A Certain Man, XII

It's not his.

And he knew right away. How his face fell; glum and grey and lips the colour of nightshade. And I couldn't help but shiver to no end, when he bent over and said, "Looking forward to meet you, little one". How he could be so cruel in his kindness was beyond me.

We had another boy, a plump and healthy bundle that had to be forced into the world, ripped out of me and thrust into cold, indifferent hands. And whenever he looked up at me with large blinking eyes, I could almost swear he knew. He would sit there and judge me in silence, like his father did before him. I had thought my guilt would somehow dissolve and subside with the birth of my child. That he would serve as the final stage of my repentance, but instead, he was the fruit of my sin, a constant reminder of my most terrible of mistakes.

But how I adored him. How I adored both my sons. It often startled me how quickly they were growing, and because of that, I had this crippling fear of somehow losing track of time, of turning away for a second and finding them grown and gone. It always felt like they were running, flying miles ahead, and I always fell back, unable to keep up.

They were so very different, my two boys, and so much like their fathers that I began to wonder if I managed to pass anything at all to them. My eldest was the sun in its warmth. He felt with such openness, such abundance, as if love was only ever meant to be given, and not received. And my youngest, like the palest of moons, cared silently, inwardly; but so severely, that at times it would overflow, trickle over the edges and stain the crown of my head with shy, uncertain kisses.

My two boys. How I wished, with all my heart, I could pluck each and every star and hang them over their heads. To capture the world and lay it at their feet. They would never want, never need; not while I live and breathe. Not once would they feel unloved, unwanted, or ostracized. Not once would they stumble without someone to hold on to. Not once would they seek validation in the warm embrace of another. Not once would they kiss without feeling. Not once would they love out of obligation. And most importantly, they would never, not even once, feel alone.

My two boys.
May they never be their fathers. May they never be their mother.

Soured Milk

He said his name was Svengali; a lie, I'm sure, but one that I let him have. He said he was looking for someone like me, and when I asked what that was, he said, "A mouse to keep."

I don't know why but from that very first lie I felt inexplicably drawn to him. He had a strange aura about him, an amorphous essence that seeped through his limbs and into the air like miasma; thick and dark and full of hate. And he strung me along so effortlessly; a flick of his wrist and I was on my knees, and instead of pulling me up, he put his foot on my shoulder and pushed me further down until I was at his feet.

When I look back at it all, I can't help but feel regret. I don't regret the path I chose, but rather, the way I chose to travel along that path; hiding so comfortably under the pretense of coercion. I liked the idea of being the helpless victim; an impressionable young girl who's only crime was a weakness to a man's charm. In reality I was very much aware of what I was getting myself into, and I needed nor trickery nor deceit to do it.

I wanted to be his mouse. I wanted to be worthless and to revel in my insignificance. I wanted to live in filth, to be as vile and morbid as I wished to be. I wanted his anger, and I wanted his hate, and I craved the pain. I wanted all of it, and he, the mighty Sven, would give and give and give.

And there was no end to what I would take.

A Certain Man, XI

If absence is meant to make the heart grow fonder, then my heart must be bursting, because I've come to depend on his substance like the air that I breathe. I would humor myself that he felt the same way. That I could feel it in the way he touched me; hands shivering as if he was stirring from within, fingers buried in nimble pairs into the confounds of my walls, and later, left arm sneaking in, settling deep in the base of my back and pushing me further into him, or him into me, or both into each other.

I'm not saying it wasn't wonderful in its own way—his company—but it never quite felt like it did before. That feeling of finally being whole, shivering from the core of my being, as if being momentarily at peace was more troubling than comforting. I didn't feel whole because I wasn't empty to begin with. I wasn't his blank canvas anymore; I was a mother and a wife and all too filled with happiness and regret to surrender myself to him. I didn't feel whole, but I was filling up, overflowing, and it wasn't long until I reached a tipping point.

And all along I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. What was I feeling guilty for? For that man I so dutifully called my husband? The man I found melting beneath his momentary indiscretions? What a man he was, and what a man he proved to be. I remember that lump in my throat, whenever he bent over and kissed my swelling belly, whispering our child's name over and over again. What a man he was, what a man he proved to be.

"Do you want something to eat?" his voice came in slow and unassuming, sinking me further down my haze of post-coital guilt.

"Why do you always insist on feeding me?"

"Well, we are a hospitable people."

"No, really." I protested, but failed to press further when he leaned in and kissed the small of my back. He always kissed me in the strangest of places. I asked him about it once and he claimed it wasn't on purpose. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? About men that kiss you on the stomach, and those that kiss you on the very end of your back.

"You know what I've always wondered? Whether you've been with other women, since..." I trailed off, not quite sure where I was going.

"I have."

"It's so strange to me, you and someone else. I just can't picture it."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, miss."

"Missus."

He smiled, a strained stillness looming over his face. Usually the color of icy waters, his eyes were now almost black, with pupils dilated nearly double in size. I couldn't help but marvel at how his eyes said so much, when once they said so little. Had the years really changed him so much? Or had I simply been blind all this time? What secrets have you told with those eyes, I wonder, and what secrets have I failed to hear?

"You hate being here, don't you?"
 
"I do."

"Is he any good?"

"Good enough."

"Off you go, then."

Play

I told him he smelled like wood-fire
and he said I smelled like regret.

Sandalwood and smoke
when I bent down and kissed his head.

Dear me, how you grow with pride
with every stroke
with every stride.

I say, darling, you're so good
too good to simply eat
and you say that's not the way you play.

So what if you close your eyes
and I tuck away my pride
and the world looks the other way

would you play with me, then?

A Certain Man, X

"Cigarette?" he asked, and without really waiting for an answer, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and slipped it into mine.

"I've quit, you know." I mumbled, wondering if the warm moistness of the cigarette was somehow foreshadowing (it was). 

He raised an eyebrow as I inhaled, slowly leaning back to his seat, "I'm a bad influence, then."

"The worst." I smiled, blowing smoke towards him.

I hadn't really planned this; being here. It all sort of fell into place, like some grand cosmic plan. A little push (or pull) that sent me tumbling towards him. I had stopped at the bakery before going home, and lo and behold! The man himself, bent over and examining a loaf of bread. For a moment I had to halt and reconsider, but when he looked over and gave me one of his smiles, I found myself standing right before him; not quite sure what to say.

But he knew exactly what to say. Leaning in and whispering softly in my ear, "How can I be of service, miss?"

To which I said, "Take me home."

Which brings us to our current predicament. This old fucking place, it looked exactly the same. The moment I stepped through his door, I suddenly felt the weight of the years slump on my shoulders, and when I looked at him, I saw both my best and worst mistake. It was such a dense atmosphere: me; smoking, him; watching over in silence, while the leather of his chair squealed with his every movement, every touch. Never in my life have I identified so fucking strongly with a piece of furniture.

"It's missus, by the way." I smiled, charging my gaze against his. I couldn't help but fondly look back at a time when he threw me completely off-balance, especially at the beginning of our relationship. I often found him overwhelming; he was so raw, so frank in his desires, and once it was all over, he was all soft-spoken charm, and I was never quite sure which side of him I preferred.

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, his smirk full of intrigue, "Interesting that you find it necessary to say that."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to get any ideas."

He snorted, leaning further back into his seat until our knees were almost touching, "Oh, I would never."

I felt so exposed, so defenseless, that I just had to cross my legs, and his gaze immediately fell to my lap, my knees, my ankles, and then he shot up to my eyes and smiled. There was an uncertainty to his gaze, despite its apparent boldness; desire immersed in fear of rejection—no, fear of consent. The notion of us together again was both a dream and a nightmare. The distinction being its ascension from fantasy to reality. If we were to materialize, to exist, once again, we would bring about long-forgotten (or ignored) truths, unraveling like a ball of yarn—one that neither of us truly wished to acknowledge.

"Did you ever get married, by the way?"

He nodded, "I've always been married, actually."

"No!"

"Yes, ma'am." he laughed, bringing his hands to his lap and tapping his fingers against his thigh, "Well, separated now."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"You never asked." he raised his brow, a smirk lurking somewhere behind his lips. You never cared, was what he truly meant to say. I almost felt the urge to explain, to air out my guilt and apologize, but I couldn't possibly do that, could I? It's completely true, I didn't care at all, and why should I? No courtesies, no obligations; I did what I was told, kept on track, stuck to the rules.

"So back then, you were.." I trialed off, knowing he'd eagerly pick up where I left off.

"Cheating on my wife."

"With me."

He smiled, the smog in eyes turning into the palest of greys, "With you."

I don't know if it was on purpose; allowing his eyes to portray such clarity of emotions, or it was beyond his control, but I found myself repeatedly swallowing my nerves, and his gaze immediately shot to my throat; eager to incriminate, "Would it have changed anything?"

I sighed, "I guess not."

 "Good to know." He sat his drink aside and leaned in, fingertips stroking the inner side of my knee with such hesitance and self-awareness, that I couldn't possibly protest his touch. His fingers were so cold that at first I didn't even feel them, until he began to travel along my thigh, rubbing them so feverishly against my skin, I was sure I'd soon run out of breath. His eyes fell so softly, so delicately on my lips and I knew, in the pit of my stomach, what he was about to do.

And I decided that I hadn't the will or strength (or desire) to stop him.

A Certain Man, IX

At first I was determined not to go back, but in my more vulnerable moments, I realized I couldn't be so cruel. I couldn't possibly rob my child of its father (or him of his child), no matter how justifiable I thought it was. So I went back, tail between my legs, and a week later we got married.

Our wedding was a sad spectacle. His family all smiles behind him, and not a single person beside me. To invite anyone to my wedding was to acknowledge it as a real marriage, which it definitely wasn't. I had made it very clear that I was only marrying him because I had to, because it was what society deemed 'right', and he agreed to it all, though I knew he was ultimately hoping for reconciliation.

We spent our new-wedded bliss going about our business, completely avoiding each other. At first, he was keen on mending things between us, but after I made it clear to him that the best he could do was stay away from me; he stopped. I did feel a twinge of guilt, at times, when he looked at me and I saw such sadness in his eyes. I hated what we've come to be, but I still couldn't forgive him. With time I managed to move past it; my wounds ignored but not forgotten, and we lived in peaceful coexistence. We would have our meals together; anxiously counting down the days to my delivery. It was really astonishing how in the span of several months he went from being my lover, to my ex, to my husband, to my friend; and finally, the father of my child.

And when I finally gave birth to our son, it took all the strength in me not to fall in love with my husband all over again. Fatherhood brought out the best in him; all those things that I adored about him. But whenever my heart would weaken to him, I would remember that day; and all the weakness in my heart would soon drain out. How he could be so kind, and yet so cruel, was beyond me.

The gods, in their cruelty, decided that our son would be the spitting image of his father. It both warmed and struck fear in my heart; my husband and my son, side by side, looking at me with eyes bright as the afternoon sun. Father and son, so much like each other that it made me question my own existence. I would search my son's face for any trace of my eyes, or my father's nose, or my mother's smile; but nothing, nothing. I would condole myself that physical appearance wasn't the last of it, but even in temperament, he took after his father.

But he won't be his father, I would assure myself, god can't be so cruel.

A Certain Man, VIII

"There's a pretty bird!"

I looked up to find some guy bent over, head hovering over mine. He had brought his face so close to me that I could feel his breathe against my lips. Fucking peppermint.

"Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" I spat, pushing him away and rising to my feet.

"You know what," he smiled, bringing two fingers to his chin, "I just knew you weren't half as bland as you seemed to be."

"Again, who the fuck are you supposed to be?"

"Think, pretty bird. We might have a certain someone in common."

Oh, fucking hell.

"Oho, there she goes!" he burst, whistling and clapping his hands, "Smart bird, this one!"

"You've literally got to be the most obnoxious person I've ever met."

"Well, I do apologize for not being as debonair as my uncle." he smiled, licking his lips, "But I assure you I'm just as pleasant to eat."

Ugh, fucking hell.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see that eye-roll, pretty bird."

"What the fuck did I say about calling me pretty bird?"

"I don't know," he leaned in, pressing his knee between my thighs, "How about you tell me?"

"You are the worst at reading your audience, aren't you?"

"Fair enough," he pulled away, avoiding my gaze as he pressed out the wrinkles on his shirt, "I'll stop."

What happened next was the most surprising and awe-inspiring transformation I've ever seen. It was so sudden, so quick, like a switch that he instantly turned off. His entire demeanor; the way he walked, talked, and even the way he smiled changed. He went from being that obnoxious fucking creature to a sweet, stammering young man that blushed whenever I smiled at him.

He explained how he had a long history with self-confidence. He was a small and frail child, the youngest of four boys, and on top with that was cursed with a crippling shyness. Both his brothers and the children at school made a mockery out of him. He told me of countless times where he'd been ridiculed, bullied, and beaten. How his father's reaction would always be indifference: his view of it was that if he wasn't able to defend himself, he deserved every last bit of it. He recalled how it constantly broke his mother's heart, and how she was the only support he ever truly had.

And his uncle, of course. He was sent to his uncle's every summer, and those three months he spent with him would be his happiest of the year. It was his uncle that taught him to embrace his true self. To be strong and confident and take care of himself. His uncle was always keen on history, and so he'd always take him to all these old buildings and museums. He enjoyed it a lot, describing how patient his uncle was, following him around for hours and hours on end. He found himself particularly interested in the structure of these buildings, rather than its history. It was then that he began his interest in architecture. Architecture became his life; his distraction from a very difficult reality. If it weren't for his uncle, he said, he couldn't even imagine where he'd be today.

"So yeah," he smiled, bringing his hand to his head and tousling his hair, "That's why I was acting like an idiot. My uncle always told me that whenever I felt I didn't have it in me, I should just fake it."

"I guess your uncle's been giving you bad advice, then."

"No, he's a pretty good psychologist, he knows what he's doing." he laughed, "I guess I just over-do it sometimes."

"He's a psychologist?"

"Yeah. You didn't know? I thought you would, considering..."

"Considering." I smiled, raising my eyebrows.

He blushed and shook his head, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," I cut him off, taking a sip out of my tea before continuing, "How is he, by the way?"

"He's good," he nodded a little too enthusiastically, like he's been waiting for that question all this time, "Why did you two stop seeing each other, if you don't mind me asking?"

I shrugged.

"I think," he softly started, breaking off eye-contact and looking down at his hands, "I think he really liked you. I think he thought you were great."

"Did he or do you?" I teased, out of habit, more than anything. He looked so much like his uncle that I unconsciously reverted to my usual banter. And unlike his uncle, I got quite a reaction out of him.

"No, I mean, you're really nice and all, but my uncle, I wouldn't, I would never." he stammered, blushing profusely and shaking his head.

"It seems I'm rather popular with the men in your family. Maybe I should meet your brothers."

"Oh, no!" he shot up, alarmed, "You wouldn't like them, they're nothing like my uncle."

"And how is your uncle like?"

He stared blankly at me, and for a brief moment, I could've sworn I saw his uncle in his eyes; distant and full of terrible secrets, "Kind, I guess."