, like those of a wild bear, stand not facing me but rather sideways, keeping his intent stare on the woman's face. Yet he exhudes sophistication, and his refined mannerism implies careful grooming and uncommon gentleness.
The scene begins. The voices behind me, in me, dull to a quiet roar, leaving the woman's clear, lithe voice in the air.
"It is not time for this yet!"
The man's hand reach up, nearly unvoluntarily, and he grunts.
"Oh, behave!" she winks, and turns, stepping into the long hallway.
"You will be the death of me, Amelie."
He too steps, carefully polished shoes on carefully polished floor carrying him behind the woman's tenderly swaying dress.
They all disappear. The scene is over. Now there is nothing but a memory, and an uninterrupted view of the dark wooden parquet. The voics are quiet. For now.
I don't recall when, in 2012, I wrote this. I kept it in my little black book for a long time. I finally posted this near christmas of 2013.
© 2013 Christopher Mahan