Author's Note: I began writing this before After Hours and before the terrible news that LE is calling it quits. Needless to say, my mood changed dramatically in the process.
I got the idea for writing it in the Netherlands a couple of weeks ago. As I walked through the tulip fields in Keukenhof, I came across a dark burgundy (almost black) tulip that was at such odds with all the brightness around it that it just drew me in. The plaque read "Queen of Night" and the idea just popped into my head. Upon doing some research, I discovered that "Queen of the Night" is more famously the night-blooming cereus. More is explained in the course of the story.
From a writing perspective, this is a little bit of a rough cut, an experiment in using the present tense and a foray into convoluted literary allusions.
Disclaimer:If I owned them, none of this madness would be happening.
Queen of Night
I'm ill with the thought of your kiss
Coffee-laced, intoxicating on her lips
(Ashes and Wine – A Fine Frenzy)
When loneliness bears down on her, dark and unseemly, she smiles to passersby. A wide, generous smile curls her lips and whispers across her eyes – nothing too flashy that it's false. The extent of her contrived cheer is just right. Her assistant smiles back at her, rather nervously, as he packs up for the day at half past seven. She knows he's been too afraid to leave, having listened closely to the stories of his fleeting predecessors. She's done nothing to reassure him, choosing instead to play the edge to her advantage. It's what he would have done – more blatantly but just as surely. She imagines the mocking twist of his mouth and the taunting inflection to his voice, and she tells herself that wherever the loneliness comes from, it has nothing to do with missing him. These days, there is no room for him in her life. The long, empty nights find her curled up on her living room couch, the baby monitor echoing Rachel's steady breaths, the television painfully silent, the other end of her couch glaringly vacant.
"Goodnight, Doctor Cuddy," Mark says carefully, briefcase in hand as he gives her a succinct wave and a tight-lipped smile from the doorway to her office.
Shaken out of her thoughts, she manages another constructed smile in his direction. "Goodnight, Mark."
His retreating footsteps echo loudly in her barren office. The hospital is in an unusually quiet lull. The occasional night-nurse scurrying across the hallway does little to appease the silence. She knows he has a patient. She's seen her name penciled on the surgery board with R. Chase scribbled under it twice over the past two days. All morning, Taub was harassing her, complaining that House has them running the same tests over and over again because he's convinced of one thing or another. Foreman reported a chicken of some sort a few hours ago – something about a game between House and Wilson. House always has his reasons, whether fraught with calculated obsessions or personal agendas. She entertains the thought that she's too tired to care, but her traitorous thoughts say otherwise. Avoiding him has become more of a defense mechanism because he knows exactly what to say to break her. After he's done with her, he looks a little more damaged himself but nevertheless sneers at the broken pieces before spinning on the heels of his sneakers and limping away.
She wants him far but not too far.
Her stilettos click against the polished floor with purpose. His office looms in the bright hallway, a gloomy glass fortress tucked amidst bright neon lights that reflect the white-print of his name with stark clarity. Gregory House, M.D. It's the third time today that she's taken the scenic route to the lab, but she doesn't over-analyze her need for glimpses of his days. She's always had access in some capacity to his shenanigans. She tells herself it's a habit she can't break and peers into his haven of madness from afar. The unfolding portrait on the other side of the thick glass arrests her.
A chicken, sorely misplaced and utterly outrageous, ambles across his desk, but the terrified creature doesn't hold her attention for long.
House is not alone, and that revelation unexpectedly knocks the wind out of her chest. Her mind screams a mantra at her frozen limbs. Turn around and leave. Now. Turn around. Leave. Leave. Leave. When her Christian Louboutines suddenly feel like lead shackles, every self-preserving instinct begs her to look away, but it's almost like watching a tragic car wreck. It's heart-breakingly captivating. House is perched on his arm chair, legs propped on the footstool, and Dominica is squeezed into the chair beside him – somehow. Cuddy pours over the logistics clinically. Half of her is actually on him: one thigh slung over his good leg, one shoulder pressed into his arm, one hand framing his stubbly chin. Both of his hands lay impartially in his lap, but his blue gaze is electric on her face – fiercely alive like there's a puzzle he's about to put together one piece at a time.
Through the thick glass, she can read the signs of the kiss long before it happens.
Perversely, she can almost feel him against her, like it's her thumb in the crease of his dimple, her creamy thigh straddling his lean waist and her body pressed into the warmth of his side. Her touch would soften his features into something boyish and hopeful, and she loved the way his eyes would flutter shut as if for a split-second, nothing else in the world mattered. She remembers anticipating the thrilling jut of his erection as she straddled his waist and whispered taunting promises in his ear. She remembers his answering growl of impatience and how his big hands spanned the length of her spine, aligning their bodies in perfect synchrony to their racing hearts. The fleeting memories don't dull the pain when it rains onto her body like pelts of ice.
Their lips meet in an agonizingly slow, tender kiss that drags her soul out of her body. She didn't expect it to physically hurt, but her heart revolts against the scene, shredding along the sharp bones of her ribcage. She can taste him on her tongue when they part – the flavor of the day from the nurses' station. Lemon-mint, Foreman's coffee and orange-flavored Lindt chocolates from coma-guy's bedside table. The candy feast in his mouth used to make her smile and lean in for another savoring kiss. She wonders if Dominica delights in telling the tastes apart – which ones are House and which ones are his daily adventures. She wonders if the burn of his stubble tickles the other woman low in her belly and if she recognizes the powerful finesse of his long pianist fingers that cover the naked stretch of skin at her hip.
She watches as they exchange a few words, muted by distance and glass, and Dominica frowns and turns away to watch the chicken trip over the giant red-and-gray tennis ball. The loud cluck of protest snaps Cuddy back to reality and draws a lazy grin on House's face. Dominica leaves his side, and Cuddy carefully collects all of her broken pieces and begins to evenly walk along the hallway. In the corners of her eyes, she catches the gleam of his brilliant blue gaze.
She thinks he sees her but doesn't dare to look back.
Please don't kiss me so sweet
It makes me crave a thousand kisses to follow
And please don't touch me like that
It makes every other embrace seem pale and shallow
And please don't come so close
It just makes me want to make you near me always
(Near You Always – Jewel)
Some days, he wears the ring.
It sits on his fourth finger like a cage, golden and gleaming. She doesn't understand the intent behind it, only that it mocks her relentlessly from its proud perch. This morning, it throws a ray of sunshine into her eyes as he snatches a chart out of her hands. Her thumb discreetly rubs against the inside of her own ring finger and returns empty.
"Sounds dull and predictable, as always," he tells her cheerfully, index finger pushing into the elevator button in rapid succession to convey his impatience with her presence.
She wants to snap at him but holds the impulse, instead flashing her carefully fabricated smile. Lisa Cuddy – calm and collected. "You also have to be in the clinic for two hours at noon," she reminds him, frigid smile in place.
House steps back from the elevator and frowns curiously, naturally reading through her pretentiousness. His gaze darts down to her neckline, and a lop-sided smile pulls at his lips. "This is a new one," he mutters, and she's not sure if he's talking about her admittedly revealing blouse or her practiced, fictitious smiles. She doesn't hold his interest long enough to find out. The elevator doors part and he disappears into the muddle of her hospital's personnel.
She stares at the spot where he stood for a few seconds, blinking back the disappointment, then she turns away with resolve.
All day she feels the ghost of his ring around her finger. She bounces between meetings, pacifying donors and mollifying the board, and she thinks about him – incessantly. Julia's words from last night mock her as she pointedly avoids the diagnostics floor.
"Is it that he's good in bed?" Julia wonders out loud, digging into a bucket of Baskin Robins mint chocolate-chip ice cream as she slings her legs over the arm of Cuddy's couch.
Cuddy glares at her older sister and flips through the channels with uncharacteristic violence. The images barely flicker to life before being discarded in favor of another fleeting snapshot.
"That's a strong yes," Julia jokes dryly. "He was awfully transparent, you know."
Cuddy scoffs and slants a disbelieving glance in her direction. "He never said anything sexually inappropriate in front of you or mom," she retorts with confidence.
Julia rolls her eyes. "He didn't need to say anything, Lise. God, just the way he watched your every move. He looked at you like he literally couldn't wait to get you in bed. He'd be undressing you in his head all the way through dinner. Mom said it made her uncomfortable, but she said it in that way mom does – like it's some sort of back-handed compliment that no one else understands." She shrugs, her messy chignon bobbing with the motion, and Cuddy swallows thickly.
"Are you trying to make me feel worse?" she asks slowly, her quiet voice wavering against the reruns of Jersey Shore.
Julia shakes her head, vehement in her denial. "No, no," she asserts firmly. "You did the right thing. He's not stable enough for a single mom, Lisa. I respect your decision. It's just been a while since the two of us were alone without kids, and I thought some girl talk would be fun," she declares, her faint smile sheepish.
Cuddy sighs. It's never been easy to talk about House. But the living room is warm, a fire gently crackling in the hearth, Julia burrowed warmly into the opposite end of her couch, reminding her of the two of them tucked in her father's den in New York decades ago talking about Greg House, the lunatic from her endocrinology class. A wry smile claims her lips at the image, and she plays along in the contrived safety of her living room. "Yes, he's good."
Julia perks up in her seat, and she's almost bouncing with excitement. "Creative?" she prods.
"Downright inspired," she admits and runs her palm across the crook of her neck. Her sister makes a sound that ends on a hum of approval. "Entertains a thousand fantasies per minute. Unhealthy porn collection," she confides, giving her a half-smile that makes Julia's eyes sparkle with naughty insinuation. Cuddy just wishes remembering doesn't hurt so much.
"You should have slept with him before dumping him," Julia chides her – only half-serious.
"Thought about it," she confesses to her sharp glance, picking on a thread of curious admiration in the glittering dark eyes. "I wouldn't have been able to dump him."
At lunch, Wilson slips into the chair across from her and smiles at her kindly.
"You'll manage," he says by way of greeting.
She thinks of at least three things she can't manage. Permanently erasing the image of House kissing another woman tops the list, but she returns Wilson's smile with something that feels more genuine than her entire day. "I will," she agrees, unsure of what exactly she's promising, but Wilson looks pleased.
"You've dealt with budget cuts before. Remember the whole Vogler debacle? We budgeted for a whole lot more than what we ended up with," he recalls sardonically and digs into his Waldorf salad, oblivious to the tripping rhythm of her heart.
She can almost see Vogler sitting across the desk in her office, his dark eyes picking her apart, searching for the skeletons in her closet. "Are you sleeping with House?" She wishes he chose any other budget cut scenario but nods anyway, a little too enthusiastically. Wilson seems too engrossed in his food to notice or too gentlemanly to call her on it. "I'm not worried about the budget cut," she asserts confidently and means it. If there's one thing she does impeccably, it's running Princeton Plainsboro. She's known the ins and outs of this hospital for years. Budget cuts are routine.
"And how are things otherwise?" he asks conversationally, but she knows it's Wilson's way of knowing if she's alright. Laying his fork down, he pins her with his warm brown gaze. The deep caring in his eyes is at such odds with his best friend's cool scrutiny that she smiles in self-derision. She's always had a thing for the villainous types, the ones who breakdown once and let her glimpse their inner dark world that forever holds her prisoner.
"I'm fine, James. Stop worrying," she orders him, her tone serious but gentle. Her hand travels across the table and lightly squeezes his well-kempt fingers.
The self-conscious smile on his face melts his brave-face, and he promptly covers her hand with his other one in a gentle pat, Waldorf salad forgotten. "It's just that you've seemed a little off the past couple of weeks. If there's anything I can do, you only have to ask," he reminds her.
She counts two weeks since the witnessed kiss and bites her lip until she draws blood. Her hand is still sandwiched between his smooth, larger ones. "I'm fine," she repeats steadfastly before a tray slams onto their table, startling them both.
"Aw, well isn't this cozy?" House sneers, nostrils flaring with barely suppressed rage.
She draws her hand back and glares up at him, heart knocking carelessly into the rest of her organs, mindless of the rattling damage.
"House, what are you doing?" Wilson cuts in with a long-suffering sigh. Lately, it's become increasingly difficult for him to play the role of mediator. They are both so fiercely barricaded that they leave him little leeway for peacemaking.
"Oh, nothing unusual, diagnosing patients, popping pills," he pauses to pointedly dry-swallow two Vicodin, and she ignores the bitterness behind the act. "Watching how one great loss makes for one small win," he continues, raising both eyebrows suggestively, voice heavy with sarcasm. The part of her that broke when she watched him slide his tongue into Dominica's mouth is aware how the mere preposterous implication of Wilson's hands on hers burns him on the inside. She tries to take pleasure in hurting him, but the triumph is hollow at best.
"For God's sake," Wilson hisses and gives her an apologetic look, but she's already disengaged herself from the scenario.
She excuses herself and doesn't make a scene as she flees the cafeteria, leaving both hero and villain behind.
For two hours, she pours over the budget, but she can't focus long enough to make a decision on any of her potential solutions. When Marina calls to tell her that Rachel is running a low-grade fever, she's just tired enough to call it a day. Shrugging into her navy blue coat, she slips a couple of files into her purse, tells Mark to make excuses for her absence and takes the elevator to the parking lot.
She finds him leaning on the hood of her car, twirling his cane effortlessly in one large hand.
His ring is muted in the grayness of the garage, but it still makes her hand feel alone. Their gazes meet and hold as she crosses the empty space. This morning, she woke up in his white Rolling Stones t-shirt, and in a moment of weakness, she sniffed the loose collar. Ironically, it's begun to smell like her life without him – shower gel, softener and sun-dried linens. Now his smell fills her lungs as she steps closer than she has in months. He stills the cane against his side and studies her up close, the tense silence eating up their facades.
"I saw you," he begins quietly, and she resents the rush of emotion that floods through her at the memory.
Prepared for war, she nods bravely and deposits her purse on the gleaming surface of the car beside him. "I know."
He looks at the purse then at her, and she can almost see the wheels in his head spinning furiously, mapping out the different outcomes to this new collision. Their wordless exchange drags, and they stare each other down until she feels him inside her, peering into her very soul. Desperate to cling to her crumbling masquerade, she looks away and hears his quiet sigh, feels the warm expulsion of his breath against her left temple. The smell of candied grapes whispers a smile across her lips.
"What's so funny?"
Not their proximity, she wants to say. They're standing dangerously close to each other, the tips of their shoes almost touching. Her nude, six-inch Jimmy Choos still leave her at a height disadvantage, and she finds her face much too close to the cackling skulls sketched across his chest. "Grape-flavored lollipops?" she asks, looking up at him as she raises one questioning eyebrow.
His dark face softens, blue eyes alight with mischief. "A clinic favorite," he tells her in the manner of someone describing the weather.
She laughs softly and lowers her chin to her chest, her eyes fixating on their shoes. She wants to rest the palm of her hand on the center of his chest and kiss his clever mouth. His sneakers shuffle, favoring his left foot to inch forward. She doesn't dare look up as she feels him brush against her.
"You've always been the jealous type," he mutters the soft accusation and his fruity breath caresses the hair at her temple.
Scoffing in denial, she glances up at him sharply, unnerved to find his face scant inches from her own. "I'm not jealous of your jailbait," she says indignantly, which only makes him grin.
"Green-card bride or not, you don't want anyone else's paws on me," he taunts her on a whisper, his intent gaze unwavering as it scans her features in search of an anomaly.
Cuddy wonders if he finds it and swallows tightly, fighting the overwhelming urge to step back. Every self-preserving instinct nudges her, begging her to pick her heart off the line and tuck it back into her chest – badly bruised but still beating. All her other instincts prowl impatiently, eager for the kill. "And how about you?" Her own voice is barely above a whisper, husky and telling. "Do you want anyone else's paws on me?" she daunts, throwing the words back at him.
A hot emotion flickers in his eyes before he clenches his jaw and hides it behind a sallow smile. She wonders if he's replaying the image of her hand enclosed in Wilson's, which is ridiculous in itself. She suspects it's his forbiddance to touch her that makes the pulse in his temple throb visibly. For a long minute, the silence is only broken by rough breaths sowing in and out of their lungs. "Everybody knows I don't share my toys," he says finally, appropriately detached.
Her gaze narrows on his averting eyes, and she nods more to herself than to him. "I'll take that as a no," she murmurs.
That brings his gaze crashing back into hers, a spark of anger brightening his irises to a color she can't name but finds breathtaking. "You broke up with me," he reminds her.
"I did," she agrees and lets out a slow breath. She doesn't want to think of the spectrum of shades his eyes flicker between. Gathering courage for her next overture, she gives him a suitably apologetic smile. "You're right. It's not fair for me to ask you that. I'm sorry," she says earnestly.
The way his eyes widen and his lips twist sideways tell her he's about to snap. "Oh, great. You're feeling guilty…"
Cuddy doesn't give him a chance to say words he'll regret and she'll lament. Fisting her hand in his white t-shirt, she presses up on her Jimmy Choos, lands softly against the solid length of him and stills his moving lips with hers. For three interminable seconds, he's so completely taken aback that he stands there motionless, his hands hanging at his sides, lips frozen against hers. Then suddenly he's in her mouth, invasive and brutal. His arm slides around her waist, hauling her against him, his hand firm on her buttocks – never one to miss an opportunity to cop a feel. She smiles into his kiss, inviting his tongue deeper into her mouth. The taste of grape-flavored candy and unsweetened coffee intoxicate her as he ungracefully reverses their positions to have her trapped between his body and the hood of her car. She's vaguely aware that he lifts her and his cane rattles to the ground in the process, but she's far too absorbed in committing to memory the tastes and textures of him. His savoring kisses speak volumes of how much he misses her, and somehow that's more painful than anything else. Pulling away to catch his breath, he moves both hands to her face, cradling her angular jaw in its entirety, his breaths choppy against her lips. Her bones feel fragile under the strength of his fingers, but the touch is so tender that it makes her feel more safe than threatened. The cool metal of his ring sears her cheek, and she covers his left hand with her right one, gently drawing it away from her face. Her thumb traces the ring under his curious gaze.
"If there's anyone in the world that can make you wear a ring…"
He must be smiling because she feels the tilt of his lips against her jaw before he coaxes her into another kiss, leaving the dangerous words unspoken. She finds herself clambering into his arms, trying to melt into him until she's wrapped up in his jacket with him and her breasts are making firm impressions against his chest. She presses closer still, and he groans deeply into her mouth, his erection nestling against her stomach, hot and hard.
"Come over tonight," she moans when his teeth rake down her neck, smooth and wet with just enough pressure to induce a dash of pain.
"Just like that?" he mumbles, striving to be logical as he kisses the swell of one breast over her low neckline. He lingers reverently like he's been fantasizing about this for months, his mouth warm on her quivering skin.
Cupping his chin, she tilts his face upwards, thumb sifting through the stubble along his jaw, searching the depths of his desire-cloaked gaze. His eyes are afire with pain and longing, stark and brutalized with need. "Just this once," she pleads, and the words tear him apart. She's stricken by the anguish that flashes across his face, but he conceals it almost instantly.
Something steely creeps into his eyes until the vivid blue becomes reminiscent of December. Before she can make sense of it, he kisses her hard and fast, the roughness of his possession stealing her breath away. He deserts her just as suddenly, and she feels barren – completely alone. The car absorbs her listless weight. Picking up his discarded cane, he straightens to his full height, eyes blazing with a promise that scratches lazily at her womb.
"So this is how's it's going to be," he says cryptically – neither sad nor happy – and limps back towards the hospital, leaving her in the empty parking lot.
The night-blooming cereus is a dark symbol, an example of great beauty finding its expression only when things seem darkest.
(Analysis of The Bean Trees – Barbara Kingsolver)
And this is how it has been – for two weeks now.
She promised herself it would be this one time, but it's a promise she breaks even before making it. Last week, she decided that she's done with the promises.
Every night, she sinks into her couch, wearing his favorite lingerie (sometimes his least favorite just to spite him) and waits for the drumming of his cane against her door. It takes her twenty-two hurried steps to reach the door, and when she pulls it open, neither of them speaks. He drinks her in, his eyes trailing down the length of her form and back up again, and she can read the desire in them from miles away. Her flesh burns with need, and his hunger feeds her. The next thing she knows, he's swept her into his arms, his lips hot and insistent against hers, his foot kicking the door shut before they stumble into her living room, his balance impaired and hers a captive of awakening senses. Her couch is soft and downy under their clumsy combined weights, and her living room doesn't feel lonely with his lips tasting her everywhere. They make love, and sometimes he draws it out for hours, driving her to the very edge but not letting her go. She begs and curses his smug smiles as he teasingly pulls out of her only to push back in, harder, deeper than she thought he could go. And she thinks this is it. Her toes curl. Her breath catches, and if he would just thrust like that one more time… and he does. He hits the angle just right, touching that place inside of her that makes her die a little, but he does it agonizingly slow. She cries out in frustration. When he finally sends her careening over the edge, the pleasure is so intense that she's almost sure she loses touch with reality for a few seconds. The words he whispers to her bring her back, making her blush even when he's still inside her. Relentless in his pursuit, he builds her up again, but this time the collapse comes much faster, and he's right there with her, spent and delirious with exhaustion. As he slumps against her, she presses thoughtless kisses to his sweaty forehead, convinced that he'll stay this time, uncertain that she wants him to. Their panting breaths fade into the familiar silence, but this silence is different. It's more like a sanctuary, and the morning comes much too soon to shed light on her empty bedside.
At work, they fight more than usual. He insults her, and she dismisses him. They play their roles, and everyone around them is tentatively comfortable.
This afternoon, she walks away from his office, nursing the wounds of a particularly nasty exchange. The rare February sun warms her corner of Princeton Plainsboro, where a misplaced plant sits on her desk, its long, stringy leaves ungraceful in their abandon. Between the ungainly green, a few buds are scattered, little white promises that intrigue her as she walks up to the presumed gift, fingers lightly tracing the rim of the red plastic pot. She searches for a note she knows she won't find. Walking around the desk – another obscure gift – she studies the unfamiliar plant from all angles.
The sound of the door opening snaps her gaze away from the mystery.
Wilson strides into her office like a war-messenger, stalling at the site of the awkward plant, a delighted smile momentarily brightening his features. "Wow, I haven't seen one of those in a while," he remarks, but his stiff posture tells her that's not the reason he's stopping by.
"What is it?" she asks, striving for neutrality.
Wilson doesn't pick up on her curiosity – or he does and has nothing to say about it. She can never quite tell with him. "It's a night-blooming cereus. The flowers only bloom overnight and die by dawn. Sometimes, it flowers every week and sometimes it won't flower for decades. A very strange plant," he tells her. "This one looks like it'll bloom soon," he observes.
A metaphor for their relationship? Her brow puckers in a frown as she mulls over the thought, ignoring the pang of dread wrought by Wilson's words. The flower dies by dawn. "How soon is soon?" she asks more in an attempt to keep him talking than actual interest.
Wilson seems to consider this for a minute. Walking closer to her desk, he inspects the buds carefully. "I'd say tonight. It's quite the ordeal, watching it bloom. I know people who stay up all night to take pictures of its short life. The fragrance is out of this world."
Another extraordinary gift. "I didn't know you were such a horticulture expert," she tells him with a friendly smile of recognition. She's willing to bet her yearly salary that House knows and that he planned for Wilson to be one of this puzzle's pieces.
Stepping back to a safer distance, he shrugs self-effacingly, and his expression turns stern, lips grim and unmoving. She watches the transformation with growing intrigue. Whatever he has come to tell her makes him uncomfortable. Heaving a long breath, he fixes his kind gaze on her and utters four words that make her heart trip. "You're killing him, Lisa."
She swallows past the dryness in her throat, her eyes widening in feigned surprise. "What are you talking about?"
The incredulity that reflects back at her makes her feel silly and deceitful, but Wilson's steady stare is more understanding when he speaks again. "He doesn't have to tell me for me to know when something is up between the two of you. He disappears every night. He's virtually off the Vicodin. You snap at each other like pre-relationship House and Cuddy. You're wearing conservative necklines to hide his beard-burns," he pauses, scrutinizing her tellingly. "You're sleeping with him."
She's reasonable enough not to deny it because she's fairly certain her eyes give it away. She thinks Wilson, who is a lot more intrusive than he claims to be, must have followed House to her place. "We're adults," she reasons in the face of his reproachful eyes. "We both know it's not going to last forever. We're clinging to the part of our relationship that works. It's just a transitional phase…"
He shakes his head with a sad smile that screams at her that she should know better. "If you care about House, you would let him go. When you get it out of your system, this is going to destroy him. You know it as well as I do."
Although she doesn't think she'll ever get him out of her system, Cuddy knows this will have to stop eventually. It will destroy her, but she has a much less impressive record of self-sabotage. When she looks away from him to thoughtfully stare through the parted blinds, he takes it as his cue to leave. Impeccably tactful as always, she notes with a bleak, private smile.
The nighttime finds her in sensible lingerie, wrapped in a small blanket on her living room couch, going through budget cut scenarios. The red plastic pot sits on her living room table and as she reads through budget figures, one of the buds begins to stir. For the next three hours, she watches, captivated as a large white flower bursts out of the bud, indescribably beautiful, its woodsy scent filling her living room with something alive and magical.
The flower is in full bloom when she hears the thud of his cane against her porch steps.
Later, she lies flat on her back in post-coital bliss, his arm wedged between her and the mattress, somehow glad that they end up on the bed instead of the couch. "It's called Queen of the Night," he says vaguely. In her mind's eye, she sees the night breathing life into the night-blooming cereus, coercing its beauty into the shadows, and she instantly recognizes the name of the enigma on her coffee table.
"It's beautiful," she says huskily and rolls onto her side, her fingertips dancing across his bare chest. She ruffles the light dusting of hair in the center of his chest, tracing the satiny line of down to his navel.
"Yes," he agrees gruffly and smoothes his large hand down the length of her spine in a sensual stroke that makes her want to purr. "And transient."
She presses her lips to one flat bronze nipple, drowning the sound of Wilson's words with the deep thud of her quickening pulse. His hand tangles in her hair, gently guiding her head back to the pillow. He only lets her look into his brokenly haunting gaze for a split-second before claiming her lips in a devastating kiss. She clings to him with a desperation that frightens her. All night, his shattered gaze twists in her mind, a dark world that both entices and repels her.
When she wakes up, the sheets on the other side of the bed are cool, and the wilted white flower lays against the pillow, weakened by the daylight. Its fragrance persists faintly, clinging to life on a thread that will quickly lose its battle against time.
She touches the dying satiny petals with one fingertip and wipes away an errant tear with the back of her hand.
The End.
A/N: Reviews are love. :-)