You knew it had to happen.
You knew I’d look at it and tinker.
Ever wonder if authors are engineers?
Because engineers always have to fix things.
Even things which aren’t broken.
The engineering credo is “It it works, FIX IT!”
The first section had minor edits and nothing changed significantly enough to repost.
The second section, however…
How Jerry and Betty Became the Least Entertaining Couple in the Neighborhood (Second Section Rewrite)
Betty watched Jerry emerge from the steam of the master bathroom, an ancient Hellenic god borne from the mists, his towel wrapped around his waist and flung over his shoulder, broad, hairy chest, strong arms, supple hands, long fingers, …
Betty stopped her inventory.
Jerry didn’t have the hands and fingers common to astronauts since the beginning of NASA; slightly roughed palms and fingertips, fingers shortish and evenly lengthed.
No, Jerry had large, graceful hands. Not soft, but capable of sensing things roughened palms and fingertips could not. An artist’s hands, a pianist’s hands, a surgeon’s hands.
She never noticed; did any of the other candidates have artist’s hands or astronaut’s hands?
She reached for her foundation. She’d always had her makeup lined up in the order they were applied; foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. One less opportunity for chaos in her life. Their lives.
Her education hadn’t been wasted. Graduate studies in psychology, she understood the need for order in the small: when an individual believes their life no longer under their control, they begin enforcing order when and where they can. The parent who becomes increasingly strict with an increasingly recalcitrant child, the mother who must follow family recipes exactingly when the family is falling apart, the business executive who edicts old, outdated, but comfortable practices to a failing buisness.
Jerry’s hand came over hers, held it softly, moved it aside. He kneeled beside her and gently turned her to face him. “Let me, Princess. You are a canvas awaiting the Mona Lisa, a block of concrete with the David yearning to be free.”
He radiated warmth like the Thorine sun.
Who was this person kneeling before her?
His hands hovered over cosmetics, never touching, back and forth, his long, artist’s fingers deciding which color, which brush, which highlight, where to work first.
He lifted her face to him, leaned forward, barely touched her lips with his, and still she shivered, her body quaking as if she were Gaia preparing for Uranus’ love.
He didn’t apply her makeup in her prescribed order. She didn’t question, didn’t suggest, instead she yielded, her head swirled as if caught in Oceanus’ swift currents, as Jerry worked first one part of her face then another and then down her neck to her breasts and she woke to the smell of bacon frying and coffee dripping into the pot.
She sat up in bed. When did she get naked? When did she get in bed?
Jerry came in with breakfast on a tray.
“Sleep well, Princess?”
“What happened?”
He echoed with a smile and a chuckle. “What happened? Thanks. A guy loves to hear that kind of rating on his performance.” He placed the tray over her thighs and she scooted back.
“Let me.” He leaned her forward, fluffed her pillows, and helped her rest back against them.
She ate while he picked up clothes dropped helter-skelter across the floor, folded them, stacked them neatly at the foot of his side of the bed, nothing to restrict her movements.
He picked up a discarded pair of her sweatpants. He opened her mouth to catch him before he folded them incorrectly.
She stopped.
He folded them correctly, effortlessly, as if the movment were natural, not practiced, an act without thought, a common deed.
He caught the look on her face and smiled.
Questions or comments? Bring ’em on. They’ll help me craft a better story.
No Responses