Fiction post - Unhealthy Attraction
Jul. 5th, 2005 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordwhackerThis is probably the hardest piece of writing I've ever turned out. I had the idea for this story half a year or so ago, but found it too intimidating. It involves a character I'm very familiar with, which is a daunting thing in and of itself - I'm afraid that I'm trying to impart too much about this character to the reader. It's written in first person, which may or may not help in that respect.
Unhealthy Attraction (Short Story, 3,500 words)
Wakefulness was a long time in coming that morning; sleep came and went in the way only a working man's Sunday can bring. I hadn't closed the drapes the night before as I normally would, and the sunlight that eventually pooled on my neck and face as the morning drew on was my first clue that something was out of place. Then as I took in a breath there was the warmth of skin against mine, and I found myself remembering with a certain resignation that I was not alone.
It was a moment out of time with her lying there next to me. The better part of a year might have been nothing more than a dream that was slipping out of my memory before I could grasp it. After all this time she had come back, and she'd brought the same world with her, one of warm weekend mornings and limbs tangled in my sheets. For a moment I wanted to touch her hair, catch it up in my fingers the way I had what could have been the night before. But it was shorter now, brown tresses barely reaching her chin.
No, I was not alone. And as consciousness slowly returned to me I was starting to remember why.
I would rather that visitors knock to announce their presence, and as many homes do in this English University town my door has a dignified brass knocker. A knocker that is sadly in disuse in favour of a doorbell I have not yet gone to the trouble of disconnecting, and that occasionally startles me when I am trying to write.
Had I been having a particularly inspired day I might have ignored the chime, but it was almost a welcome distraction that afternoon. I took a moment to save my work and made for the front door at a leisurely pace, wondering idly if my visitor would be patient enough to wait for me.
I don't have a great many visitors who drop by unannounced. Only those who don't know me well enough to arrange a visit are likely to do so, and are equally likely to try to sell me something. With a sort of grim pleasure I anticipated making the enterprising individual I found on my doorstep feel guilty for having interrupted a Writer - with an audible capital "W" - as he worked his craft.
What I found there, however, was someone I had known so well that I nearly didn't recognize her. She must have recognized the shock on my face, because she smirked.
"Hello, Jess," she said.
"Amelie." The name sounded foreign. It was fitting. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town," she said in a way that suggested she could have been planning this moment since the day she was born. "I thought I'd drop by."
"You know I don't like unexpected company." I weighted the words carefully. She had won the first round by taking me by surprise. I wasn't about to let her get carried away with it.
Her smirk faded just a little. "I didn't want to talk to you on the phone."
I took in a breath and let it out, waiting just long enough to make her uncomfortable. "Fair enough." I moved aside and gestured for her to come in. "I was about to have a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?"
"You don't like tea," she said, stepping up next to me in the doorway. Her scent was familiar, her closeness intentional.
"Has that ever stopped me from drinking it?" I held her gaze for a moment before moving past her toward the kitchen, letting my hand brush against her shoulder as I did. "I'll put the kettle on. You'll find a coat rack to your left."
It had been less than a day ago that she'd arrived, and even after I gathered my wits that morning it was a little hard to believe. Time seemed to be weighed down by her presence. It had been the same way when we'd been together, more than a year ago and for less than a year all-told.
More than the feeling of her skin or seeing it peek through the folds of bedding, it was the glasses she wasn't wearing that made her look strange and naked. She would have probably thought the same of me, were she awake; she had never been such a slave to them as I was. But then I remembered that she didn't wear glasses anymore. She had seen a laser surgeon, she had said, and had her eyesight corrected.
Now she always looked strange and naked.
"It's not so bad." The cup of tea was cradled between her hands. It was similar to the cup she'd always chosen before, though that one had been broken when I'd moved across the country, not in small part to leave her behind. "It's a little uncomfortable for the week or so afterward, but you can see quite well straight away."
I nodded, still getting used to the plainness of her face without the oval frames. Her cheeks seemed higher, the bones more defined. I wondered whether it might be the shorter hair that was responsible for that. "I doubt it would be at all effective for me."
"Probably not." She took a sip of tea. "You're as blind as a mole."
"But better looking," I said, quickly. I regretted it. It felt too much like something I would have said before.
"I'll give you that."
The conversation was like a twisted game of déjà vu. I held my tongue for a moment and forced myself to drink some tea before I spoke again. "I doubt you drove across the country to pay me empty compliments, Amelie."
"Who is to say they're empty?" She smiled and then pursed her lips for another sip, enjoying the game. The words were familiar, her slight French accent coming to the forefront conspicuously.
"If they're not," I said, slowly, "then perhaps you should reconsider to whom you're paying them."
She set her jaw. "I've considered carefully, thank you."
"Not carefully enough."
Her eyes hardened then, and I took that opportunity to rise from the table and empty the rest of my lukewarm tea into the sink. When I sat down again she smiled at me, but I knew that my point had been taken.
Her skin was almost exactly the same colour as mine, something of a creamy tan that doesn't quite speak of actual exposure to the sun. It was softer, naturally, in a way no amount of care on my part could mimic. Many times I had been struck by how similar we must appear, partly shrouded in bedding. My romantic interests have always been somewhat narcissistic in one way or another, especially with other men; the inflections in speech and mannerisms which I find attractive often closely mirror my own. Amelie seemed to carry it to the next level, as though she could be a mirror image of me as a woman.
There is a certain comfort in narcissism, a familiarity with the aspects of myself that I find pleasing. But for the same reason there is discomfort, a realization that the things I most want to change in others are faults of my own. It is difficult to see what lies in the mirror when one is attempting to remove the plank from one's own eye… then again, what might our mirror image be doing when it can't be seen?
The sleeping form that was lying next to me was very much like me, indeed. But when so much is alike, the few things that defer seem to be somehow less like a compliment.
"This conversation ended a year ago, Amelie."
The afternoon had been lost. I had played the gentle host, let her catch up with me and listened to the story of her life for the past twelve months or so as though it had ever mattered. She might have looked different, but it was the same tale she had always told.
"I invited you in for tea," I continued, trying to gauge her expression as I held her maddeningly level gaze. "You've managed to monopolize my afternoon and encroach upon my evening." I leaned forward and folded my hands neatly on the table. "If you have something to say, then say it."
She didn't speak for a moment. I sat back a little, content to wait. Finally she said, slowly, "I don't have anything in particular to say."
It had been too direct a question for her, of course; answering it would have allowed me too much control. I let out a curt breath. "What a surprise."
Her lips curved into a frown. "If you want me to leave," she said deliberately, "then say as much."
I smiled, feeling a heady sense of vindication as I watched her frown tighten. "I didn't want you to arrive to begin with."
It had happened the same way that night as it had at the end of it, when we had finally parted ways. Fights over trivial things, most often my reluctance to play the role she wanted so badly for me. In many ways she played the same game I had always found myself entwined in, in my relations with others. Like me she found it all a struggle, a fight for dominance and control. She had arrived on my doorstep that day wanting a fight, wanting to rekindle that animosity between us that would ultimately lead to intimacy. She had baited me, and I had once again let myself be reeled in, playing the role she'd scripted for me from the beginning.
I should have known better. I did know better, in fact. But then again, the most attractive attribute someone can exhibit is to want me.
One of the many traits we share, Amelie and I, is our inability to walk away from a good fight. It is in this fashion that I found myself seated across from her in a restaurant later that evening, exchanging tense glances as we waited for our overly attentive waiter to leave us alone so that we could continue our hushed argument.
She was still trying to convince me that her presence here was something of a fluke - either that, or she was trying to convince herself. "Do you really think I would drive a hundred and fifty miles just to see you?" she hissed over her glass of wine.
"Yes."
Amelie blinked, obviously a little taken aback at my uncharacteristically succinct reply. "Why?"
"You're here, aren't you?" I sipped at my own wine, waiting for her to defend herself.
"I told you, I took the train home after visiting maman," she said as though she was speaking to a child.
"And the train leaves you on my doorstep, I take it?"
"It leaves me in town. I wanted to see you."
"Why? Do you not fight enough with your boyfriend at home?"
Her cheeks flushed a little, probably more from anger than embarrassment. I fought back a smirk while she took a generous sip of wine. "No," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't antagonize him enough? I find that hard to believe."
Amazingly, she chose not to retort. I wondered if perhaps I'd hit a little too close to the mark. Instead she said, "What about you, Jess? How is your love life?"
"Have I ever had one?"
"I don't know. Have you?"
I smiled and sat back. "You know I don't believe in love. It's a gimmick contrived for Valentine's day, as far as I'm concerned."
"Your sex life, then," she said, not missing a beat.
"That," I said, leveling her with a gaze over my glass, "is none of your concern."
"Why not? Perhaps I'm concerned that you're not fighting enough with your boyfriend."
"Trust me. We fight often enough."
The cards were on the table, then. I hoped she was jealous.
I should probably have felt guilty that Sunday morning, but guilt is one of the many emotions I will admit to not fully understanding. I suppose there was an element of regret, of anticipated hurt in knowing that the sins of the flesh I had participated in the night before could bring about conflict with someone I care for. I was caught up enough in my own thoughts that it wasn't until I'd been lying awake for some time that my thoughts turned to him.
Hazen was his name, and he was quite possibly the person most unlike the woman who was sleeping next to me on the planet. He was so different than the people I typically see that my attraction to him was something of a mystery. Soft spoken, not exactly eloquent, and utterly distractible, traits I would swear that would drive me mad - and quite often did, as a matter of fact.
There were things about him that fit the pattern, of course. He was intelligent, and handsome, and enjoyed physical contact. And of course there was that element of animosity between us, the playful bickering that had begun to pattern itself into our conversations. On my part, at least, it is deliberate; I am testing him, pushing him, trying to determine where his boundaries lie. The difference between Hazen and others I have been with, particularly Amelie, is that he is yielding to my advances, letting me be in control without contest. To be honest I find it difficult to know how to respond; so I continue to push, and wonder if and when he will break and push back.
Perhaps this indiscretion would be the breaking point, though my and his concerns about it most likely wouldn't match. He would be more concerned with my supposed betrayal of his trust, or the possibility that I somehow care less for him because I allowed this to happen. I don't feel that this is the issue; my feelings for him are independent of my feelings and actions toward anyone else.
I was more concerned about what this event brings to light about me.
"Where am I leaving you?"
She looked over at me sharply from the passenger seat. I'd taken her by surprise with the sudden change in topic. "What do you mean?"
"I'm tired, Amelie. I'm going home to bed. You're not coming with me." I knew she would take it as a challenge. I saw her stiffen out of the corner of my eye.
"You presume too much."
"I presume you have a hotel room," I countered, finding myself turning onto my own street. I'd let the argument go on for too long before cutting her off. "Unless you've become overly accustomed to street corners since I moved away."
She swore, a word in French that was very familiar.
"Such language," I chastised, risking a glance her way. "You've kissed your own mother with that mouth?"
"I've kissed less pleasant individuals with it." She paused for a moment as we rolled to a stop in my driveway. I left the motor running, waiting.
There was a feeling of anticipation nestled in my stomach. I avoided her gaze. I knew what was happening, where this and every argument we'd had that evening would eventually lead. It felt as though my fate had been sealed from her first "hello"; I would find myself mimicking the words and actions of a ghost from a year past. She was like a recurring dream, one I had to follow through to the end before I could escape.
We were both users; her specialty, though, was in how to be used.
"Is this all I ever was to you?"
Her voice startled me as much as the catch in it did. I risked a glance and saw that she was blinking back tears, a resolute expression on her face. Even as I found myself getting angry I wondered if I was second-guessing her somehow, if she was actually being sincere.
"Yes," I said, snapping off the ignition for effect. I let the keys jangle for a moment in the silence. "Yes, Amelie, all you ever were was a fun piece of conversation and a decoration for my arm at parties. Is that what you were hoping I'd say?"
She let out a bitter laugh. "You're a shallow bastard."
"Yes. I am."
"Why have you shut your engine off, then?" She gestured to the dash before making a swipe of her eyes. Flawless. "Planning on having me stay to decorate your bedroom one last time?"
"You haven't told me where I'm taking you," I said, keeping my voice in check.
She took in a slow, shaky breath and let it out in a huff. "Anywhere but here."
That had been it - the glove, the challenge. She had played her hand and now she was throwing it, letting me take the lead. I was in too deep to back out now. "You don't have a room, do you."
She said nothing. I felt her shift in her seat, heard the creak of vinyl. The physicality of it was entrancing, simple as it was. But it was still my move.
I slid the keys out of the ignition. "Come inside," I said, my voice echoing a resignation I wouldn't fully recognize until the next morning. "I'll get you a drink."
Not as much alcohol had been involved as one might expect. I felt nearly none of the effects of it the next morning, and apparently neither did the figure who was stirring awake next to me.
She blinked. "The sun is in my eyes."
I nodded. "I'm surprised you didn't wake before now." I lay back again, letting my arm drop across my eyes. It must have been nearing eleven o'clock.
After a few moments of silence I thought she had fallen asleep again, but then she spoke. "It's not the same, is it?"
"No. It's exactly the same."
I had offered to send her off with a bit of breakfast, but it was an empty gesture; she had never eaten in the mornings. She took her time getting dressed. We spoke little, but I watched her, and I was aware that she was watching me. Now that the tension between us had been expelled we seemed foreign to each other somehow, as though a veil had been lifted. Suddenly I was seeing her, strange and naked, untainted by my own impassioned bias.
That feeling was familiar.
"You had a room, didn't you?" I asked, breaking the silence that had haunted us until she once again found herself on my doorstep.
She smiled.
It was almost a sickening feeling, once I was able to think back on it clearly. I had let a lover from my past, one who had made me feel this way before, back into my life just to start it all over again. Past hurts became fuel for that same fire. I felt used, though I'd been lured into the role of the user.
She made me, still makes me, want to use myself as a weapon, to hurt her with myself. That's what this has always been about, for her: earning and receiving punishment. I don't want to be an implement for that, for sex to be about winning a fight.
Or perhaps I do. But not with her, and not by her rules.
I picked up the phone and dialed the first number to come to my fingertips. It rang quite a few times.
"Hello?"
"Hazen."
"Jess." There was a note of relief in his voice. I wondered if he somehow knew that something had happened, though it was more likely he was just glad that I wasn't his mother calling. "How are you?"
"Well enough," I said, carefully. "I'm sorry I neglected to return your call last night. Something came up."
"Oh - that's all right." He might have forgotten about it himself.
"Are you busy?"
"Um, no - I mean, I was out in the garage when you called." He was probably getting engine grease on the phone as we spoke. It was at once endearing and untidy. "Did you have something in mind?"
"I would love to talk. Over brunch?"
"I suppose I haven't eaten yet today…" he mumbled, somewhat distractedly. My guess had been correct. "I need to get cleaned up."
"I'll pick you up in an hour, then."
"All right. I'll see you then."
I hung up the phone, feeling a little lighter than I had before. Perhaps there was no harm in wanting to be the one in control. But if that was the case, I also wanted to be in control of obtaining it.
Fin.
Crit Notes: The most important thing I'm looking for in a crit is for this story is: does the story make sense? Is there anything the characters say or allude to that has you going, "Huh?" If so, please tell me, and if you can, tell me why. Comments about the writing itself are also appreciated, as always. Think it could be handled differently for better effect? Let me know!
Phew. This one's definitely a weight off my shoulders. Now to work on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eternalism's challenge. It'd be nice to finish it tonight so I can have a clear Birthday weekend (woohoo!)
Unhealthy Attraction (Short Story, 3,500 words)
Wakefulness was a long time in coming that morning; sleep came and went in the way only a working man's Sunday can bring. I hadn't closed the drapes the night before as I normally would, and the sunlight that eventually pooled on my neck and face as the morning drew on was my first clue that something was out of place. Then as I took in a breath there was the warmth of skin against mine, and I found myself remembering with a certain resignation that I was not alone.
It was a moment out of time with her lying there next to me. The better part of a year might have been nothing more than a dream that was slipping out of my memory before I could grasp it. After all this time she had come back, and she'd brought the same world with her, one of warm weekend mornings and limbs tangled in my sheets. For a moment I wanted to touch her hair, catch it up in my fingers the way I had what could have been the night before. But it was shorter now, brown tresses barely reaching her chin.
No, I was not alone. And as consciousness slowly returned to me I was starting to remember why.
I would rather that visitors knock to announce their presence, and as many homes do in this English University town my door has a dignified brass knocker. A knocker that is sadly in disuse in favour of a doorbell I have not yet gone to the trouble of disconnecting, and that occasionally startles me when I am trying to write.
Had I been having a particularly inspired day I might have ignored the chime, but it was almost a welcome distraction that afternoon. I took a moment to save my work and made for the front door at a leisurely pace, wondering idly if my visitor would be patient enough to wait for me.
I don't have a great many visitors who drop by unannounced. Only those who don't know me well enough to arrange a visit are likely to do so, and are equally likely to try to sell me something. With a sort of grim pleasure I anticipated making the enterprising individual I found on my doorstep feel guilty for having interrupted a Writer - with an audible capital "W" - as he worked his craft.
What I found there, however, was someone I had known so well that I nearly didn't recognize her. She must have recognized the shock on my face, because she smirked.
"Hello, Jess," she said.
"Amelie." The name sounded foreign. It was fitting. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town," she said in a way that suggested she could have been planning this moment since the day she was born. "I thought I'd drop by."
"You know I don't like unexpected company." I weighted the words carefully. She had won the first round by taking me by surprise. I wasn't about to let her get carried away with it.
Her smirk faded just a little. "I didn't want to talk to you on the phone."
I took in a breath and let it out, waiting just long enough to make her uncomfortable. "Fair enough." I moved aside and gestured for her to come in. "I was about to have a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?"
"You don't like tea," she said, stepping up next to me in the doorway. Her scent was familiar, her closeness intentional.
"Has that ever stopped me from drinking it?" I held her gaze for a moment before moving past her toward the kitchen, letting my hand brush against her shoulder as I did. "I'll put the kettle on. You'll find a coat rack to your left."
It had been less than a day ago that she'd arrived, and even after I gathered my wits that morning it was a little hard to believe. Time seemed to be weighed down by her presence. It had been the same way when we'd been together, more than a year ago and for less than a year all-told.
More than the feeling of her skin or seeing it peek through the folds of bedding, it was the glasses she wasn't wearing that made her look strange and naked. She would have probably thought the same of me, were she awake; she had never been such a slave to them as I was. But then I remembered that she didn't wear glasses anymore. She had seen a laser surgeon, she had said, and had her eyesight corrected.
Now she always looked strange and naked.
"It's not so bad." The cup of tea was cradled between her hands. It was similar to the cup she'd always chosen before, though that one had been broken when I'd moved across the country, not in small part to leave her behind. "It's a little uncomfortable for the week or so afterward, but you can see quite well straight away."
I nodded, still getting used to the plainness of her face without the oval frames. Her cheeks seemed higher, the bones more defined. I wondered whether it might be the shorter hair that was responsible for that. "I doubt it would be at all effective for me."
"Probably not." She took a sip of tea. "You're as blind as a mole."
"But better looking," I said, quickly. I regretted it. It felt too much like something I would have said before.
"I'll give you that."
The conversation was like a twisted game of déjà vu. I held my tongue for a moment and forced myself to drink some tea before I spoke again. "I doubt you drove across the country to pay me empty compliments, Amelie."
"Who is to say they're empty?" She smiled and then pursed her lips for another sip, enjoying the game. The words were familiar, her slight French accent coming to the forefront conspicuously.
"If they're not," I said, slowly, "then perhaps you should reconsider to whom you're paying them."
She set her jaw. "I've considered carefully, thank you."
"Not carefully enough."
Her eyes hardened then, and I took that opportunity to rise from the table and empty the rest of my lukewarm tea into the sink. When I sat down again she smiled at me, but I knew that my point had been taken.
Her skin was almost exactly the same colour as mine, something of a creamy tan that doesn't quite speak of actual exposure to the sun. It was softer, naturally, in a way no amount of care on my part could mimic. Many times I had been struck by how similar we must appear, partly shrouded in bedding. My romantic interests have always been somewhat narcissistic in one way or another, especially with other men; the inflections in speech and mannerisms which I find attractive often closely mirror my own. Amelie seemed to carry it to the next level, as though she could be a mirror image of me as a woman.
There is a certain comfort in narcissism, a familiarity with the aspects of myself that I find pleasing. But for the same reason there is discomfort, a realization that the things I most want to change in others are faults of my own. It is difficult to see what lies in the mirror when one is attempting to remove the plank from one's own eye… then again, what might our mirror image be doing when it can't be seen?
The sleeping form that was lying next to me was very much like me, indeed. But when so much is alike, the few things that defer seem to be somehow less like a compliment.
"This conversation ended a year ago, Amelie."
The afternoon had been lost. I had played the gentle host, let her catch up with me and listened to the story of her life for the past twelve months or so as though it had ever mattered. She might have looked different, but it was the same tale she had always told.
"I invited you in for tea," I continued, trying to gauge her expression as I held her maddeningly level gaze. "You've managed to monopolize my afternoon and encroach upon my evening." I leaned forward and folded my hands neatly on the table. "If you have something to say, then say it."
She didn't speak for a moment. I sat back a little, content to wait. Finally she said, slowly, "I don't have anything in particular to say."
It had been too direct a question for her, of course; answering it would have allowed me too much control. I let out a curt breath. "What a surprise."
Her lips curved into a frown. "If you want me to leave," she said deliberately, "then say as much."
I smiled, feeling a heady sense of vindication as I watched her frown tighten. "I didn't want you to arrive to begin with."
It had happened the same way that night as it had at the end of it, when we had finally parted ways. Fights over trivial things, most often my reluctance to play the role she wanted so badly for me. In many ways she played the same game I had always found myself entwined in, in my relations with others. Like me she found it all a struggle, a fight for dominance and control. She had arrived on my doorstep that day wanting a fight, wanting to rekindle that animosity between us that would ultimately lead to intimacy. She had baited me, and I had once again let myself be reeled in, playing the role she'd scripted for me from the beginning.
I should have known better. I did know better, in fact. But then again, the most attractive attribute someone can exhibit is to want me.
One of the many traits we share, Amelie and I, is our inability to walk away from a good fight. It is in this fashion that I found myself seated across from her in a restaurant later that evening, exchanging tense glances as we waited for our overly attentive waiter to leave us alone so that we could continue our hushed argument.
She was still trying to convince me that her presence here was something of a fluke - either that, or she was trying to convince herself. "Do you really think I would drive a hundred and fifty miles just to see you?" she hissed over her glass of wine.
"Yes."
Amelie blinked, obviously a little taken aback at my uncharacteristically succinct reply. "Why?"
"You're here, aren't you?" I sipped at my own wine, waiting for her to defend herself.
"I told you, I took the train home after visiting maman," she said as though she was speaking to a child.
"And the train leaves you on my doorstep, I take it?"
"It leaves me in town. I wanted to see you."
"Why? Do you not fight enough with your boyfriend at home?"
Her cheeks flushed a little, probably more from anger than embarrassment. I fought back a smirk while she took a generous sip of wine. "No," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't antagonize him enough? I find that hard to believe."
Amazingly, she chose not to retort. I wondered if perhaps I'd hit a little too close to the mark. Instead she said, "What about you, Jess? How is your love life?"
"Have I ever had one?"
"I don't know. Have you?"
I smiled and sat back. "You know I don't believe in love. It's a gimmick contrived for Valentine's day, as far as I'm concerned."
"Your sex life, then," she said, not missing a beat.
"That," I said, leveling her with a gaze over my glass, "is none of your concern."
"Why not? Perhaps I'm concerned that you're not fighting enough with your boyfriend."
"Trust me. We fight often enough."
The cards were on the table, then. I hoped she was jealous.
I should probably have felt guilty that Sunday morning, but guilt is one of the many emotions I will admit to not fully understanding. I suppose there was an element of regret, of anticipated hurt in knowing that the sins of the flesh I had participated in the night before could bring about conflict with someone I care for. I was caught up enough in my own thoughts that it wasn't until I'd been lying awake for some time that my thoughts turned to him.
Hazen was his name, and he was quite possibly the person most unlike the woman who was sleeping next to me on the planet. He was so different than the people I typically see that my attraction to him was something of a mystery. Soft spoken, not exactly eloquent, and utterly distractible, traits I would swear that would drive me mad - and quite often did, as a matter of fact.
There were things about him that fit the pattern, of course. He was intelligent, and handsome, and enjoyed physical contact. And of course there was that element of animosity between us, the playful bickering that had begun to pattern itself into our conversations. On my part, at least, it is deliberate; I am testing him, pushing him, trying to determine where his boundaries lie. The difference between Hazen and others I have been with, particularly Amelie, is that he is yielding to my advances, letting me be in control without contest. To be honest I find it difficult to know how to respond; so I continue to push, and wonder if and when he will break and push back.
Perhaps this indiscretion would be the breaking point, though my and his concerns about it most likely wouldn't match. He would be more concerned with my supposed betrayal of his trust, or the possibility that I somehow care less for him because I allowed this to happen. I don't feel that this is the issue; my feelings for him are independent of my feelings and actions toward anyone else.
I was more concerned about what this event brings to light about me.
"Where am I leaving you?"
She looked over at me sharply from the passenger seat. I'd taken her by surprise with the sudden change in topic. "What do you mean?"
"I'm tired, Amelie. I'm going home to bed. You're not coming with me." I knew she would take it as a challenge. I saw her stiffen out of the corner of my eye.
"You presume too much."
"I presume you have a hotel room," I countered, finding myself turning onto my own street. I'd let the argument go on for too long before cutting her off. "Unless you've become overly accustomed to street corners since I moved away."
She swore, a word in French that was very familiar.
"Such language," I chastised, risking a glance her way. "You've kissed your own mother with that mouth?"
"I've kissed less pleasant individuals with it." She paused for a moment as we rolled to a stop in my driveway. I left the motor running, waiting.
There was a feeling of anticipation nestled in my stomach. I avoided her gaze. I knew what was happening, where this and every argument we'd had that evening would eventually lead. It felt as though my fate had been sealed from her first "hello"; I would find myself mimicking the words and actions of a ghost from a year past. She was like a recurring dream, one I had to follow through to the end before I could escape.
We were both users; her specialty, though, was in how to be used.
"Is this all I ever was to you?"
Her voice startled me as much as the catch in it did. I risked a glance and saw that she was blinking back tears, a resolute expression on her face. Even as I found myself getting angry I wondered if I was second-guessing her somehow, if she was actually being sincere.
"Yes," I said, snapping off the ignition for effect. I let the keys jangle for a moment in the silence. "Yes, Amelie, all you ever were was a fun piece of conversation and a decoration for my arm at parties. Is that what you were hoping I'd say?"
She let out a bitter laugh. "You're a shallow bastard."
"Yes. I am."
"Why have you shut your engine off, then?" She gestured to the dash before making a swipe of her eyes. Flawless. "Planning on having me stay to decorate your bedroom one last time?"
"You haven't told me where I'm taking you," I said, keeping my voice in check.
She took in a slow, shaky breath and let it out in a huff. "Anywhere but here."
That had been it - the glove, the challenge. She had played her hand and now she was throwing it, letting me take the lead. I was in too deep to back out now. "You don't have a room, do you."
She said nothing. I felt her shift in her seat, heard the creak of vinyl. The physicality of it was entrancing, simple as it was. But it was still my move.
I slid the keys out of the ignition. "Come inside," I said, my voice echoing a resignation I wouldn't fully recognize until the next morning. "I'll get you a drink."
Not as much alcohol had been involved as one might expect. I felt nearly none of the effects of it the next morning, and apparently neither did the figure who was stirring awake next to me.
She blinked. "The sun is in my eyes."
I nodded. "I'm surprised you didn't wake before now." I lay back again, letting my arm drop across my eyes. It must have been nearing eleven o'clock.
After a few moments of silence I thought she had fallen asleep again, but then she spoke. "It's not the same, is it?"
"No. It's exactly the same."
I had offered to send her off with a bit of breakfast, but it was an empty gesture; she had never eaten in the mornings. She took her time getting dressed. We spoke little, but I watched her, and I was aware that she was watching me. Now that the tension between us had been expelled we seemed foreign to each other somehow, as though a veil had been lifted. Suddenly I was seeing her, strange and naked, untainted by my own impassioned bias.
That feeling was familiar.
"You had a room, didn't you?" I asked, breaking the silence that had haunted us until she once again found herself on my doorstep.
She smiled.
It was almost a sickening feeling, once I was able to think back on it clearly. I had let a lover from my past, one who had made me feel this way before, back into my life just to start it all over again. Past hurts became fuel for that same fire. I felt used, though I'd been lured into the role of the user.
She made me, still makes me, want to use myself as a weapon, to hurt her with myself. That's what this has always been about, for her: earning and receiving punishment. I don't want to be an implement for that, for sex to be about winning a fight.
Or perhaps I do. But not with her, and not by her rules.
I picked up the phone and dialed the first number to come to my fingertips. It rang quite a few times.
"Hello?"
"Hazen."
"Jess." There was a note of relief in his voice. I wondered if he somehow knew that something had happened, though it was more likely he was just glad that I wasn't his mother calling. "How are you?"
"Well enough," I said, carefully. "I'm sorry I neglected to return your call last night. Something came up."
"Oh - that's all right." He might have forgotten about it himself.
"Are you busy?"
"Um, no - I mean, I was out in the garage when you called." He was probably getting engine grease on the phone as we spoke. It was at once endearing and untidy. "Did you have something in mind?"
"I would love to talk. Over brunch?"
"I suppose I haven't eaten yet today…" he mumbled, somewhat distractedly. My guess had been correct. "I need to get cleaned up."
"I'll pick you up in an hour, then."
"All right. I'll see you then."
I hung up the phone, feeling a little lighter than I had before. Perhaps there was no harm in wanting to be the one in control. But if that was the case, I also wanted to be in control of obtaining it.
Fin.
Crit Notes: The most important thing I'm looking for in a crit is for this story is: does the story make sense? Is there anything the characters say or allude to that has you going, "Huh?" If so, please tell me, and if you can, tell me why. Comments about the writing itself are also appreciated, as always. Think it could be handled differently for better effect? Let me know!
Phew. This one's definitely a weight off my shoulders. Now to work on
eternalism's challenge. It'd be nice to finish it tonight so I can have a clear Birthday weekend (woohoo!)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Why, hello, Jess.
Date: 2005-07-08 04:44 am (UTC)Okay, crit time = nitpicking first, overall comments at the end.
"You know I don't like unexpected company." I weighted the words carefully. She had won the first round by taking me by surprise. I wasn't about to let her get carried away with it.
Lovely flow to the words here, but since this is the first major reference to the dynamic between the characters, the intro of the implicit conflict feels a little abrupt - maybe if you just put in a more direct reference, or segued the two sentences: She had won the first round by taking me by surprise, but I wasn't about to let her get carried away with it.
Because I'm familliar with Jess, at least, I can "hear" him very easily, but the narration feels a little stilted in a few places - so formal that it detracts from the point you're trying to make - Perhaps there was no harm in wanting to be the one in control. But if that was the case, I also wanted to be in control of obtaining it. is a good example here. I see what you're saying, but the language distances it to the point that it gets a little awkward.
There is a certain comfort in narcissism, a familiarity with the aspects of myself that I find pleasing.
I love this sentence. I love the entire paragraph, but it's a little long to quote. No crit here, just utter adoration. It gives me warm fuzzy Oscar Wilde chills.
Now, notes on the crit notes: :D
Your timeline flows nicely, though the first "I woke up and remembered" feels a little bit strained. After that though, the fic seems to hit it's stride, and the vignette form that the fic takes suits it perfectly.
Though you allude to a lot of history between the characters, you do a nice job of giving enough information without crossing the line into infodumpland. It seems more like there's a lot of history between the characters visible within the dynamic (ie, the glasses vignette) that the reader doesn't necessarily have to understand in the minutae to "get" the story itself.
So, yes, it makes sense. :D Congratulations on not bashing your brains out on this one. Yay!
Hello, indeed.
Date: 2005-07-10 11:33 am (UTC)*snort* Good to know. Jess does have a distinct voice.
I see what you're saying, but the language distances it to the point that it gets a little awkward.
I agree. It's funny that you point out that line, because I never really liked it - but somehow I couldn't wrap my mind around how else to phrase it. So I left it there. Any suggestions as to how to make it say what it needs to, and sound more natural? Seeing as how it's the last line, it'd be nice if it was succinct and quirky, but delivered a firm message. And while I'm at it, I want a pony.
I'm glad the narcissism rambling and the glasses thing worked. To be honest, the moment when I knew the fic wasn't going to crumble in my hands was when that "strange and naked" line happened. It's not something that *I* would write. I'm not bold enough to phrase something like that. But Jess is.
You should join
Anyway, thanks for sitting through this thing and giving me some feedback on it. I think I'm going to really play around with it and try to come up with a solid second draft, once all of the comments on