CruelLadyScorpio's profile . CruelLadyScorpio's homepage
 |
| CruelLadyScorpio |
on Fri 13 Feb 04, 5:18 AM to CruelLadyScorpio's blog.
I pick up my keys and the crisp, full envelope, head for the door. It's 4am. I'm tempted to light a cigarette as a crutch to help me down the street, the way you always do on leaving, but decide right-things deserve to be honoured without.
I slide the key into the door to close it without breaching the peace, and breathe a small sigh of relief as the lock clicks quietly shut. God is in the details. The neighbour's cat slides fluidly through the gap under the stair window like he was waiting. Black cat with big green eyes, coils round my ankles a few times and stares openly up at me. I'm so tempted to pick him up, give him what he wants, pet him, hug him to my chest and weep silently into his warm, black cat fur, but he deserves better than my weakness. Cats do. Neither fag-crutch nor cat- crutch will make this walk any easier, anyway.
As I step out into the street, I start to cry. Not a single light is showing, and what I really want to do is yowl, howl, wake everyone up and ... what possible good would that do? The cold, empty windows stare down at me remorselessly, waiting. I'm doing the right-thing, at a time when those who were going to die tonight have died. I feel awfully alone. Mortal, for once.
The air's so cold it dries the tear-tracks on my face, tightening them like scars. The post box label says its collection isn't until 5.30pm. I decide to put off the moment by walking down to the post office itself. Procrastinate. Perhaps an earlier collection, get this over quicker. Only the odd taxi and bakery van at this hour, cross the street, and faced with the maw of the post box. Big, black, funereal letters that say '12.30pm'. That means you'll probably get it first post tomorrow. I feel sick, and start crying again, and then realise how ridiculous I am, standing in front of a post office with tears dripping from the end of my nose. Big, strong, dangerous domme is off today - may I suggest the chicken with the kill-me eyes?
I look at the envelope. Heavy cream paper and a wax seal on the back with my initial. You've only had one like this before, you'll know what it means before you open it. I torture myself by imagining that look on your face. The 'not-nice-pain' look. On the front is your name and address in my open, confident, cursive, forward-sloping hand - the handwriting of an optimist aka an egotistical fool. I think about your handwriting; small, erratic, spikes and darts and curves and loops, with the tails of the 'Ds' 'Ps' 'Gs' and the like leaning left, right, curling back and spearing themselves ...
I run my thumb over the pleasing shape of the wax seal one final time, and drop the letter in the box. As I walk back, a resin figure in the window of a shop catches my eye. It's surprisingly good - Pan, legs crossed, neat little black hooves, playing his pipes. A dimwit bird, deceived by a street light into thinking it's time to get up, starts some experimental trills and runs. A Piper at the Gates of a False Dawn. I stop crying and smile wryly. It's the kind of figure you'd adore; apparently fey, charming and pretty, but look more closely and the eyes are sharp, cunning, elemental. I miss that. You. Already and so much.
My stomach makes an alarming growl, and I can't remember when I last ate something. I realise how desperately tired I am, that I need to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head and just hide from the right things, the nasty things, like a child does or an animal does or you does.
Tomorrow I'm going back to the shop to see how much the piper costs. I want him now. Even if I have to pay in installments, I owe it to myself, to everyone, and yes, you, to call the tune of the true dawn.
Edited Fri 13 Feb 04, 3:57 PM by CruelLadyScorpio
