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| For Katie | |
| By dante8 | |||||
| 03 February 2007 | |||||
Well, I know this girl. I was in love with her. I don't know if I still am or not, but I wrote this at my lowest period, when she tried to convince me it wasn't going to happen. Let the mind of the eye focus on this globe, this marvellous marble set in the velvet sky. The colours in it move, white across blue and green. Now we move towards it, at breakneck speed, almost as if we’re going to collide with it. We accelerate towards it and break through the clouds, racing the sunlight. Now we are rushing onwards, toward a house. The roof vanishes, melting before us like smoke. And now we come to a sudden halt, and watch these two people. They are sitting on a cream sofa; in the opposite corner of the room, a vast television screen is black and seems to stare across the room. To the right of it is a fireplace, in which a fire is burning. It’s a real fire; there is the deep, almost unheard roaring of the flames and the snap of the dying logs. One of the two sitting people is upright. From here, a bird’s eye view, we can see that his hair is black and sticks up oddly. He is looking downwards, at whatever is cradled in his lap. He is not moving very much, and it would be possible to surmise that he is asleep. A body extends from under his gaze, and we assume that what he is looking at is the body’s head. As we move around, to look at them from where the television is, we see that he is indeed cradling her head gently in his lap. From here, we see he is sleepy but not asleep, he is too busy gazing at this young lady in his lap. Her head rests on his outside leg and her neck is supported by his inside; her long amber hair has spilled over his lap and, where the firelight touches, is transmuted to copper. Her face is turned towards his stomach. Her left arm is draped above her head; her right rests by her lips. She breathes deeply, and moves slightly, trying to get comfortable. He strokes a lock of hair back from her forehead and hooked it behind her ear. He then strokes her ear gently, never looking away from her shut eyes. He rests his hand on the top of her head, lightly stroking her forehead with his thumb. She rubs her head against it and he stops, not wanting to wake her. She shifts again, unable to find a comfortable spot. Her eyes flutter open, and he is caught once more by her gaze. She was a tough girl, by all accounts, but when she was like this, having just woken up, she looked like a newborn kitten. So he tells her so. She purrs sleepily and he smiles. She looks up and smiles back and we sense that this is an ongoing joke between the two, something totally undecipherable to anyone watching. ‘You sleep well, kitty-kat?’ he asks, looking down at her eyes, which are already drifting shut. They snap open, and she prods him hard in the stomach before he has time to react. ‘Ouch,’ he muttered, rubbing it. ‘That could have really hurt, you know.’ ‘Don’t call me “kitty-kat” then,’ she retorted. ‘You know I hate it.’ ‘Yup,’ he said, and grinned widely. ‘So why do you still do it?’ She shifted position, now lying on her back and looking up at him. He shrugged. ‘Because.’ ‘Because what?’ she said. ‘That’s not even a coherent argument. Come on, I credit you with at least enough intelligence to do that...’ He poked his tongue out at her, and said, ‘Well, if you weren't so darn pretty, I wouldn't be concentrating so much-’ ‘On me?’ ‘Yeah, how did you guess?’ There was a brief suggestion of a smile about his lips now. ‘Because you always say something like that. Honestly, Jonathan, don’t you ever get tired of complimenting me?’ |
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