A Dalliance in Trerrylain
Water dripping from a fair female’s hands. Her form, of most ideal and aesthetic. Obsidian hair, shimmering at shoulder length— forgive me, it is not of my usual manner to talk of some of my more sentimental memories. Fond moments I oft think back to at the most random of times. I suspect that I’m not privy to such occurrences. One may be performing some task- of which the degree of importance, substantial or minimal, is of little concern- when memory is provoked. Nature has gifted mankind with the ability of memory, without which the species would have perished long ago. There is no man alive who would question memory as vital in mans functionality.
Processions of associative and imaginative thought that rekindle recessed memories. Related and sometimes seemingly unrelated triggers can activate the senses in a particular way that resurfaces memories. Whether the nature of the memory is one of fondness, guilt, humility, joy, or any such matter, is entirely dependent on one’s own perspective of the memory in question.
Example: A woman of such artistry, skin finely crafted with utmost care. My volition was struck with awe at the mere sight of her. It was through some perchance of luck that I’d found myself able to gaze at her visage. I was walking along a well beaten path when I’d suddenly come over with a bought of thirst. I found this particularly odd seeing it’d not been a conscious concern as of then, but the most spontaneous of needs are often the most vexing of wills. I had decided to skew my path a bit in search of a stream of water as there was not a town for miles. It did not take me long before I’d come upon a lake of most vivid sapphire, light reflecting a dull ivory essence. The waters light trembled with the roll of the waves; offset by rich blue that shone its haze.
Amid this redolent sight was a woman, young, with black hair, fair and clear skin, and without any clothes. Her form was of most trance inspiring beauty. I stood for what seemed like hours, admiring her. Though, I know this valuation of time to be highly overestimated and inaccurate. Perhaps time had stopped, if only briefly, and I was the only one who’d had any cognizance of the event. Whatever the case, I watched her, standing in the water, presumably to bath herself. No action indicated such, as she was standing still, waist deep in the pool of water. A vague sense of mint became apparent as I gradually adjusted to her captivating allure.
I’d noticed that mentha had taken around the lake. The scent was not overwhelming but pleasingly potent. And the cool, aerial mist, runoff from the sapphire pool, gave a refreshing invigoration. The mint plant, in its bright inviting green, enveloped the sapphires perimeter; tall, shade-providing trees acting as cover for me from discovery. Previously too enamored, I started to examine her more closely. As I said before, she was waist deep in the water; a green haze filled the background. She merely stood there, looking at her reflection in a curious nature, as if trying to work out a problem. Though not with intense focus as some problems cause one to do indicated with a compression of the brows. Her countenance was fairly relaxed- eyes gently open, slightly unfastened mouth. She toyed with her reflection, letting the impact reverberate, and then held her hand up a few inches in front of her. She looked at it for a moment and gently wiped her hand across her face, slowly running down and holding it there to enjoy the feeling. She glanced to her side and made her way to shore. I watched as she rose to the shallow levels of water. I did not watch with lasciviousness, but with appreciation. I waited a moment after she’d clothed herself and left before I took to the pool to satiate my thirst.
After satisfying my thirst and filling my flask, I made my way back to my path, stopping only once to procure a small bit of mint for my travels. I walked along my path for a time before I’d come upon a town. The sign placed before the town border had messages of greetings for travelers, and below that was the town’s name: Trerrylain.
Despite the sign, I saw no indication of a town yet, only forest and landscape. As I stood at the sign, I took a look around at the landscape. To my left was a flat plane of green. In the distance were two hills layered by depth. Pine trees littering both. I make it a point that there were only two hills in view, for beyond that was, as far as I could tell, more flat landscape and roaming fog. Patches of white and faded lilac bruised the grey sky above. An old wooden fence, darkened from the rain, paralleled the road, separating the road I traveled and the large stretch of land. To my right, was a mountainside of deep green pine trees settled in dark brown dirt, shaded by the mountain’s height and placement of the sun. Rogue brush and grassy weeds were organically placed among the trees and there was a small irrigation ditch that too was parallel to the road, and it had a paltry stream of water coursing.
Ahead of me was a sharp right turn in the road. I followed past the turn and saw where town began. The city was darkened- or rather, darkly shaded – from the rain that had come over it recently. I’d deduced it was fairly recent, indicated by that distinct fresh rain smell. The various shops and businesses were never larger than a single story- their length and width was reasonably suited to each establishment.
I walked along one lengthy stretch of road, used for commuting from place to place. To the left and right of me were shops, stores, markets,- what have you- all lined facing each other, parallel to the road. Intermixed with the establishments were roads that lead out into these sectioned areas reserved for houses that branched off into other housing areas; each home allotted with its own yard space and a fence if need be. Now not all yards were of equal size, of course, but there were never an overabundance of houses to the point where the land became saturated. The forest was always well pronounced and each house was placed apart just so, to where one could have a sight of trees on a mountain, and also civilization just barely out in the distance. It was detached enough to give an essence of serenity, but not isolation. Trees were very prominent everywhere and everything had an aged look to it. The blend of environment and civilization was very comforting. The fresh mid-day air at a cool temperature, and everything dampened by rain, truly this was home.
After a moment of appreciating the town, I’d decided to stop at an inn as I’d been travelling for some time and had grown a tad weary. I was not seeking one for long when I spotted one. Approaching the building, I pushed open the door and saw a small interior room. The walls were white, though with the color selected for the drapes, the room took on a more subdued grey.
The wall opposite the entrance was where the receptionist desk stood. She was scribbling away at some papers. I was approaching the woman to inquire about the cost of a room when I saw someone emerge from the hallway. I’d paused my walking without thinking as I saw the man emerge from the hallway. Immediately I was stricken with a sense of remembrance. I can even recount my expression with clarity upon seeing him. I’m able to do this because the man shared it as we, at first, took a casual, polite notice of one another- as people often do in public, for, it’s polite to acknowledge another person’s existence and it also invariably becomes an unconscious habit of one’s early on. It is generally good to familiarize yourself with an environment and take stock of your surroundings, as this helps assess any dangers. This habitual assessment coupled with the polite acknowledgement is what led us to meet.
I recognized the man as my old friend, Mark. The sight of him brought back memories of warm affection. “Rob!” he called at me in exclamation of fondness. We approached and embraced, as friends who've not seen each other in sometime often do.
Mark was always a man of some vice, currently it was alcohol. So it was at the local pub where we’d decided to continue our conversation. It was a little past mid-day when we entered the bar. A faint smell of cigarette smoke grazed my senses. The low humming of peoples conversations could be heard. There were a series of booths lined along the walls and a space for the bartender was fitted in a pink colored alcove in the wall to the left. The space had shelves of various liquors.
The floor of the bar was carpeted with a white rug; as white as a lamb. The windows were tinted yellow – sans drapes. Other than the windows, there seemed to be no other source of light, yet the illumination was somehow fluorescent. The booths, which were lined back to back along the walls, were each sectioned off, separated by large sheets of wood or some other sturdy material, painted white.
The hum of conversation was interspersed with pangs of drunken voices, hollering at frequent and infrequent times-- often mid sentence, which is common when alcohol is involved; one of the side effects being the inability to judge ones volume with regard to those around.
We walked over to the bartender. A young fellow, late twenties, short cut blonde hair and wearing glasses. “Hello gentlemen, what will it be tonight?” he asked in a calm yet assertive cadence. He smiled that mask-like smile. The one everyone wears for politeness sake. Yet it seemed a touch more genuine coming from this fellow. Maybe it was the way he carried himself with such calmness, or the way he spoke with such confidence. Mark had asked for a drink and, as the bartender was fixing it, I found myself in a bit of a quandary. I was never much of a drinker, so I was unsure what to order.
The bartender- as any good bartender will do- assisted me with this matter.
“Well, personally I've always enjoyed the Violet Gloss. It’s non-alcoholic but I have a fondness for it.” He said with prominent sincerity. I nodded with vigor. A good bartender can act as a friend, able to offer comfort in less-than-satisfying times. Learning to work people and situations in the way a good bartender does is something many aspire for. The man fixed our drinks with some rapidity and we headed to our booth. I was sampling the drinks contents along the way and it was during this time that I became aware of the clear air around where Mark had chosen to sit. He’d chosen a booth located in a lower level of the bar. Perhaps it was a cellar that was renovated to accommodate the business.
I took a seat next to Mark and our conversation proceeded. We talked of recent ventures, exchanged amusing anecdotes. I gradually was struck with flooding embers, burning fond memories on me. I remembered how good it felt to have a friend beside you. Early in our conversation, he inquired what I was doing traveling here.
“Some weeks ago,” I started, “I was working well into the early morning on a paper detailing my study of Corvus corax- the common raven. It was during this time I was overcome with a spell of absence. Quite a profound sensation, I assure you. My volition held with a deep, abstract malaise. I did not quite know what to do with myself. After a considerable deal of meditation I realized this echo that’d spilled over was the result of neglect. Neglect of my substantive ambitions which had surfaced. So, since that day, I've been travelling to pursue my passion in botany. My uncle, Dr. Garrett Scott, works as a botanist on an island off the coast of hollow peaks, so I plan to visit him sometime in my travels.”
I sipped on my drink, having found myself parched after talking. I then asked Mark what he’d been up to, glancing from my drink to see his jaunty grin. Mark shined a smile and then went into an interesting account of one of his ventures.
“Now, I’m not a gambling man, but I do like games of chance. And I like them because, in certain games, no matter your level of skill, if the cards are set up against you, you’re guaranteed to lose. Take solitaire for instance. Now I was not a gambling man, but my affinity for games of chance, however coincidentally extended to gambling. So sometimes I’d indulge in such activities. Of course, I know every time I did so that my odds of winning were deferred to luck but that is what drew me to them. One day while playing one of these games, I’d had an inalienable streak of good fortune. I’d attained an entire months’ severance pay in the span of 20 minutes. This good fortune was not met with docility or complacency. It came to the point where the owners of the establishment that I was deriving the money from came to offer me another game of chance in the form of a blunt beating instrument, a burlap sack, and a rope. As I said before, games of chance can be thrilling, but out running two gangly thugs in the middle of the night is not an endeavor I intended to pursue. Eventually they’d exhausted themselves, probably under the assumption that this was the only time I’d fled for my life in pursuit of pleasures. Finding nowhere else to turn to, I found refuge in a nearby church. Having only a pitiful sum of money to my name, I approached the church priest and, on my knees, confessed every sin I’d committed on this earth. Every transgression, every illicit action, every impure deed – into the ears of this priest. After Id’ finished, he looked at me with a glimmer in his eye and said “Dear son, you are forgiven.” Having gotten that out of the way, I asked about using the church as a shelter for the night. He agreed and I found myself a spot in the corner that I’d picked out prior to confession.”
Mark and I talked at length for some time. I gradually lost awareness of specificity. My sentences now like threads of consciousness rather than something with composition. This is not uncommon occurrence between people who've grown with a familiarity to one another. Friends alike, through body language and other variables, decipher with effortless rapidity each other’s messages. This was no different.
The event was washed over in revelry and we talked for quite a while. At some point, a friend of Mark’s joined the group. I found him to be amiable and we struck a friendship. The remainder of time was quite pleasant and the friend, whose name was Kaiser, was very helpful in escorting me to the exit when Mark threw his glass at a nearby patron, exclaiming the words “Sham! Charlatan! Chicanery!”
Mark had jutted from his seated position, readying his stance for an altercation, but before that prospect could come to fruition, Kaiser elided Mark by the nape of his jacket – not unlike one would do with a dog by its collar – and we three progressed out of the bar.
Exiting the bar, I’d noticed the sky had gained a peach hue. As I trailed behind Kaiser, I detected the faint scent of huckleberries. And, I’d not noticed it before due to the bars tamed lighting scheme, but I had the chance to appreciate his cobalt violet jacket. It was very modest in design. Also it had two thick black lines looping around the cuffs. I mention that little detail because it is something that happened to attain my attention at the time. I've always had an affinity for stripes and circumferential lines.
We progressed around to the back of the building, in an attempt to flee. We headed down a road, along a corridor of homes. Trees and unencumbered landscape cradled each home with seclusion. Finally we stopped after a bit. Mark, no longer guarded by Kaiser, leaned against a wooden fence. Mark, with his hands clasped behind his head for comfort, stared at the orange sky.
After a moment of this, I remembered my original directive that I’d strayed so far from. As I was pondering this, Kaiser spoke “Well I suppose we should get to our prior engagement. Mark?”
Mark glanced over to him. “Well, I’m not sure. Rob, are you doing anything or…?” Mark said, turning to me.
I told him of my need to resume travel, so we bid our farewells and Mark informed me of a shorter route to my destination and directed me to a pathway at the edge of town that goes through the forest, similar to the one I used when I arrived.
So I began on my way. I traveled down the forest path admiring the orange sky, leafless, dark brown trees, and discarded foliage bedding the soft earth. I walked for a while before the dirt path halted abruptly, leaving me facing untamed forest. I could either turn back and follow the alternate road or stray off the beaten path. I chose the latter, putting faith in luck, and headed down a left wise direction. It was not that different from an established path.
I walked for some time before I came upon a bleached-pink rose bush that seemed to stretch into a thicket of trees. I stopped to pick one and nestled it in my breast pocket after dethorning it. I've always enjoyed the thought the fact that roses have thorns. The duality of a rose is one of fascination to me.
As I was admiring the roses, I’d heard a commotion to my left. Turning quickly, I saw a woman’s face peeking at me and she was partially hidden by a large tree. She merely stared with a casual nature, not being of any particular visceral emotion. Her disposition best resembled warm interest. Her slightly open mouth and inquisitive eyes struck me with such virile I was blushing. My peripheral vision caught another important detail. The woman’s bare shoulder, arm, and collar bone were visible to me and the side of her bare leg could be seen, unsheathed by the tree. This woman was nude, and my countenance made no effort to disavow that information, gaining a slightly deeper shade of pink.
I noticed the rose bush seemed to act as encirclement for her. An organic barrier of sorts that spiraled out, clockwise from the tree. As I was processing this, I felt a faint sense of recognition. It grew exponentially with only a fraction of a second as I realized this woman- the woman before me- was the beautiful woman I’d seen earlier, bathing in the river. Her eyes, so innocent. Sun rays lancing through the branches onto her form. Her hair: shimmering, glimmering, glow enlightenment with sun striking her hair in amorphic patterns like water reflecting light. She stared at me as I did at her. We exchanged beaming smiles, yet I as the only one blushing. Despite apparently being comfortable with my presence, she still hid herself from full view.
“Do you like roses?” she asked without the expected awkward tremble, and with a dulcet quality. I hesitated at first, my mind not immediately registering it, and gave my answer. “Yes.” I affirmed. Her smile seemed to pierce my heart deeper when I answered. Perhaps it was the subtle downward tilt she gave after my reply that caused this reaction in me; the way it seemed to vaunt her cute features.
Her eyes looked to me, next at the roses, and then she did something not of my expectation- not that I was capable of expectation at that moment, for my state of being was engulfed in the experiential. Emerging from the tree, her form fully delineated, she walked with a delicacy over to the extensive line of roses. She leaned forward, resting her hands on just above her knees, examining the roses. After brief perusal, she extended her hand to obtain one. As she plucked one, I stood hypnotized by the soft ethereal glow about her. The earths rust colored leaves, bare and dying trees, and an amber sky with wispy clouds, and in the center of it all, was her, in the process of dethorning the rose in hand. Her form of intense loveliness. Her skin was a healthy shade, like snow with oranges and peaches. Her short-cut hair as that of deepest midnight. Her eyes beamed mesmeric beauty. Her smile sent rich emotion through my chest.
She approached, intending the rose for me. She’d seen the rose in my breast pocket and was ready to put her rose next to it but paused and gave me a look as if she were waiting to see if I’d had any objection. Seeing that I’d not backed away or given any nuance of opposition, she nestled it next to my rose. When she withdrew her hand, I heard a dripping sound. This was nothing of conscious alarm until I glanced down to appreciate the rose she’d just placed and I’d noticed a few splotches of blood on my jacket, right near the roses.
My vision traced to her hand. I, concurrently as she, noticed she’d pricked her fingers and blood was the result. The leaves below her hand were reddened. She lifted her wounded hand to her face to examine the cuts. Not having any cloth to subside the blood, she protracted her tongue and ran it along her fingers. She did this for the few stray drops that bled their way down but stopped short of the cuts themselves.
She gave a look at her hand, blood still idly forming, and stuck her hand out near my mouth. I noticed there were two cuts, one on her index finger and the other on her thumb. I glanced to her, unsure what to do. She merely looked at me with a smile. What a delicate smile. I opened my mouth a modicum and she, without even a trace of haste in her movement, edulcorated the blood from her fingertips. Her hands smelled of mint.
Slowly drawing her hand, she took a step closer, pressing her bare body against me and I was inadvertently backed against a tree. She gave me an inquisitive, light hearted look. Her chest firmly pressed against mine, she began to speak. “Is it not amusing how a rose can damage you?”
This comment sent electricity through me, as if the shock of a galvanic battery had been applied to my person. This comment was remarkably similar in thought to my own. She then asked me a follow up question of which I thought was odd.
“Would you like to attend a small party with me?”
Despite the very surreal nature of the whole event that’d transpired thus far, I was still somewhat taken aback at this inquiry. Perhaps it was due to it being such a blunt request from a complete stranger that caused such a feeling. Regardless, I nodded and she beamed a cheerful infectious smile.
She turned to her little hiding tree and tapped her delicate feet over to it. Tucked near the tree was her set of clothes. I watched as she put on each garment.
Once assembled, she returned and stood before me, and looked at me with that simper of hers, holding her hands in front of her, as if waiting for something.
“My name is Sheila.” She spoke, in that mellow cadence, burrowing and reverberating and etching itself.
“What beauty resides in your name. I’m Rob.” I replied.
“Well Robert, a talking point to pass the time…”
She held me by the hand and led the way to the destination of this party she’d mentioned.
“What are you doing looking for roses in such a great big forest?” she said, finishing her sentence fragment.
“Actually, that was wholly accidental. Pleasing, but nonetheless…”
“Nonetheless what?” she asked.
“Hmm? Oh, sorry, I guess that sentence sort of just trailed off.” I apologized.
“Similar to anything else?” she inquired. “What do you mean?” I asked, curious.
“Well it certainly was not your intention that you came upon the roses and, by affiliation, myself.”
“It wasn't.” I replied.
“Ah. So, question: Which is of a measurable sum more to you in sentiment, the roses or me?” she said in a jocund manner, using a pause and laughter to punctuate the sentence. I laughed along with her.
“Do you know how long infinity is?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well,” she paused here to laugh a bit and continued.
“Well actually, infinity is very short.”
I was curious when she said this.
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, think of infinity as a continuous clock, then infinity is unfathomable. But, if you think of it as a fractional digit, then it is manageable. Take a tenth of a second, represented as 0.1. One tenth of a second can be shortened to one hundredth of a second, represented as 0.01, and then to one thousandth, written as 0.001, on and on and on. Alternatively, 0.10th of a second can be raised to 0.100th. From there to 0.1000th, and so on and so on. So every second, we are watching as infinity passes by.”
Here she ceased walking and merely stood for a moment. I wondered what this was about. Then after a moment, she asked “Did you notice?” with smile on her face.
I paused a moment, clueless. Then I realized the joke and we shared a laugh.
We’d not walked for long before we arrived at the beginning of a path that Sheila said was the one to the party. Sure enough, down the road I could see the outlines of what appeared to be a castle. This assertion based on the vague outline of it id’ seen in the distance was confirmed once we reached the castle gates. The structure was a Victorian gothic country house. The bricks were slate gray and appeared perpetually dampened.
A black iron fence surrounding the house was bent and corrugated by time and discarded gates lie near the entrance, unhinged. No signs of rust though. Just behind the fence on either sides of the entrance, two thin, dead trees acted as an archway. The yard, like the forest, was paved with decaying leaves and a serpent-like pathway. The house Sheila had taken me to was quite large in length more than Height. It was a single story Structure and I’d noticed ivy was beginning to creep up along the walls.
Sheila held my hand, swinging her other one in motion with her steps. She bore a cheerful smile upon her face. We were halfway up the path to the house when we saw the castle front door open. From it was a man. I could not see his face clearly at that moment and he was adjusting his cuffs as he stood at the door, holding it open with his foot. He was somewhat occupied and fixated with his cuffs as he was walking along to the right end of the castle and reached halfway there before he’d noticed us. As he looked at us, I recognized the man as Kaiser. What was this strange turn of fate? Kaiser, with an arm waving us over, shouted to me, “Rob, I’m glad you could make it!”
Sheila gave me a brief smile as she sprinted to Kaiser, hanging on to me as she did but I was able to keep pace with her. She eventually slowed to a halt, panting, as we neared within reach of Kaiser. Kaiser wore a cobalt violet coat with long black pants that had such delicate malleation. There is a certain appeal to the way excess fabric on pants form, and it was present on his attire. The hem of his pants resembled a sepal for his black shoes; how well the two transitioned.
Kaiser gave a welcoming gesture with open arms. “Rob, it’s been too long!” he said playfully.
“Let me show you around.” Kaiser continued, putting a hand around me and outstretching the other to exhibit the manor. We walked along the side of the house. As we reached the backyard I noticed the fence did not cover the perimeter of the backyard but instead ran only a dozen or so paces before slightly curving inward and stopping. It left a significant gap between the two ends of the houses. And, through some odd cognition of thoughts, my mind was flashed with an image of open arms and, for some reason or another, I linked this thought with the shape of the fence with the front yard gate being the starting point and the fence wrapping around and holding the sides of the house, like an embrace. As this metaphoric comparison reached its development, Kaiser directed my attention to his backyard. The backyard, unlike the front, had a decline and at the foot of the decline, stood two figures.
At the edge of the property, still with moderate length away from the forest fringe, stood an old deceased tree – oak, I believe- with a swing attached to one of its most extended branches. There were no other items in the backyard other than the tree and swing. The ground, paved with dying leaves.
My eyes turned back to the two figures that previously were at the far end of the yard, near the oak tree, and were approaching. Their distance was not too great to hinder any clarity and I saw that one of them was my dear friend Mark. Mark was dressed in a teal velvet jacket, buttoned, and black pants, sans shoes. He’d had his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.
The other person, a woman, was dressed in a white long sleeve sweater of which the sleeves were too long for her, over passing her hands and dangling by her knees. The whole sweater was over sized and acted as a dress that extended to about four inches above the knees. The woman was barefoot as well.
The woman’s sweater was of a thin, very soft, and somewhat loose fitting material and she’d neglected to wear any undergarments of any kind, only the sweater. I know this because when she’d approached me, she’d taken initiative and given me a hug to greet me; there were no other articles on her person. For this brief hug, I admired her short red hair, similar length to Sheila’s, and caught a glimpse of myself in her emerald eyes. Upon releasement, I could feel my warm and blushing face and I found she was blushing as well, averting her eyes downward and to the side.
“I’m Carolyn.” She muttered in a shy, coy manner.
Mark greeted me with a buoyant grin. “We’d seen you from down there. In fact, I was telling Carolyn about you earlier.” He said to me.
“Did you two enjoy your evening walk?” Kaiser asked them.
“Yes, very much so.” Carolyn replied, loosening that shyness of hers.
“Good! Good spirits!” Kaiser exclaimed. Carolyn continued.
“I’d decided on a pumpkin but I couldn't lift it so, I went to get Mark but I was unable to find it again.” Carolyn said.
“So what are you doing here?” Mark asked me.
“Oh yes.” Kaiser added, wanting to know as well. Sheila answered for me.
“I’d met rob as he was travelling and I asked him if he’d like to come to a small party.”
Carolyn turned to me, still averting eyes in a meek fashion, twiddling and prodding her index fingers. “Uhm, we were going to play a game of tag. Do you know it?”
Tag, a game passed on from child to child where one person is designated “It”. Until they come in contact with another player, transferring the burden of “it” onto them. Everyone, in an effort not to be “It” even though they invariably will throughout the course of the game, evades the “It” person. The end of the game is reached when the players decide to cease the activity. Why a child would perform a game that has no winner or loser is up for pondering to pass the time on a rainy evening- or sunny, or whatever you prefer as a less desirable weather…
“Would you like to play? We were just about to start a game.” Carolyn asked.
This, I thought, was a request most would find deviating from a sense of normalcy, us being adults of our early twenties, proposing partaking in children’s games. However, due to my lack of credence for this commonly held thought, I affirmed her and Kaiser set out as the designated “It”.
The evening sky blared its deep, amber laden howl. Silhouettes danced across the horizon line, jaunting and rollicking, filled with a palpable sense of amusement.
We alternated with other games of traditional amusement and did a variety of activities. We talked at length, laughing, joking, and sang songs to brighten and amuse. We talked in a light hearted manner throughout the evening and my heart was filled with bright candor as happiness streamed forth.
Our activities rode until the sky grew red and darkened to black. It was nearing 7 pm when we finished with our outside activities, exhaustion not present as we’d not strained ourselves in any measure. I was relaxing on the couch in one of the rooms of the manor and had found myself a book to read while I sipped my beverage and waited for dinner. Sheila and Mark were in the next room, strumming some soft melodies on their guitars, improvising the majority of it. Carolyn and Kaiser were preparing the food.
As I sat and read my book, I’d felt this irking feeling, and it slowly vexed my mind. I was questioning this disturbance when Carolyn entered the room. I looked over as she sat next to me. Her sweater seemed to be a shade whiter than I thought.
Then I noticed she was holding a small, clear, cylindrical container full of individually wrapped candies. She offered me one of them and I accepted it. I looked over at Carolyn and her emerald eyes of dream-semblance green. She smiled and I returned it.
“I… er, I’m sorry if it was too forward of me to hug you the way I did. I just wanted to make a good first impression since Mark said you and he were close friends, and I- uhm.” Carolyn said, stammering.
I perceived her anxious state and felt the need to alleviate her.
“You’re candor is very admirable.” I said and returned her hug she’d given me earlier. When I finished, I observed her relieved and confident smile towards me.
After everyone’d had an adequately filling yet conservative meal, I returned to my novel I was reading. I paused to appreciate the room. It’s thick, pale pink & faded yellow vertical stripe wallpaper. Its ivory painted ceiling. The bright maroon colored carpet, and the green couch I resided on. Carolyn and Mark were assembling a large, thousand-piece puzzle depicting purple, snow-draped mountains at either dusk or dawn, with a sky gradient that ascends from light pink, to a more darker shade of pink, to sky-night blue. In the foreground, a grass covered mountainside with pine trees.
Kaiser was lounging on his back, lying on the floor, eating a slice of pumpkin pie, resting with closed eyes. I returned my eyes back to my book and was amid the final sentence of my current paragraph when I was accosted by a realization. I had strayed from my route and now felt an urgency to return to it. When I stood from the couch, with this realization in mind, I heard the sliding back door open behind me.
It was Sheila. She beckoned me over and I proceeded to her. Upon passing through the door and shutting it, I saw her standing a ways away with her back towards me. She was wearing an over sized white sweater, and matching white stockings. The sweater was similar in nearly every way to Carolyn’s: same lengthy sleeves, somewhat loose, thin, soft fabric. Except, the neck hole on Sheila’s was tauten to her shoulders.
Her rose-blushed skin shone by the moonlit landscape. Fog lingered from my mouth with every breath, though it was hardly discernible from the fog that’d drifted over the manor.
I walked over to her, feeling the gentle icy air, so calm, brush against my face. I stood beside her as she looked out at the swing, suspended by the oak tree below us.
“Would you?” she said, gesturing to it.
So we walked down there. As we did, Sheila held her hands up, as one would do when bracing for a fall, and she eagerly and energetically made her way to the swing. She sat on the seat of the swing, constructed of some rope and a sturdy board. She held the ropes and I began to push her. She swung with a leisurely pace and began to talk as she swung.
“Do you enjoy the night?” she asked.
“Yes.” I replied.
“What would you do if I were to chase you through the midnight fog?”
“Why would you chase me?”
Here she drug her feet, bringing herself to a halt. “Why does it matter If I chase you if my whim so dictates?” She said, donning an impish smile.
“I don’t think I would be able to run from you.” I said. She stood to face me. “And what would make you do a silly thing like that?” she said smiling in a pixieish manner. She continued.
“Just walk ten paces out into the fog.” She said, pointing towards the forest. I gave her a look and she assured me.
I did as per her request and walked ten paces into the fog. She instructed me not to turn around and I did as such, not turning the slightest. I wondered what all this was leading to. My contemplation did not go on for long as I heard her approach behind me.
She maneuvered her arms under my own and placed her hands on the two roses tucked in my pocket. I’d forgotten about them. I then became aware of her body pressed against mine, though this time she was at least clothed
She moved her face near mine and gave me a soft kiss on my cheek and held her lips there for a moment. Then she said with a smile,
“Tag.”
I stood there for a moment bathed in a flickering essence of emotion.
“Tell me, are you cold?” I asked, referencing the thin sweater. She did not take long to answer, turning myself to face her; she hung her arms around me. And with those deep, mellow windows of hers staring into mine, she said
“Your mirth is warming me more than any clothing could.”
What was that she’d spoken! Oh, could it be? Was it mere coincidence, the words she’d uttered? Or had she cognizance? I decided to assess my suspicion with the words that would normally follow.
“What blithe connection that seldom falls, has graced me?”
Her mouth slightly asunder with excitement, she looked at me with a sprightly mien of wide-eyed beguin. A look of realization. A look of… love?
“In mirth’s vale, so few flames are found.” She recited.
“But luminance crescendo replete in thee.” I finished.
We stared into each other for the longest time. Fog drifted through the current. She placed her hand on the side of my face and reached her finger tips to the back of my head, her palm covering my ear now. Fingers through my hair. She repeated the gesture with her opposite hand on the opposite side of my face. I did the same with her.
Her short cut, thick hair, tactile pleasantness between my fingers. We pulled each other closer for the warm embrace of another person. A chill breezed ineffectually. This was all of such dream like quality, I wondered if it was so? I must admit that this thought had crossed my mind more than once before, but after some contemplation, I’d decided the answer was negligible.
Everything is destined to be just another memory, and is not a dream just a synthetic memory? Is an experience invalidated because of the synthetic means used to produce them? The event might only occur in one’s mind, but aren't the emotions real?
And so, I looked into Sheila’s eyes, finding solace. We held our embrace, standing among the fog, colored in mirth’s lucent shade.