Blood Doll (17)

            Today is going to be the longest day, I think the moment I check my alarm clock. The green numbers read thus: 7:32. Only nine and a half hours to go.

            Time only passes moderately quickly because I occupy myself as much as possible. Mother and Father are already making breakfast when I crawl out of bed and pad into the kitchen. We eat the vegetarian pizza they have made for breakfast while conversing drowsily. My parents are going antiquing per usual and ask me to tag along, but I decline, saying that I am going out soon…with Ang. Soon after they depart, and I drag on a pair of shorts and a tank top, pull my bed-head into a ponytail, and step out into the Circle. Here, I spend the next few hours stretching and dancing.

            My clothes are sticking unbearably to me when I make it into the bathroom. I peel them off gratefully. Once I have texted Ang to inform her of the feat I overcame last night, I step into the shower to wash my grubbiness.

            By four in the afternoon, I have managed to not implode in anticipation. Shortly after my shower, I called Ang, allowing her to yet again choose my outfit, which she did so wonderfully.

            Finally readying myself, I don my black satiny corset matched with a long black skirt, and pointed leather flats. Mason’s oversized trench coat I shrug over my shoulders. Stuffing various necessities in my over-the-shoulder skull bag, I lock up the house and hurry excitedly to my car.

            Seven minutes to five, I pull into a parking spot in the parking garage. Limbs trembling imperceptibly, I stagger out of the harsh lighting of the garage into the harsher lights of the city.

            Aberrant’s sign is awash with dark earth tones. A few people lounge in black iron chairs just outside the glass doors. A couple’s eyes follow me inside.

            The interior is dowsed with earth tones like the sign. Dim lights hang from the semi-high ceilings over eggplant, navy, and forest hued table tops, splashing the restaurant lightly. Chatter flows back and forth pleasantly. A wooden podium houses a slightly plump girl who smiles politely at me. “How many?” A pen is poised over a book on the podium. “Booth or table?”

            Wide eyed, one eyebrow raised, I stare blankly at her. “Um…I don’t…”

            From the back section emerges the one person that I am here to see. The heart in my chest threatens to burst free the moment I spot him. Palms sweaty, my feet allow me to do nothing more than stand here, then blush as he stops before me. “Hey, Eve.”

            “Hi,” I murmur, accepting the arm he offers.

            “I almost thought you weren’t coming,” Mason admits as he steers me further into the restaurant. The layout is similar to the front, though darker and housing booths elevated against the space’s perimeter and separated by a waist-high polished wood. Circular tables are nestled on the ground level, splatter painted with more earthen colors.

            “I am on time, am I not?” I question, sliding into an elevated booth. Two menus and silverware lay on the table amidst a black velvet top hat. Ah, he dressed up also.

            “Yes, you are exactly on time, actually,” Mason agrees, checking his watch.           “Which means you’re early.” A small smirk touches my lips. He being in such close proximity to me is…overwhelming. Nervousness rushes through my vein. My fingers only just manage to open the menu. I have not been here before, so the fancy-dancy food names are completely lost on me. In the end I merely choose pasta primavera and resort to stealing glances at this mystery in the form of a man before me.

            “Yes, I suppose I am early,” Mason admits with a lopsided grin. “I couldn’t help but be early to see you. I’m sorry if that seems creepy,” he hastily apologizes. “It’s just that…”

            “It didn’t sound too creepy,” I assure him and his momentary loss of speech. “Really.”

            He returns my smile with evident relief as a blue haired server arrives to take our orders. Mason orders a fancy-dancy named sandwich of which I have never heard of and tea, and I the primavera and water. As the multi-pierced server departs with our menus, Mason steeples his fingers before his face and meets my eyes.

            “Would you like to ask your questions on my…disorder, really, or come back to it?” he inquires.

            “What else would we talk about?” I wonder.

            “Interests, hobbies, dreams, and so on. Or do you wish to wait until after we’ve eaten to do so?”

            “Can we alternate with asking each other questions now?” I ask.

            “Absolutely. Go right ahead.” Mason settles back in his seat and watches me openly.

            Aiming to conceal my excitement but failing miserably, I ask, “How old were you when you became…as you are? How did you find out?” The many other pressing questions buzzing in my mind I force to a halt, knowing that if I allow them to spew out I shall not cease talking.

            “So this one year at band camp…” Mason chuckles. “No, it’s honestly not very exciting. Kind of gross, actually. I was fifteen, playing hide and seek with my little nephews. The youngest one, we call him Zay Zay, fell down while I was chasing him and skinned his knee. Needless to say there wasn’t much blood, but he wailed like a dying panther. I tried to comfort him, but the only thing I could really focus on was the blood. The next thing I knew I had become a leech and was sucking on his knee like a lost soul. Luckily, I managed to stop before anyone found us and convince Zay Zay to secrecy.”

            “Is he okay, Zay Zay?” I ask. “Not mentally scarred or anything?”

            “Are you?” Mason returns.

            This I ponder a moment. “No,” I admit. “But because he was a little kid, I assumed he may have had a difficult time dealing with that.”

            “Not that anyone noticed. Though he did start calling me Snake after that.” Shrugging, Mason says, “He kind of latched on to me from then on out.”

            “How old is he now?”

            “He just turned twelve last month,” Mason responds. When I nod, he asks, “My turn?”

            “Sure.”

            “What do you do in your spare time?”

            Think about you as of recently, my mind interjects. “Mostly I read, watch movies, make art, and dance.” Smiling wryly, I say, “I’m quite a boring person, really.”

            Materializing before us, our server lays ceramic plates filled to the brim with our food before us with a flourish, then departs into the shadows.

            “It doesn’t seem that way,” Mason disagrees. His long fingers, nails painted black, unravel his silverware. “You seem multitalented. What medium is your favorite?”

            “Paint by far. There are so many colors to be made, so many ways to combine them to portray the picture inside of your mind. It’s all about seeing the world through different perspectives.” As I speak, I place my napkin in my lap and twist a bit of pasta around my fork. The flavoring is delicious, I find. “I’m sorry,” I say. Heat rises to my cheeks. “I hadn’t meant to drone on. What are some of your interests?”

           “Books, black and white films, cooking. I go to clubs and parties for Sanguins, like Drac’s Lair, but not often. They don’t hold much interest for me.”

            Swallowing my pasta the best that I can, I ask, “Why is that?”

            “I’m not a big people person. I’m just as content staying home and doing lonesome things as going out and being sandwiched in a group of people.”

            “Ditto.” That one word is slightly distorted as I have taken the liberty to speak it while covering my mouth full of vegetables. “You said black and white films, but what is your favorite?”

            “Probably Nosferatu. Yours?”

            “I have none. There are too many wonderful movies out there, I believe.” There is a slight pause. “Do your friends or parents know about you being a Sanguinarian?”

            “Most of my friends are either Sanguinarians or donors. As for my parents, they may have guessed at one point, but not anymore. I want to keep it that way. They’re extremely conservative; it was hard enough to convince them that being Goth is harmless.” He shakes his head, but the corners of his lips turn up slightly.

            “How so?”

            “They thought I was gay because I had begun wearing eyeliner and painting my nails black, so they shipped me off to a Catholic school to ‘straighten me up.’ I rebelled so badly I was kicked out in six months. Because of that, my parents burned everything black I had. Granted, I still love them, but it took a while to gain common ground between us again.”

            Wide eyed, I watch Mason. Nothing reveals that he is exaggerating, much less lying to me. “That is…” I shake my head. “Balderdash. I understand your parents being conservative, but to that extent? I could never picture my parents doing something of that proportion to me. Of course, they are tree huggers to the max.”

            “How so?” Mason questions.

            “They’re big hippies. Outdoors lovers, vegetarians. They never even asked why I want to wear black instead of Life Is Good and tie dyes. I’m not hurting anyone or getting into trouble, and I’m definitely not depressed, so they don’t believe they have anything to worry about.” Except for, maybe, now you.

            “Like I said, my parents are Catholic. They thought anything black and different was Satanic.”

            “How did you convince them otherwise?” I ask, finishing the last of my primavera.

            “I moved out. I’m supporting myself. I’m not in jail or dead,” Mason chuckles. When he notices that both of our plates are empty but for crumbs, he asks, “Are you finished? Would you like dessert?”

            Our server arrives as I decline. Once she has managed to cradle our plates in the crook of her arm, she pulls out the shiny black receipt book. I pull my skull bag onto my lap, rifle through for my wallet.

            “It’s on me, Eve,” Mason assures me. Though I make to protest, in a flash he has returned the black booklet, a debit card inside. The lady disappears once more. Is she on his side?

            “At least let me pay you for my food,” I protest. “I shall feel in your debt otherwise.”

            Mason gently pushes away the twenty I offer him. Our fingers skim each other’s in the process, and when he withdraws I wish to touch him again. Somehow, I refrain, though only just. A blush flares on my cheeks.

            Once the server returns Mason’s card, Mason snatches his top hat, slides out of the booth, and offers his hand to me. Pulling my bag over my shoulder, I accept, allow him to lead me out of the small building. By now the sky has darkened considerably; only artificial city lights flood our path past people and to the parking garage. Mason has yet to release my hand. This realization excites me, as I have thought about his touch from the first night I saw him, from Drac’s Lair.

            “Which floor is your car?” Mason asks as we reach the decrepit, rusty elevator on the parking garage’s main floor. His voice echoes along the length of space; few cars remain parked here. The rest have likely gone home.

            “Third,” I reply.

           The elevator ride is awkward enough to make me wonder what might happen did Mason make a move on me. We are silent, in close proximity to each other, and alone. He must think the same because his hand squeezes mine.

            Sweet relief, I think when the doors ding open.

            Our footsteps bounce back to us as we start for my car, then cease as we reach it. Disappointment floods my chest, tightens as I realize we must part. Confusion grips me at the strange thought that I do not want to leave. He has more than intrigued me, makes me feel cared for and listened to. I want to know all about him. These thoughts swirl around my mind as I face him, arch my neck to meet his eyes.

            “This is goodbye?” I assume. Mason nods melancholically. For some reason I cannot conceal the pout that touches my lips. “Okay.” Turning, I click the keychain button to unlock my car.

            “Before you go, can I ask a favor of you?” Mason inquires.

            “Of course,” I permit.

            “Would you be so kind as to allow me to see your cuts, the ones I made?”

            Biting my bottom lip, I point out, “I’m wearing a corset.”

           “Yes, I know…” He stops. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I asked. That was too bold of me.” With an apologetic smile, he steps back.

            Though his request is odd and requires a slight provocative response on my part, his intentions are obviously unfeigned. His boyish eyes are enough proof of that. Hardly against my better judgment, I take his hand and lead him into the space between an SUV and my dinosaur. “Yes, you can see them,” I assent.

            Warm fingers touch mine, halting my progress toward my corset. “You don’t have to just because I asked. I shouldn’t have, sweetie.”

            The combination of his fingers and the nickname spurs a grin to attack my lips. “I want to show you. I haven’t gotten to share them with anyone,” I admit, beginning to unhook my corset from the bottom up.

            “What do you mean?”

            Nervousness floods my veins. Startlingly pale skin has begun to emerge beneath my hands. Clearing my throat, I murmur, “When I look at the cuts, I’m reminded of you.”

            By now I have removed my corset. It rests heavily in my hands, but I merely focus on Mason, search his eyes embarrassingly as he inspects my stomach. My breath catches as his hand reaches out; his fingers gently trace the one following the curve of my hip. “I see,” he replies curiously.

            What surprises me is that his eyes only just skim over my exposed breasts.

            When he withdraws, I don my corset. My fingers haphazardly tuck my hair behind my ear, and I glance down at the ground before meeting Mason’s eyes once more. “Thank you,” he says.

            Dryness encases my throat. Even a simple “You’re welcome” refuses to eject from my vocal cords. A small smirk is all Mason reveals of his humor at this as he leans down to me. Fingers carefully grasping my chin, tilting my face up, he touches his lips to mine.

Overcoming a spell of disbelief, I return the gesture sweetly, then heatedly, mimicking his actions gratefully.

            When we break away, we gaze at each other. His strong arms wrap around me, and I allow myself to lean against him and hug him back. The indescribable scent, his scent, clings softly to him.

            We kiss once more, lightly, before he opens my door, ushers me in like a gentleman. Butterflies inhabit my stomach as has become usual when with this man. Disappointment that we must part sweeps into me.

            “Thank you for tonight"for everything,” I say.

            “It was my pleasure, sweetie,” Mason replies. “Perhaps I can see you again soon?”

            I nod almost too eagerly. “Just tell me when and where, and I shall try to be there.” A blush rises to my cheeks.

            “How about this Friday at seven? My apartment? I understand if you don’t want to go there. We don’t have to. We can go see a movie or something instead.”

         Returning to his apartment does bring a minuscule bought of apprehension to me. Despite that, the knowledge that I have begun to trust him washes the depressing feeling away. “As long as I can keep my phone with me this time I accept,” I tease. “We can hang out at your apartment.”

            “Of course.” Mason grins. “I shall see you at seven on Friday then?”

            “Definitely.” With a hearty screech, my clunker roars to life. “Goodbye?” I question.

            “For now.” Once Mason has shut my door, I back out of my parking slot and head home.

Only once I am a safe distance away from him do I realize I am still wearing his coat.