Author's Note: After much thought with no grand ideas, a questionnaire sent out to the list, and pouring through baby name books and sites, I finally decided on the perfect name for the main character – Susannah. The next afternoon, while driving around campus, I saw a fair sized billboard for a new play that was going to be performed at my university. The billboard was simple, it had only one word that was large and emphasized – the name of the play. Susannah. When I saw this, I smiled immediately, and somehow knew that this character's name was meant to be.
Nostalgia, Bittersweet.
1900.
Susannah stands behind the bar rubbing her temples. She is fatigued and her head aches, but the night is not yet over. As she looks out on the filled dance floor from behind the bar, the men in their black suits and top hats, the women glittering in diamonds and extravagances, she sighs deeply - forlornly. She stares at them, studies them from behind the bottles of tinted glass and long stemmed wine cups and short beer mugs surrounding her….and for a moment is lost in wonder at how their curved surfaces distort the room. Somehow, they make everything sparkle with a new light – the room obscures and all is blended together in a fabulous blurred display of colour and light. She cannot see their faces, cannot really even distinguish one face from another. If she were on the other side of the glass, would her face melt into the swirl of others? Perhaps. Through the glass, she could join them and no one would notice that she was not one in the same.
She wishes she were one of them, but not because she wants her share in the money or the frivolousness. No. She only wants to know what it would be like to dance without care. To flirt and drink without paying mind to what is proper or what will be thought of her if she isn't….proper. At that moment, she wishes the world did not have clear vision. She wishes to step out from behind her bar and walk amongst the light hearted, to mesh with them, to partake of their joy. Their freedom.
"I'll have another, Miss."
The voice tears her from her daydreams, but she must oblige. She stands, regaining her stick straight posture and smoothing her skirts. Somehow the light appears harsher to her eyes now that she has not the shield of the thick glass. A stray curl has worked it way from the twist at the nape of her neck, and she tucks it behind her ear while she reaches for the bottle of scotch. She fills his low-walled glass nearly to the brim with golden brown liquid, and he thanks her. She acknowledges him with a slight nod of her head and a tight lipped, but polite smile. The curl she removes from behind her ear and twists and pins it into place. Returning to her daydreams, she keeps one eye on the clock, eager for the time to come when the doors of the Ferrand-Benoni must shut and her brother will come for her.
He arrives on time. She finds him waiting at the door to meet her and holding her coat. Thomas. He used to be a newsboy in his younger days, but gave it up when he found he needed something more suiting to his financial needs. Susannah remembers when he used to rise early to sell at least twenty-five papers before school started, and then how he'd come home late, missing dinner, after selling the evening edition and carousing with some of his fellow newsboys. But that was two years ago. His position now includes waiting tables while dreaming of attending a university – he doesn't care which. He has interviewed for a part time clerical position but does not hope to get it. He knows better than to hope.
They walk home in near silence. The night air is still, and the moon is at first quarter, resting high in the near starless sky. Susannah pulls her gray coat around her, more in an effort to keep out the dampness than the chill. She wants nothing more than to be nestled in her bed, but knows she still has a few more blocks to walk before she gets there. "How was your day?" she asks her brother in a soft voice.
Thomas shrugs. "It was alright, I suppose. Business as usual. How was yours?"
"The same," she replies. They walk on in quiet, neither having anything to say to the other that could be spoken in words. When they reach the old, brownstone building that they call home, he opens the door and allows her to walk inside first. Up four flights of stairs they climb, to a room at the end of a narrow corridor. Susannah pulls at the ribbon hanging around her neck. At the end of it is a key that she has tucked into the breast of her dress. She places the key into the lock and turns it. The door opens with a mild creak of complaint, and they step inside the small, dark apartment.
Susannah removes her coat and places it into her brother's waiting hands. He hangs it neatly on its proper hook and begins to take off his own to do the same. As he turns back towards her, he notices that his sister is standing still and unmoving, her body frozen and her eyes downcast. Thomas steps behind her to see what has affected her in such a way. In doing so, he notices that her eyes have found the large envelope stuffed thick with papers and bearing her name. "Oh Su," he says in a whispered voice, "I'm sure it's not-"
She sighs and stoops slowly to pick it up from the table. The envelope, she opens. It emits a ripping sound that echoes through the silent room. From it, she removes a stack of papers and allows the envelope to fall to the floor. She places the stack on the table, and separates a folded piece from it. "Dear Madam," Susannah reads in a hushed voice, "We regret to inform you that we are not accepting submissions at this time…." Her voice trails off, and she lets the hand holding the letter fall to her side in defeat.
Thomas puts a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "Aw, what do they know anyway? Huh? They wouldn't know anything good if it hit them in the face. Don't worry about it. There're plenty of others out there."
"Thom," she replies, her voice wavering a bit as she pauses to bite her lip, "It's the fourth one this month." She shakes her head in resignation. "I suppose I should just be glad that they sent the manuscript back to me this time. I cannot afford to have another made." She puts the papers back on the table where they were found, and softly creeps into her mother's room, where she leans over and gives the sleeping woman a soft kiss on the cheek.
Susannah then tiptoes into the small bedroom that she shares with her brother to find him already nestled into his bed. After she has entered, he turns toward the wall, averting his eyes so that she can disrobe. Exchanging her full-bodiced dress, corset and petticoats for the soft worn fabric of a white cotton nightgown, she stands before a small cracked mirror above the table that doubles as a desk and a vanity and runs a comb through her hair. Dividing the honeyed-brown tresses into three parts, her nimble fingers twist it into a single braid that grazes her lower back. She then slips into her own tiny bed with a sigh of comfort and pulls the covers up over her small shoulders.
A look of confusion falls over Thomas's face as he hears the moaning creaks of her body's contact with the bed. He turns over quickly to find darkness instead of the warm glow of a lit candle and her desk empty. So often does she sit up late at night, the nib of her quill scratching over a fresh sheet of paper by candlelight, that he has learned to sleep despite the scratching and the soft glow invading his ears and eyes. Sometimes, he even hears and sees her nib scrawling across creamy beige paper in his dreams. But not tonight.
Susannah has resigned to not write. She is disappointed and disheartened by the letter of rejection, and she has not the strength to force her self to overcome it this night. Besides, her mind is filled with things more consuming than her manuscripts tonight. She closes her tired eyes and allows her mind to drift back to early afternoon.
The library. In addition to keeping the bar at the Ferrand-Benoni, Susannah holds a part-time position reshelving books inside the thick stone walls of the 62nd street Branch of the Manhattan Public Library. She endures the dust and the menial tasks, the musty smell and the small amount of light filtering in from windows that are far too small and far too high for one simple reason. On rare occasions when her work is sparse or none, or when the head librarian's stern eye is not upon her, she is free to thumb through the thousands of books lining the shelves around her. She pours over a copy of "The Portrait of A Lady" by James at lunchtime, and secretly skims through Herodotus while replacing books in the section marked "History." She considers the dimly lit, cold building the nearest place to heaven that she has ever entered. On this particular early March afternoon, Susannah is hiding in a corner near "Fiction." She sits on a stepping stool, her cream coloured work skirt rumpled around her, eyes downcast on the end of precious bit of text with a burgundy hued cover and gold lettering labeling it, Mansfield Park.
She pauses from her reading to look up at the small, recessed windows and sigh at how romantic it all seems. Closing her eyes, she pretends she is Fanny Price and that her Edmund has finally realized the error of his ways. It is a beautiful thought – opening one's arms to the sole person one has pined over for such a long time. Yet, despite the loveliness of it all, she laughs. "The error of his ways," she thinks and chuckles softly at the pretentiousness her own wording, opening her eyes in the meantime. Standing, she stretches and smoothes the wrinkles in her skirt before adding the book back to her cart's load. "Better get back to work before Miss Dannigan finds me slacking on the job again," she whispers to herself and takes hold of the cart, pushing it to the next row. She wheels it past an aisle between shelves, looking up to the sole person standing in the midst of the books and continues on her way. A few steps later, the familiarity of the lone figure strikes her. She pauses, and then pulls her cart back to the row in which he stands. Peeking around the corner, he comes into full view and her soft brown eyes widen with recognition.
From the moment she places her eyes onto his face, it is as though all of her blood rushes to her head. Try as she may, she cannot force her gaze to leave his body. Her skin blushes bloody hot, yet prickles as though a cold wind has suddenly rushed through the room. Everything about him, his posture - the line his body makes as it is slightly hunched, his eyes cast downward upon a book that he cradles gently in his ink-blacked right hand. The way his head is tilted ever so slightly to the left allowing a soft beam of golden light to fall from the window above and streak across his dark, unkempt hair. The simplicity of the concentrated attention he gives to the words before his eyes. She cannot envision a more sensitively beautiful scene if she tries. She can smell clearly the distinct fragrance of an autumn gone by two years ago in the room filled with stale books, dust, and mold.
You are what they call the human season
It is not an uncommon sight. She is quite used to seeing him with a book in hand, pouring over it at any and every free moment. But he is taller than she remembers him being. But two years have indeed past since last her eyes saw his face or her tongue stumbled over his name's grace. His build is also stronger, his limbs less lanky, less flimsy. His hair is darker, but his eyes remain the same. What stands before her is not the boy of yesteryear, but an entirely different creature. A man, perhaps. But not quite. Susannah wants him to look at her. She wants to emit a noise or a sentence from her lips that will call his attention to her face. She wants to delight in the expression of surprise on his face that she hopes he will have after the two years of time put between them.
"No," she thinks. She cannot. She is suddenly frightened to call his awareness to her. Perhaps what is the past is better left in the past. She should simply walk away quietly and let it all be what it was. But her heart betrays her. It sends a message to her vocal chords and they vibrate softly, causing a faint murmur that is more sound than words to pas through her lips. She gasps softly, clamping a hand to her mouth, ashamed. Her first impulse is to swiftly duck behind the shelf before he looks her way. Though she tries to make her escape, her legs will not move, and she stands as if riveted to the ground, her eyes transfixed upon him. As if his heart is returning the call of hers, he looks up from his novel. His soulful eyes fall upon her slight framed body and he searches her face for a trace of remembrance. Finding it, a crooked smile plays upon his lips, and ever so softly, he utters a single word. It is the most perfect word she has ever heard. "Susannah." Susannah feels her knees begin to buckle at his mention of her name and her beats madly as he takes a step toward her.
He approaches her and smiles. They speak, softly and formally. But somewhere between the "how are you's" , the "my brother is fine, thank you," the talk of the book he reads and the jobs she now holds, a familiar tinge of pain re-emerges. Susannah cannot deny that his words are lighting upon the part of her heart that remains somewhat wounded by the work of his hands two years prior.
But he has unfortunately caught her at the end of her shift. After a quick glance at the clock, she informs him that she regrets that she must be going. She must make her way to her evening job. The Ferrand-Benoni does not accept anything less than punctuality. In truth, she does regret wholeheartedly parting from him. In the short duration of their conversation, she has already foolishly allowed herself to become enraptured once again with his soulful, deep brown eyes and the way his mouth forms around certain words as he speaks. The tilt of his head. The gestures of his hands. The way he gently touches her elbow to emphasize a point. His ease. His familiarity. He leaves her with one final promising remark: "So, maybe I'll see you around?"
You are all the alphabet in one
"Yeah, Skitts. Maybe so," is all that she can manage in return. Susannah considers herself fortunate that she was forced to depart. She reiterates this truth in her mind when she reaches the nightclub and wanders into the back room to change from her dusty work clothing into her dark, rich violet waistcoat and matching skirt and fastens her flowered brooch onto her breast. But she is not certain that she believes it.
She closes her eyes and turns over in her bed to face the window. Moonlight pours through it, casting its silvery beams over her face. Such timing. Just when she thinks that she might be forgetting about him, he waltzes back into her life with such nonchalance – his return is so gracefully effortless, that is seems as though it was perhaps fated to occur.
You are every colour of confusion
When Thom was seventeen and still earned wages as a newsboy, he and Andrew Ingram, also called Skittery, were good friends, despite their age difference. Though Andrew was in fact twenty-three months younger than Thomas, he had always possessed a maturity and rationality about him that made his actual age irrelevant. Skittery was introduced to Thomas's twin sister quite by luck. Susannah had simply happened to walk into the room when her brother arrived at their apartment with Skittery in tow to drop off his day's earnings and announce to his mother that he would be home late. "Oh, Skitts, this is Susannah," Thom had offhandedly stated in a low voice.
She had been just a schoolgirl of seventeen then. A schoolgirl whose grand view of the world was formed from naivety when she shyly said, "Pleased to meet you." And then subsequently tumbled headlong into a full fledged relationship soon after. She had wanted him from the initial moment she'd glimpsed at him with her wide child-like eyes. He was her first. Her first in everything. Her first real kiss – not considering the frivolous kisses eight year old boys graced her with on the playground while laughing. The first to hold her hand and heart simultaneously. Her first flirtation with things that were not deemed proper for young ladies to be thinking, much less acting out.
"Have you ever done anything like this before?" she remembers asking him late one evening while Thom was out with his friends and her mother slept peacefully unaware that her daughter had covertly crawled out of her window. They were seated on the edge of his bed in the empty bunkroom vacated by other newsboys who were out attending a party in nearby Midtown. Each word was whispered and each movement painstakingly quiet so as not arouse the suspicion of Kloppman. Their breaths were shallow – both from the excitement of their actions and the danger of someone strolling into the room to find them.
"Anything like what?" he had returned, undoing another the buttons at her throat to kiss the curve where her neck met her collarbone.
She had laughed softly. Gesturing with a circular wave of her hand, she said, "This." The thought of uttering the correct words to explain their actions made her titter with embarrassment as a hot blush graced her cheeks.
He had looked deeply into her eyes and said with the most riveting honesty, "No." And she had believed him, and allowed him to take liberties with her body that though they did not extend to the brink of immoral, were still considered scandalous. But it had all been a lie. Susannah does not remember exactly how she found out, or which newsboy informed her, but the information was nonetheless revealed. She was appalled, betrayed, and outraged. When she confronted him with the knowledge, she hoped beyond hope that he would refute it. That he would tell her it was all a horrible, malicious lie. That her fears would be quelled. But he did not. He owned up to his wrong doings and confessed everything to her in immense detail. And at the end of his story, his eyes had welled up – tears wanted to spill down his cheeks, but were being damned back by his sheer willpower. So honest and touching was his apology. So sincere was his pain.
But she could not forgive him. She did not know how. He had lied to her, and that lie had been the deepest hurt and humiliation she had ever experienced. Therefore, she ran. Ran away from him – and vowed to never speak or think of him again. Though her subconscious frequently broke her vow, she still could not bring herself to forgive him. Tonight is no exception. Time has not assuaged her hurt, she finds. The meeting earlier has only served to remind her of it. Looking back, it was only one small lie, and perhaps she had overreacted a bit. No, she tells herself, no. If he tells one lie with ease, he is bound to tell another. Each will increase in magnitude.
You are all the silence I've become
Days pass one after another, dissolving into a blur of monotony. Susannah yawns as she stands once again at her post behind the bar, her back to mirrors that reflect the dazzling ambiance around her. Tonight the atmosphere is different – patrons of the Ferrand are more refined, more elegant. They are guests of Mr. Gammon, owner of The Sun, who is hosting his yearly ball. She looks at the fine gowns on the escorts of the gentlemen employees of Mr. Gammon with a lustful eye. Parisian silk. Viennese lace. Mother of pearl brooches. Delicate shoes with clever heels. Susannah glances downward at her own severe waistcoat – last year's design - and her black boots with shame. She quickly moves behind some conveniently placed bottles of wine to conceal her less than elegant dress. Nervously twisting a stray curl at her neck, she crouches, forcing her vision to pass through the bottles. Again the world appears as a pleasant swirl of colour and light – beautiful ambiguity, she decides. Soon it will be over. It is growing later and night is drawing to an end. The exquisite souls before her will venture home to their grand estates, and Susannah will find her way back to the small apartment and write extravagant tales of them.
"Ahem."
Susannah quickly rises to heed the call of the voice that has summoned her and is taken aback by the man that stands before her.
"What exactly were you doin' there?" he asks with a slight smile, craning his neck to look behind the counter.
His face is the same. His smile. His eyes still the identical shade of deep umber. "Just reaching for something," she replies, surveying his attire. His dress is rather fine – quite different from his worn slacks, dingy shirt with rolled back sleeves and newsboy's cap.
He senses that she is studying his dark double-breasted suit and tie and suddenly becomes self-conscious. "It's uh, one of Denton's," he quickly replies, "But the coat's a little loose, and the pants are, well, too short. Do you like it?"
"You look very handsome," she replies with truth, though a slight tone of unease affects her voice, "But exactly where is Denton, and how in the world did you weasel your way in here?"
He laughs. Nervously running a hand through his slicked back hair and mussing it noticeably, he says, "Denton is uh, in Jersey. Some family business or something. He didn't say much 'bout it. He told me just to come on my own anyway. Told me to tell the doorman that I was him, and that there'd be so many people here that they'd never notice that I wasn't….we were supposed to come together. I, uh..well – when I found out you were working here the other day, and I begged him to take me with 'im. He laughed at me." Skittery nods and shrugs lightheartedly. Then his eyes fall to his newly polished shoes and his voice becomes earnest and soft. "But I…….I just had to see you." He pauses. "Ever since a few days ago – in the library – ever since then, I jus' can't stop thinkin' about you." He brings his gaze up to meet hers and laughs once more. "There. I said it."
Love me for
Stupid reasons
I like those most
She does not know how to respond to such a proclamation. Her mouth gapes open slightly while she mentally fumbles for something suiting – anything. "So, have you spoken to Thomas lately?" She changes the subject.
"No," he replies, a bit flustered by her evasive change of topic. "Geez, I haven't talked to Thom in, hmm…months now."
"Oh."
"Could I get another whiskey, please?" A dandy to her far right rattles his ice filled glass and looks at Susannah with expectant eyes. She remembers her place and her duties and searches for the requested bottle. She fills his glass and re-corks the bottle. He waits patiently for the next fifteen minutes as more patrons come and request new or freshened drinks from Susannah. After the flow has ceased, he makes his move. "So, I was wonderin'," Skittery begins, leaning on the counter to recapture her attention. He picks up a short glass and sets it back down on the bar, turning it as he speaks. "Would you wanna dance? With me?" He raises his deep brown eyes toward her face, expecting her to decline. She does not respond. "Well, I figured. It's alright though." He looks toward the clock on the wall. "It's bout time for me to be headin' back anyway. Would you at least walk me out?" Skittery offers her a hopeful smile.
She begins to refuse once more. She opens her mouth and outward comes, "Oh, well, I couldn't possibly. I'm working and if I leave my bar, then-"
"I'll watch it for you," a female voice says from behind, interrupting her. Susannah turns to find a pair of smiling brown eyes that belong to a fellow barmaid. "Besides, the night's almost over. No one will notice if you skip out on the last few minutes."
"Oh…well. Alright then. I suppose." She sighs. "Lillian, this is Andrew Ingram. Andrew, Lillian Rembrandt."
"Pleased to meet you," Lillian replies.
"Same here," is Andrew's response. He looks at Susannah expectantly, and after she casts a long uncertain look over her shoulder, she follows him to the coatroom. It is empty, fortunately. Skittery turns to her and offers her an uncomfortable half smile in the near dark. "So…" he begins. Licking his lips quickly, he looks out onto the Ferrand, out onto the floor where most of the guests are still dancing and then back to Susannah. Without a word, he gently and purposefully grasps her around the waist and places his right hand in the air. After a moment's deliberation, she hesitantly accepts. Placing her left hand in his, she rests her right on his shoulder. He takes a small step forward and they begin to slowly move in time with the orchestrated music: their steps making modest circles in the narrow coatroom as he gracefully sweeps her across the floor. Her gaze never breaks the intensity of his, except to cast a nervous glance or two over her should in order to make certain that no one watches.
Wide-eyed but
Worth believing
As they dance, he dares to ask, "So, when can I see you again? That is, if I can see ya."
She laughs softly and blushes, thankful for the darkness. "I don't know," is her response.
"Oh," he returns thoughtfully, "Well, what about tomorrow? You doing anything?"
Tomorrow is her night off, and she knows full well that she is doing nothing – except for writing, perhaps. Yet, she takes a moment to ponder his question. However, her thoughts are not about whether or not she has plans. No. They concern whether or not she'd dare to see him again. To open herself up for possible heartache once more. She knows her how heart functions. She knows how quickly it will throw itself into any promising situation, how quickly it will trust without thought to possible consequences. She knows that the more she sees him, the more she will become attached. Susannah raises her eyes to his. His brown eyes, full of expectation and awaiting her answer. "No," she murmurs.
"Alright," he says, "How about I meet you somewhere then? Let's say Charley's on 6th at five o'clock?"
She nods in agreement, uncertain of all that is entailed in what she has just agreed to. The waltz's soft steady melody plays on, and Skittery continues to lead her with ease. "Andrew Ingram," she says after a moment, "if I didn't know better, I'd swear you were a gentleman." To her statement, he responds with first a blank look of confusion and then a soft snicker. Realizing how her phrasing must have sounded to him, she gasps in surprise at her folly and quickly makes amends by retracting her statement. "Oh, no...it's not that you aren't! I didn't mean it that way! I meant that I'd think you were one of them." She gestures with a slight tilt of her head to the happy clusters of people moving gracefully over the dance floor. "Oh, I'm sorry," she whispers.
Skittery offers her a slight smile, and through the shadows, she can't detect a bit of soft sadness in his eyes. "No," he responds, shaking his head. "Su, I'm sorry."
"What for?" she questions.
"You know."
"Oh." Her gaze falls to the floor. The weight of his words and their meanings has hit her like bricks and is now sinking into her stomach. She lifts her eyes to his to attempt to comfort him with a reassuring statement or something of the sort. It will be a lie, but at the moment assuaging his guilt is more important to her than her own broken heart. As her gaze rises, she notices an expression of quiet intent spreading over his face. Susannah knows it well.
God knows
She hasn't been kissed in years. And as every girl desires, she wants ever so much to feel another's lips upon hers once more. Specifically, she longs to feel his lips upon hers. She craved them with an insatiable hunger that frightens her. But her fear moves her to turn her face slightly to the left when his lips draw near. He pauses and then slowly retreats. "Alright," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to impose. I'll see you tomorrow then?"
She nods in agreement.
He gives her a tight-lipped smile. Turning, he grabs is coat, bids her goodbye with a soft kiss placed upon the freckled back of her hand, and disappears through the door and into the night. As soon as he has gone from her, she leans back on the wall, releases a deep sigh and closes her eyes. Immediately, her heart begins to chide her for being so damn afraid.
Damn the angry voice that keeps us quiet
The editor whose work is never done
Keeping pretty words between my teeth and
Sweet confessions underneath my tongue
After a night of fitful sleep, she decides that it was best that she did not allow herself to receive his kiss. She needs time. Time to mull things over – straighten them out. Time to analyze and reanalyze all of the possible angles. Time to talk sense into herself.
Drowsy contemplation
Do I let you in
Well, this is my invitation
But how do I begin?
Therefore, when five o'clock draws near, she instead retreats inside of the small, cramped apartment instead of making her way to 6th Street. Susannah hates the fact that she must be so rude, but considers it possibly the only way to make a clean escape. Instead, she sits at her desk, scribbling away at some new work of fiction for hours. The nib of her pen scratching steadily and furiously across the sheets of paper before her. Into the night she writes. She does not notice the time that has elaspsed. She does not notice the tangles in her hair, the ink smudged across her face and the fingers of her left hand, the wild look in her eyes. Nothing. She writes to ease her mind – she writes for distraction. The scratching of the pen provides a monotonous humming melody that drowns out all extraneous thoughts. It purifies her. Lost in her words, she is who she wants to be where she pleases, doing exactly as she wishes to do.
She is so deaf and blind to the world around her that she barely gives notice to the hard driving rain that arrives at six thirty and slacks off by seven forty five. The darkness slowly falling upon the city soon after and bringing with it a thick fog that enshrouds the buildings and streets. Foregoing food, she rises once to wash and change into sleeping dress, and then returns to her writing.
The twilight hour has almost passed before she rises from her chair and gathers her wrapper around her. She walks across her bedroom over to the window, where she slowly draws back the curtain. The first thing she notices is the dense midst covering the streets with a veil as if there were forbidden. Looking closer, she makes out a lone figure. A male figure. He stands with his hands in his pockets. His posture is slumped a bit possibly from fatigue. As a bit of fog draws back, she is able to make out his dark hair and eyes. His head slightly tilted back as he stares up toward her window. Skittery.
Thom approaches from behind. He glances over her shoulder. Noting the figure below, he asks, "Do you want me to make him go away?"
She looks back toward her brother. "No," is her soft reply. Thomas shrugs and then walks away, leaving Susannah to her solitude. She wonders how long he has been standing in that one spot, staring wistfully up at her window, his expression laced with confusion and hope. She stares down at him with the longing, regretful half lidded gaze that mirrors that of a maiden of lore, held captive in a high tower. But her imprisonment is the fault of her own hand. And so they both stand unmoving, communicating with each other in the unspoken language of broken hearts.
She has such an awful lot of soldiers
Quite a lovely army all her own
Night and day they stand before the fortress
Very safe but very all alone
FIN
*song is "My Invitation," by Sarah Slean. It is utterly beautiful and haunting.
Nostalgia, Bittersweet.
1900.
Susannah stands behind the bar rubbing her temples. She is fatigued and her head aches, but the night is not yet over. As she looks out on the filled dance floor from behind the bar, the men in their black suits and top hats, the women glittering in diamonds and extravagances, she sighs deeply - forlornly. She stares at them, studies them from behind the bottles of tinted glass and long stemmed wine cups and short beer mugs surrounding her….and for a moment is lost in wonder at how their curved surfaces distort the room. Somehow, they make everything sparkle with a new light – the room obscures and all is blended together in a fabulous blurred display of colour and light. She cannot see their faces, cannot really even distinguish one face from another. If she were on the other side of the glass, would her face melt into the swirl of others? Perhaps. Through the glass, she could join them and no one would notice that she was not one in the same.
She wishes she were one of them, but not because she wants her share in the money or the frivolousness. No. She only wants to know what it would be like to dance without care. To flirt and drink without paying mind to what is proper or what will be thought of her if she isn't….proper. At that moment, she wishes the world did not have clear vision. She wishes to step out from behind her bar and walk amongst the light hearted, to mesh with them, to partake of their joy. Their freedom.
"I'll have another, Miss."
The voice tears her from her daydreams, but she must oblige. She stands, regaining her stick straight posture and smoothing her skirts. Somehow the light appears harsher to her eyes now that she has not the shield of the thick glass. A stray curl has worked it way from the twist at the nape of her neck, and she tucks it behind her ear while she reaches for the bottle of scotch. She fills his low-walled glass nearly to the brim with golden brown liquid, and he thanks her. She acknowledges him with a slight nod of her head and a tight lipped, but polite smile. The curl she removes from behind her ear and twists and pins it into place. Returning to her daydreams, she keeps one eye on the clock, eager for the time to come when the doors of the Ferrand-Benoni must shut and her brother will come for her.
He arrives on time. She finds him waiting at the door to meet her and holding her coat. Thomas. He used to be a newsboy in his younger days, but gave it up when he found he needed something more suiting to his financial needs. Susannah remembers when he used to rise early to sell at least twenty-five papers before school started, and then how he'd come home late, missing dinner, after selling the evening edition and carousing with some of his fellow newsboys. But that was two years ago. His position now includes waiting tables while dreaming of attending a university – he doesn't care which. He has interviewed for a part time clerical position but does not hope to get it. He knows better than to hope.
They walk home in near silence. The night air is still, and the moon is at first quarter, resting high in the near starless sky. Susannah pulls her gray coat around her, more in an effort to keep out the dampness than the chill. She wants nothing more than to be nestled in her bed, but knows she still has a few more blocks to walk before she gets there. "How was your day?" she asks her brother in a soft voice.
Thomas shrugs. "It was alright, I suppose. Business as usual. How was yours?"
"The same," she replies. They walk on in quiet, neither having anything to say to the other that could be spoken in words. When they reach the old, brownstone building that they call home, he opens the door and allows her to walk inside first. Up four flights of stairs they climb, to a room at the end of a narrow corridor. Susannah pulls at the ribbon hanging around her neck. At the end of it is a key that she has tucked into the breast of her dress. She places the key into the lock and turns it. The door opens with a mild creak of complaint, and they step inside the small, dark apartment.
Susannah removes her coat and places it into her brother's waiting hands. He hangs it neatly on its proper hook and begins to take off his own to do the same. As he turns back towards her, he notices that his sister is standing still and unmoving, her body frozen and her eyes downcast. Thomas steps behind her to see what has affected her in such a way. In doing so, he notices that her eyes have found the large envelope stuffed thick with papers and bearing her name. "Oh Su," he says in a whispered voice, "I'm sure it's not-"
She sighs and stoops slowly to pick it up from the table. The envelope, she opens. It emits a ripping sound that echoes through the silent room. From it, she removes a stack of papers and allows the envelope to fall to the floor. She places the stack on the table, and separates a folded piece from it. "Dear Madam," Susannah reads in a hushed voice, "We regret to inform you that we are not accepting submissions at this time…." Her voice trails off, and she lets the hand holding the letter fall to her side in defeat.
Thomas puts a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "Aw, what do they know anyway? Huh? They wouldn't know anything good if it hit them in the face. Don't worry about it. There're plenty of others out there."
"Thom," she replies, her voice wavering a bit as she pauses to bite her lip, "It's the fourth one this month." She shakes her head in resignation. "I suppose I should just be glad that they sent the manuscript back to me this time. I cannot afford to have another made." She puts the papers back on the table where they were found, and softly creeps into her mother's room, where she leans over and gives the sleeping woman a soft kiss on the cheek.
Susannah then tiptoes into the small bedroom that she shares with her brother to find him already nestled into his bed. After she has entered, he turns toward the wall, averting his eyes so that she can disrobe. Exchanging her full-bodiced dress, corset and petticoats for the soft worn fabric of a white cotton nightgown, she stands before a small cracked mirror above the table that doubles as a desk and a vanity and runs a comb through her hair. Dividing the honeyed-brown tresses into three parts, her nimble fingers twist it into a single braid that grazes her lower back. She then slips into her own tiny bed with a sigh of comfort and pulls the covers up over her small shoulders.
A look of confusion falls over Thomas's face as he hears the moaning creaks of her body's contact with the bed. He turns over quickly to find darkness instead of the warm glow of a lit candle and her desk empty. So often does she sit up late at night, the nib of her quill scratching over a fresh sheet of paper by candlelight, that he has learned to sleep despite the scratching and the soft glow invading his ears and eyes. Sometimes, he even hears and sees her nib scrawling across creamy beige paper in his dreams. But not tonight.
Susannah has resigned to not write. She is disappointed and disheartened by the letter of rejection, and she has not the strength to force her self to overcome it this night. Besides, her mind is filled with things more consuming than her manuscripts tonight. She closes her tired eyes and allows her mind to drift back to early afternoon.
The library. In addition to keeping the bar at the Ferrand-Benoni, Susannah holds a part-time position reshelving books inside the thick stone walls of the 62nd street Branch of the Manhattan Public Library. She endures the dust and the menial tasks, the musty smell and the small amount of light filtering in from windows that are far too small and far too high for one simple reason. On rare occasions when her work is sparse or none, or when the head librarian's stern eye is not upon her, she is free to thumb through the thousands of books lining the shelves around her. She pours over a copy of "The Portrait of A Lady" by James at lunchtime, and secretly skims through Herodotus while replacing books in the section marked "History." She considers the dimly lit, cold building the nearest place to heaven that she has ever entered. On this particular early March afternoon, Susannah is hiding in a corner near "Fiction." She sits on a stepping stool, her cream coloured work skirt rumpled around her, eyes downcast on the end of precious bit of text with a burgundy hued cover and gold lettering labeling it, Mansfield Park.
She pauses from her reading to look up at the small, recessed windows and sigh at how romantic it all seems. Closing her eyes, she pretends she is Fanny Price and that her Edmund has finally realized the error of his ways. It is a beautiful thought – opening one's arms to the sole person one has pined over for such a long time. Yet, despite the loveliness of it all, she laughs. "The error of his ways," she thinks and chuckles softly at the pretentiousness her own wording, opening her eyes in the meantime. Standing, she stretches and smoothes the wrinkles in her skirt before adding the book back to her cart's load. "Better get back to work before Miss Dannigan finds me slacking on the job again," she whispers to herself and takes hold of the cart, pushing it to the next row. She wheels it past an aisle between shelves, looking up to the sole person standing in the midst of the books and continues on her way. A few steps later, the familiarity of the lone figure strikes her. She pauses, and then pulls her cart back to the row in which he stands. Peeking around the corner, he comes into full view and her soft brown eyes widen with recognition.
From the moment she places her eyes onto his face, it is as though all of her blood rushes to her head. Try as she may, she cannot force her gaze to leave his body. Her skin blushes bloody hot, yet prickles as though a cold wind has suddenly rushed through the room. Everything about him, his posture - the line his body makes as it is slightly hunched, his eyes cast downward upon a book that he cradles gently in his ink-blacked right hand. The way his head is tilted ever so slightly to the left allowing a soft beam of golden light to fall from the window above and streak across his dark, unkempt hair. The simplicity of the concentrated attention he gives to the words before his eyes. She cannot envision a more sensitively beautiful scene if she tries. She can smell clearly the distinct fragrance of an autumn gone by two years ago in the room filled with stale books, dust, and mold.
You are what they call the human season
It is not an uncommon sight. She is quite used to seeing him with a book in hand, pouring over it at any and every free moment. But he is taller than she remembers him being. But two years have indeed past since last her eyes saw his face or her tongue stumbled over his name's grace. His build is also stronger, his limbs less lanky, less flimsy. His hair is darker, but his eyes remain the same. What stands before her is not the boy of yesteryear, but an entirely different creature. A man, perhaps. But not quite. Susannah wants him to look at her. She wants to emit a noise or a sentence from her lips that will call his attention to her face. She wants to delight in the expression of surprise on his face that she hopes he will have after the two years of time put between them.
"No," she thinks. She cannot. She is suddenly frightened to call his awareness to her. Perhaps what is the past is better left in the past. She should simply walk away quietly and let it all be what it was. But her heart betrays her. It sends a message to her vocal chords and they vibrate softly, causing a faint murmur that is more sound than words to pas through her lips. She gasps softly, clamping a hand to her mouth, ashamed. Her first impulse is to swiftly duck behind the shelf before he looks her way. Though she tries to make her escape, her legs will not move, and she stands as if riveted to the ground, her eyes transfixed upon him. As if his heart is returning the call of hers, he looks up from his novel. His soulful eyes fall upon her slight framed body and he searches her face for a trace of remembrance. Finding it, a crooked smile plays upon his lips, and ever so softly, he utters a single word. It is the most perfect word she has ever heard. "Susannah." Susannah feels her knees begin to buckle at his mention of her name and her beats madly as he takes a step toward her.
He approaches her and smiles. They speak, softly and formally. But somewhere between the "how are you's" , the "my brother is fine, thank you," the talk of the book he reads and the jobs she now holds, a familiar tinge of pain re-emerges. Susannah cannot deny that his words are lighting upon the part of her heart that remains somewhat wounded by the work of his hands two years prior.
But he has unfortunately caught her at the end of her shift. After a quick glance at the clock, she informs him that she regrets that she must be going. She must make her way to her evening job. The Ferrand-Benoni does not accept anything less than punctuality. In truth, she does regret wholeheartedly parting from him. In the short duration of their conversation, she has already foolishly allowed herself to become enraptured once again with his soulful, deep brown eyes and the way his mouth forms around certain words as he speaks. The tilt of his head. The gestures of his hands. The way he gently touches her elbow to emphasize a point. His ease. His familiarity. He leaves her with one final promising remark: "So, maybe I'll see you around?"
You are all the alphabet in one
"Yeah, Skitts. Maybe so," is all that she can manage in return. Susannah considers herself fortunate that she was forced to depart. She reiterates this truth in her mind when she reaches the nightclub and wanders into the back room to change from her dusty work clothing into her dark, rich violet waistcoat and matching skirt and fastens her flowered brooch onto her breast. But she is not certain that she believes it.
She closes her eyes and turns over in her bed to face the window. Moonlight pours through it, casting its silvery beams over her face. Such timing. Just when she thinks that she might be forgetting about him, he waltzes back into her life with such nonchalance – his return is so gracefully effortless, that is seems as though it was perhaps fated to occur.
You are every colour of confusion
When Thom was seventeen and still earned wages as a newsboy, he and Andrew Ingram, also called Skittery, were good friends, despite their age difference. Though Andrew was in fact twenty-three months younger than Thomas, he had always possessed a maturity and rationality about him that made his actual age irrelevant. Skittery was introduced to Thomas's twin sister quite by luck. Susannah had simply happened to walk into the room when her brother arrived at their apartment with Skittery in tow to drop off his day's earnings and announce to his mother that he would be home late. "Oh, Skitts, this is Susannah," Thom had offhandedly stated in a low voice.
She had been just a schoolgirl of seventeen then. A schoolgirl whose grand view of the world was formed from naivety when she shyly said, "Pleased to meet you." And then subsequently tumbled headlong into a full fledged relationship soon after. She had wanted him from the initial moment she'd glimpsed at him with her wide child-like eyes. He was her first. Her first in everything. Her first real kiss – not considering the frivolous kisses eight year old boys graced her with on the playground while laughing. The first to hold her hand and heart simultaneously. Her first flirtation with things that were not deemed proper for young ladies to be thinking, much less acting out.
"Have you ever done anything like this before?" she remembers asking him late one evening while Thom was out with his friends and her mother slept peacefully unaware that her daughter had covertly crawled out of her window. They were seated on the edge of his bed in the empty bunkroom vacated by other newsboys who were out attending a party in nearby Midtown. Each word was whispered and each movement painstakingly quiet so as not arouse the suspicion of Kloppman. Their breaths were shallow – both from the excitement of their actions and the danger of someone strolling into the room to find them.
"Anything like what?" he had returned, undoing another the buttons at her throat to kiss the curve where her neck met her collarbone.
She had laughed softly. Gesturing with a circular wave of her hand, she said, "This." The thought of uttering the correct words to explain their actions made her titter with embarrassment as a hot blush graced her cheeks.
He had looked deeply into her eyes and said with the most riveting honesty, "No." And she had believed him, and allowed him to take liberties with her body that though they did not extend to the brink of immoral, were still considered scandalous. But it had all been a lie. Susannah does not remember exactly how she found out, or which newsboy informed her, but the information was nonetheless revealed. She was appalled, betrayed, and outraged. When she confronted him with the knowledge, she hoped beyond hope that he would refute it. That he would tell her it was all a horrible, malicious lie. That her fears would be quelled. But he did not. He owned up to his wrong doings and confessed everything to her in immense detail. And at the end of his story, his eyes had welled up – tears wanted to spill down his cheeks, but were being damned back by his sheer willpower. So honest and touching was his apology. So sincere was his pain.
But she could not forgive him. She did not know how. He had lied to her, and that lie had been the deepest hurt and humiliation she had ever experienced. Therefore, she ran. Ran away from him – and vowed to never speak or think of him again. Though her subconscious frequently broke her vow, she still could not bring herself to forgive him. Tonight is no exception. Time has not assuaged her hurt, she finds. The meeting earlier has only served to remind her of it. Looking back, it was only one small lie, and perhaps she had overreacted a bit. No, she tells herself, no. If he tells one lie with ease, he is bound to tell another. Each will increase in magnitude.
You are all the silence I've become
Days pass one after another, dissolving into a blur of monotony. Susannah yawns as she stands once again at her post behind the bar, her back to mirrors that reflect the dazzling ambiance around her. Tonight the atmosphere is different – patrons of the Ferrand are more refined, more elegant. They are guests of Mr. Gammon, owner of The Sun, who is hosting his yearly ball. She looks at the fine gowns on the escorts of the gentlemen employees of Mr. Gammon with a lustful eye. Parisian silk. Viennese lace. Mother of pearl brooches. Delicate shoes with clever heels. Susannah glances downward at her own severe waistcoat – last year's design - and her black boots with shame. She quickly moves behind some conveniently placed bottles of wine to conceal her less than elegant dress. Nervously twisting a stray curl at her neck, she crouches, forcing her vision to pass through the bottles. Again the world appears as a pleasant swirl of colour and light – beautiful ambiguity, she decides. Soon it will be over. It is growing later and night is drawing to an end. The exquisite souls before her will venture home to their grand estates, and Susannah will find her way back to the small apartment and write extravagant tales of them.
"Ahem."
Susannah quickly rises to heed the call of the voice that has summoned her and is taken aback by the man that stands before her.
"What exactly were you doin' there?" he asks with a slight smile, craning his neck to look behind the counter.
His face is the same. His smile. His eyes still the identical shade of deep umber. "Just reaching for something," she replies, surveying his attire. His dress is rather fine – quite different from his worn slacks, dingy shirt with rolled back sleeves and newsboy's cap.
He senses that she is studying his dark double-breasted suit and tie and suddenly becomes self-conscious. "It's uh, one of Denton's," he quickly replies, "But the coat's a little loose, and the pants are, well, too short. Do you like it?"
"You look very handsome," she replies with truth, though a slight tone of unease affects her voice, "But exactly where is Denton, and how in the world did you weasel your way in here?"
He laughs. Nervously running a hand through his slicked back hair and mussing it noticeably, he says, "Denton is uh, in Jersey. Some family business or something. He didn't say much 'bout it. He told me just to come on my own anyway. Told me to tell the doorman that I was him, and that there'd be so many people here that they'd never notice that I wasn't….we were supposed to come together. I, uh..well – when I found out you were working here the other day, and I begged him to take me with 'im. He laughed at me." Skittery nods and shrugs lightheartedly. Then his eyes fall to his newly polished shoes and his voice becomes earnest and soft. "But I…….I just had to see you." He pauses. "Ever since a few days ago – in the library – ever since then, I jus' can't stop thinkin' about you." He brings his gaze up to meet hers and laughs once more. "There. I said it."
Love me for
Stupid reasons
I like those most
She does not know how to respond to such a proclamation. Her mouth gapes open slightly while she mentally fumbles for something suiting – anything. "So, have you spoken to Thomas lately?" She changes the subject.
"No," he replies, a bit flustered by her evasive change of topic. "Geez, I haven't talked to Thom in, hmm…months now."
"Oh."
"Could I get another whiskey, please?" A dandy to her far right rattles his ice filled glass and looks at Susannah with expectant eyes. She remembers her place and her duties and searches for the requested bottle. She fills his glass and re-corks the bottle. He waits patiently for the next fifteen minutes as more patrons come and request new or freshened drinks from Susannah. After the flow has ceased, he makes his move. "So, I was wonderin'," Skittery begins, leaning on the counter to recapture her attention. He picks up a short glass and sets it back down on the bar, turning it as he speaks. "Would you wanna dance? With me?" He raises his deep brown eyes toward her face, expecting her to decline. She does not respond. "Well, I figured. It's alright though." He looks toward the clock on the wall. "It's bout time for me to be headin' back anyway. Would you at least walk me out?" Skittery offers her a hopeful smile.
She begins to refuse once more. She opens her mouth and outward comes, "Oh, well, I couldn't possibly. I'm working and if I leave my bar, then-"
"I'll watch it for you," a female voice says from behind, interrupting her. Susannah turns to find a pair of smiling brown eyes that belong to a fellow barmaid. "Besides, the night's almost over. No one will notice if you skip out on the last few minutes."
"Oh…well. Alright then. I suppose." She sighs. "Lillian, this is Andrew Ingram. Andrew, Lillian Rembrandt."
"Pleased to meet you," Lillian replies.
"Same here," is Andrew's response. He looks at Susannah expectantly, and after she casts a long uncertain look over her shoulder, she follows him to the coatroom. It is empty, fortunately. Skittery turns to her and offers her an uncomfortable half smile in the near dark. "So…" he begins. Licking his lips quickly, he looks out onto the Ferrand, out onto the floor where most of the guests are still dancing and then back to Susannah. Without a word, he gently and purposefully grasps her around the waist and places his right hand in the air. After a moment's deliberation, she hesitantly accepts. Placing her left hand in his, she rests her right on his shoulder. He takes a small step forward and they begin to slowly move in time with the orchestrated music: their steps making modest circles in the narrow coatroom as he gracefully sweeps her across the floor. Her gaze never breaks the intensity of his, except to cast a nervous glance or two over her should in order to make certain that no one watches.
Wide-eyed but
Worth believing
As they dance, he dares to ask, "So, when can I see you again? That is, if I can see ya."
She laughs softly and blushes, thankful for the darkness. "I don't know," is her response.
"Oh," he returns thoughtfully, "Well, what about tomorrow? You doing anything?"
Tomorrow is her night off, and she knows full well that she is doing nothing – except for writing, perhaps. Yet, she takes a moment to ponder his question. However, her thoughts are not about whether or not she has plans. No. They concern whether or not she'd dare to see him again. To open herself up for possible heartache once more. She knows her how heart functions. She knows how quickly it will throw itself into any promising situation, how quickly it will trust without thought to possible consequences. She knows that the more she sees him, the more she will become attached. Susannah raises her eyes to his. His brown eyes, full of expectation and awaiting her answer. "No," she murmurs.
"Alright," he says, "How about I meet you somewhere then? Let's say Charley's on 6th at five o'clock?"
She nods in agreement, uncertain of all that is entailed in what she has just agreed to. The waltz's soft steady melody plays on, and Skittery continues to lead her with ease. "Andrew Ingram," she says after a moment, "if I didn't know better, I'd swear you were a gentleman." To her statement, he responds with first a blank look of confusion and then a soft snicker. Realizing how her phrasing must have sounded to him, she gasps in surprise at her folly and quickly makes amends by retracting her statement. "Oh, no...it's not that you aren't! I didn't mean it that way! I meant that I'd think you were one of them." She gestures with a slight tilt of her head to the happy clusters of people moving gracefully over the dance floor. "Oh, I'm sorry," she whispers.
Skittery offers her a slight smile, and through the shadows, she can't detect a bit of soft sadness in his eyes. "No," he responds, shaking his head. "Su, I'm sorry."
"What for?" she questions.
"You know."
"Oh." Her gaze falls to the floor. The weight of his words and their meanings has hit her like bricks and is now sinking into her stomach. She lifts her eyes to his to attempt to comfort him with a reassuring statement or something of the sort. It will be a lie, but at the moment assuaging his guilt is more important to her than her own broken heart. As her gaze rises, she notices an expression of quiet intent spreading over his face. Susannah knows it well.
God knows
She hasn't been kissed in years. And as every girl desires, she wants ever so much to feel another's lips upon hers once more. Specifically, she longs to feel his lips upon hers. She craved them with an insatiable hunger that frightens her. But her fear moves her to turn her face slightly to the left when his lips draw near. He pauses and then slowly retreats. "Alright," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to impose. I'll see you tomorrow then?"
She nods in agreement.
He gives her a tight-lipped smile. Turning, he grabs is coat, bids her goodbye with a soft kiss placed upon the freckled back of her hand, and disappears through the door and into the night. As soon as he has gone from her, she leans back on the wall, releases a deep sigh and closes her eyes. Immediately, her heart begins to chide her for being so damn afraid.
Damn the angry voice that keeps us quiet
The editor whose work is never done
Keeping pretty words between my teeth and
Sweet confessions underneath my tongue
After a night of fitful sleep, she decides that it was best that she did not allow herself to receive his kiss. She needs time. Time to mull things over – straighten them out. Time to analyze and reanalyze all of the possible angles. Time to talk sense into herself.
Drowsy contemplation
Do I let you in
Well, this is my invitation
But how do I begin?
Therefore, when five o'clock draws near, she instead retreats inside of the small, cramped apartment instead of making her way to 6th Street. Susannah hates the fact that she must be so rude, but considers it possibly the only way to make a clean escape. Instead, she sits at her desk, scribbling away at some new work of fiction for hours. The nib of her pen scratching steadily and furiously across the sheets of paper before her. Into the night she writes. She does not notice the time that has elaspsed. She does not notice the tangles in her hair, the ink smudged across her face and the fingers of her left hand, the wild look in her eyes. Nothing. She writes to ease her mind – she writes for distraction. The scratching of the pen provides a monotonous humming melody that drowns out all extraneous thoughts. It purifies her. Lost in her words, she is who she wants to be where she pleases, doing exactly as she wishes to do.
She is so deaf and blind to the world around her that she barely gives notice to the hard driving rain that arrives at six thirty and slacks off by seven forty five. The darkness slowly falling upon the city soon after and bringing with it a thick fog that enshrouds the buildings and streets. Foregoing food, she rises once to wash and change into sleeping dress, and then returns to her writing.
The twilight hour has almost passed before she rises from her chair and gathers her wrapper around her. She walks across her bedroom over to the window, where she slowly draws back the curtain. The first thing she notices is the dense midst covering the streets with a veil as if there were forbidden. Looking closer, she makes out a lone figure. A male figure. He stands with his hands in his pockets. His posture is slumped a bit possibly from fatigue. As a bit of fog draws back, she is able to make out his dark hair and eyes. His head slightly tilted back as he stares up toward her window. Skittery.
Thom approaches from behind. He glances over her shoulder. Noting the figure below, he asks, "Do you want me to make him go away?"
She looks back toward her brother. "No," is her soft reply. Thomas shrugs and then walks away, leaving Susannah to her solitude. She wonders how long he has been standing in that one spot, staring wistfully up at her window, his expression laced with confusion and hope. She stares down at him with the longing, regretful half lidded gaze that mirrors that of a maiden of lore, held captive in a high tower. But her imprisonment is the fault of her own hand. And so they both stand unmoving, communicating with each other in the unspoken language of broken hearts.
She has such an awful lot of soldiers
Quite a lovely army all her own
Night and day they stand before the fortress
Very safe but very all alone
FIN
*song is "My Invitation," by Sarah Slean. It is utterly beautiful and haunting.