Rose Colored Linens At Her Lap

 

Sometimes she looks back and wonders whether she should have pushed him from her mind – as one would an unwelcome memory or an embrace on a day too hot for human contact. It was a foolish thought, she knew, for she could sooner rid herself of heartbeats or breath, sleep or sadness. He was all these things and none – he was the contradiction inside her self which moved her to wake each morning.

 

Each morning she woke with the faint feeling that today she would come to understand why. She would understand why, and then her heart would ease the ache, and she would take up the latent pieces of herself and be complete, like sunshine and raindrops.

 

She, however, would never understand why. And she never would push him from her mind. Even when the days were over and the light was tucked away into the night. Even when she lay underneath moss duvet covers each evening and felt as though a deep hole had been placed inside her, ridding her of the ability to take evenly-spaced breaths.

 

She would think of him, then, and his memory would clutch desperately at the edges of her heart.

 

*                      *                      *

 

The ship swayed and her food was the last to arrive. By the time it was there, she was no longer hungry. Vaguely she wondered why such things happened, unfolded her rose-colored napkin and pressed it over the moss-green pattern of the dress at her lap.

 

Absently she turned her head, drawn by an intangible breeze. She glanced outside the large-paned windows… and he was there. Alone on the ship’s deck. She sighed with a mixture of envy and awe. Almost two hundred people were there that night, and he somehow managed to be alone. The moonlight shone on him and he looked so real she suddenly felt like crying, or giving one of those soft laughs that whispers through your fingertips and down to your toes, leaving you momentarily breathless.

 

She thought, then, that if she were to walk outside, he would turn to her. She would slide open that glass door and he would turn. His eyes would be dark and deep, reflecting the numinous waters from which his eyes had so recently parted. He would look at her with his deep-sea eyes and smile wryly, as if she had told a joke that really wasn’t that funny. It would be the kind of joke that wrenches at your gut and leaves you wishing for something powerful, something more than just a smile could bring.

 

So he would smile that lilting, tilted smile, and yet she would be undeterred. She would be undeterred because she had already done the hardest part… turned from her food and looked out the window to see him cloaked in moonlight.

 

Her feet would involuntarily step towards him, but the moment would clutch at her and she would shiver. He would see that shiver, and without touching her he would bring her close to his body. No, he would not touch her. But he would look at her deep and he would move her. Then she would be near him, and no longer cold.

 

And suddenly she would be there next to him, on that slightly-swaying deck, close enough that they were touching without words and speaking without hands. And maybe someone would turn from their food and see them there, cloaked together in moonlight.

 

And for a moment it would be the two of them outside on the deck and the rest of the world inside with their rose-colored linens. And he would accept her.

 

They would stand there and the breeze would touch them and the waves would whisper against the sides of it all, and he would give his wry smile. It would be as if she had done something funny, but she had barely breathed– only held herself suspended within the moment. Yes, he would give his wry smile and lean into her, gently into her, and he would whisper…

 

But she never did go to him. She had never left the cushion of her seat. She had stared at her food. Indeed, she had seen him on that deck and she had shivered, but not from any breeze. Her eyes had closed, albeit briefly, but she had returned to herself and eaten her meal.

 

The food had never really appealed to her. After all, it had been the last to arrive, and he had been out there, cloaked in moonlight.

 

 

Reviews

[Mariah]

WOW. !
i saw the whole scene perfectly.
it's heart-breaking,
for me...,
it means that you feel like you had known someone so well, and you were POSTIVE they would see you and come towards you, and make things alrite; but he just stands there, not doing anything.
it's like you want to know what was inside his head, and I want to know what YOUR character was thinking. did he think of her. ? who knows.

but two things ;

ridding her of the ability take evenly-spaced breaths. ( is it supposed to say TO take evenly-spaced breaths. ?
&
rose=colored linens (rose-colored?)
otherwise, PERFECT. :)

everyone's comments are amazing.
craig is a sweetheart;
J.P.O.et, i agree, what can't you do. ?
and Eagle. ?
LMAO. SO TRUE.

[Vlazuvius]

From her inability to take evenly spaced breaths to his ability to be alone among many, there are so many good pieces of imagery here. This story doesn't have the overwhelming "WOW" quality of the poems I've read, but I think that's probably just because poetry comes more naturally to you than prose. Still, it's quite good. The last line seems a bit out of place to me, not because of the repetition of his being cloaked in moonlight, but because of the continued discussion of food. It seems distracting from the otherwise haunting quality that fills the rest of it.

[mick weller]

Hi Kara!
'pushed him from her mind � as one would an unwelcome memory' ( I agree with below about the dash) hmm, maybe you want an emphasis
a repeat would add emphasis and power to your storyline:
'...pushed him from her mind.(or;) P(p)ushed him from her mind as one would an unwelcome memory or...'

'... happened, (as she?) unfolded her rose-colored napkin'
maybe or:
'...happened. She unfolded her rose-colored napkin...'

I thought the three nevers a bit clumsy at the end
poss: But she did not go to him. She did not leave her seat...
very engaging piece though
cheers

[Fabian G. Franklin]

A short and substantial memoir with poetic undertones. great write.

[No one]

I liked this story. I loved the first sentence. Sometimes she looks back and wonders whether she should have pushed him from her mind (�) as one would an unwelcome memory or ---->an embrace on a day too hot for human contact. Her feet would involuntarily step towards him, but the moment would clutch at her and she would shiver. He would see that shiver, and without touching her he would bring her close to his body. No, he would not touch her. But he would look at her deep and he would move her. Then she would be near him, and no longer cold.

And suddenly she would be there next to him, on that slightly-swaying deck, close enough that they were touching without words and speaking without hands. And maybe someone would turn from their food and see them there, cloaked together in moonlight.

[Winter McPherson]

What he said...see below...lol. He took the words right out of my mouth, elegant. Reads more like poetry then a short story. Absolutely beautiful.

[Joe Langen]

Kara,
Thank you for sharing this excellent story. Your imagery seems borrowed from your poetry. It is seldom I find such a finely crafted story with such an engaging use of words. It was very easy to become part of the protagonist's mind and emotions and to care deeply about her. I would like to read more of your stories.

[Gary H]

Fascinating, this is almost the story I was looking for when I read your poem before reviewing this. With a few adjustments you could have quite an interesting idea going on here. I really enjoyed the way you have written this, there's an eerie ghost like feel to it. Never too keen on stories that rely a lot on 'she's though. Very difficult to find a way round this unless you completely change the feel, relying on shorter sentences. Might be worth thinking about though - and, of course, working the poem into a prologue....he he!

[Bryan Pedas]

So this is coming from a red-blooded, beer guzzling, football watching American male; I loved it. And no, I don't read stories like this ever if at all.

I think all of us have moments where we foreshadow what we COULD do about that someone on the other side of the window--plan out what would be said and what would be done, only to chicken out and never actually do it. I think this story captured that perfectly.

Beautifully written, great sentence structure, great flow. Very poetic. I'm very impressed. However, don't let that all get to your head; I'm also impressed by blinking lights, shiny trinkets, and bright colors, so I suppose you might take what I say with a grain of salt. :D

[JP thinks the WC is apt..]

Mellifluous is the word I believe...and elegant too. It has such a soft, lyrical quality and I like how fine things like food and sumptuous linen have no real importance for her, while she is so preoccupied with her love.

The guy below me said it - it's poetry. A jolly fine piece. James x.

[robin]

I love it. You've illustrated beautifully via storytelling, the haunting of love unrequited, of the disconnect of intimacy versus the truth of solitude, and how to dine or not will not cease the hunger, to die or not will not end the struggle.
Every romantic wants to be the man or the woman on this boat no matter how "over it" they think they are. It also speaks to the notion that hating an ex is the love emotion inverted, it is not the end of caring.
If I had to be picky there are a few burps in the haunting sense, "the ship swayed...", this paragraph has a low blood sugar, dropped out of my daydream moment. Perhaps it's the character's wishful thinking as she turns the corner and falls for more. Yummy