AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I couldn’t quite make sense of the look that passed over his face, but he nodded. “Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, brushing his lips over my forehead.
I didn’t know what this meant, but at least for now, I had him back.
Chapter Twelve - Hugo
The sandman was again absent. Fled from the scene those six days, it didn’t seem as though he would make a reappearance. At least not that first night. Whatever influence Vega had on the situation was at least at an ebb. We would have to reestablish our connection further before I regained any of the benefits. A fair penitence for my foolishness.
It had scared me more than all the monsters in storybooks. The ones I’d used a nightlight until I was 11 to try and ward off. Three simple, loaded words. ‘I love you.’ ‘Je t'aime.’
How many times had I heard that over the years? Said in a different context but with no less earnestness. If desire for sex was a manifestation of the fear of death, both fundamental aspects of the human condition, what was love? Sex was one of the primary expressions of love but not necessarily needed for it. Nor was love needed for sex, as had been clearly demonstrated by my past exploits. The term ‘making love’ not only a euphemism, but extremely limited. What happened to sex when love died and the fear of death was no longer a factor? A question I’d spent the past five years attempting to answer.
I didn’t dare move. The serenity so perfect it would have been as to break a stain glass window to disturb it. The fact that I had my arms around her making the situation awkward indeed.
Even with the miscalculation, it had been a great evening. We hadn’t come together again. It was mostly out of our systems, in every sense of the phrase, intimacy of a different sort becoming a primary concern. We stayed in the bath until the water was cold, then enjoyed the most leisurely dinner ever, after it finally came around.
We even got more work done on the book. Vega read some parts out loud so I could hear how they sounded to someone else. Being a writer felt a little similar to being a deaf composer. I could write the words. Condense the feelings. Present the world as I saw it, but never with any idea about how it was being experienced. If what the reader saw was anything like what I had.
The closest I used to get was during signings, when a reader would enthuse about a particular theme or another, showing they’d largely gotten what I intended but not if our views agreed. Listening to Vega read my words back to me, was like having a window opened into her mind. Giving new insight in to the work at the same time. Gently adjusting how I saw things.
But after a while, her eyes had started to droop and I’d carried her to bed with me, letting her drift off to sleep on my chest.
Stealth was required. Using my free hand to gently lift Vega from below, I managed to slip my trapped arm out from under her. Leaving the sleeping beauty none the wiser.
Freshly liberated I reached, without looking, to the top drawer of the nightstand. Where I’d stashed some of my art supplies. Touch finding a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, I reassumed my previous position. Greeted by Vega’s gently slumbering face.
Touching point to the high-fiber page, my hand moved as though by powers invisible. The dark gray lines turning black on the off-white paper. Coming together to create an increasingly identifiable form.
My chest was full with a love my mind didn’t know what to do with. The sort that left me feeling dazed like nothing had before. Vega had really spooked me by saying what she had. Not because I disagreed, or was even worried I might.
I just didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling, love never coming into it before. I’d done the project with a chosen employee for the past three years. Initially to actually get specialized help on a particular project, but also to provide myself with a distraction. At the same time giving them what they might want. Be it the physical attention or the money. One usually being the cherry on top of the other. My criteria for choosing the candidate was based both on their fitness for the project, and my potential ability to engage with them, both socially and sexually.
The pencil moved like the needle on a polygraph. Conjuring a photo-realistic replica of the scene in front of me. The first time I’d been able to draw anyone but Delphine.
***
My little sister was so excited to be in the big city. My parents had relocated to Burgundy when housing costs in the capital got too high. About the same time I’d graduated from college, in one of those universal coincidences. A picture of provincial pastoral, the new homestead served well as a writing place. The rent was so cheap I wasn’t expected to contribute, though I did when I could. Giving me ample time to hone my skills. The click of my keyboard a near-permanent presence.
