Fairy Tale Fantasies
Even in the looming shadows of the tiny tent, Boone could see how her blonde hair sparkled, and how a charming innocence danced on her youthful face. She was sleeping – no, 'sleeping' would be too strong a word, because everything that Claire did was with a certain subtlety and tranquility. Claire was simply dozing, like Sleeping Beauty had for so many years; her cheeks slightly flushed a creamy rose on her porcelain skin. He unscrewed the cap of the water bottle, praying that he wouldn't disturb this angelic portrait. All that remained on her soft, elegant face as a reminder of the trauma they had been through was a deep, reddish cut across her forehead – it clashed horribly with the rest of her face. It was like the blood that had resulted when Snow White's mother had pricked her finger on her loom. What had Snow White's dear mother done to deserve such a fate? What had beautiful Claire ever done to deserve to crash on this island?
As he moved the bottle of water closer to her face, he looked at her again, awed by how fair she was – so friendly and sweet and undeniably beautiful. But her beauty was different from any other he had witnessed. Shannon was beautiful in a sultry, overt way, and he was endlessly and darkly in love with her, but Claire was beautiful in a way that seemed to illuminate around her and follow her wherever she walked, though laden with the weight of her child. Claire seemed to be straight out of a fairytale – not a generic, Disney fairy tale, but out of one of those rare fairy tales with calligraphy and hand-made paintings gracing every page.
He held the water bottle to her lips, and he watched as she drank – no, sipped, the water eagerly. He didn't want her to open her eyes, he was afraid it might break the spell, but as her eyes popped open, with their spellbinding warmth, he wasn't sorry they had. "Where'd you get that?" She whispered, her eyes widening like Gretel's had when she first saw the witch's house of gingerbread.
Claire was the kind of girl who Boone was supposed to love – a sweet, polite girl whom he would adore just enough, but not too much. Claire was the kind of girl whom Boone could imagine himself marrying and growing old with. He could learn to love this girl, this Claire, almost a mother when she was still merely a child.
"Shhhhh," he told her, wiping her chin with his thumb. Her pale skin was warm and soft – it had a different quality than Shannon's had when he had traced his fingers over her obstinate body, groping down her neck and her chest and hips. He felt guilty just thinking about it in front of the cherubic Claire. No, he and Claire wouldn't engage in drunken, guilty sex on a Saturday night – they would sit on the couch watching black and white movies and she would cuddle into him.
Yes, he could definitely learn to love this girl. In a fairy tale, he could be the solemn, powerful king, and she could be the soft-spoken queen, but in both cases, their fairytales had gone awry.