Body

Allegorical figures and Buffy

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Setting: Future

Summary : Buffy and relationship debris and love.

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Love knocked on my door the other day. He was dishevelled, smelt of cigarettes, looked like he'd just been in a fight. Dark clothes. Smoking a cigarette. Hair white, too bright, too much bleach. Semi-bloodshot eyes. It was evening, just after Sunset. The rush hour traffic behind him whizzed down towards the Boulevard.

"You're late," I say, recognizing him at once (not that I was especially impressed).

He squints at me: "Yeah?"

"God knows how many years late."

Sound of traffic. Whiz, whiz, whiz.

"Right, sorry about that. So, can I come in?"

Love has a thick British accent.

I let him into my house. *My* house. *Mine.* Feels strange.

"Nice digs," he mumbles. Roots around my collection of weapons. Scoffs at the Chick flicks in the video racks. Pulls a strange face at my Poetry course books dumped on the table. Unceremoniously he clears away my modest morning paper. Seating himself slowly in my new chair. You know, the modest one that I bought in that modestly priced shop.

The chair where I now do my finances, analyse my Poetry, watch my Chick flicks and read my morning paper. Half a glass of orange juice rests on the stand next to the chair. Mr. Love proceeds to it pick up. And guzzles it down.

So I stand there. Gazing down upon Love. Hugely famous but very rarely seen. Late twenties--maybe early thirties--small, lithe, not as imposing as you would think. Wearing a faded and stained black t-shirt, jeans which at one time might have been fashionable and expensive. Love also wears a leather duster, it looks like Love retired in the Eighties. Love has very sharp cheekbones and is paler then I would have expected and doesn't wear suits, or do his finances, or have a job, or have any manners.

"You got any beer?" He raises his eyebrows at me, one has a scar. "No," he says, mimicking my head shaking. Love likes to sneer at you, make you feel about as important as dirt. His head shaking as mine shakes in a kind of Karmic harmony. "Bourbon, then?"

Love gets on my nerves and is not as gentle and comforting as I have been lead to believe.

"Look, not to be rude or anything, but what's the idea? I wait for you for how long now and you never show up. Now--long after I've given you up for dead, you appear out of nowhere. On my doorstep, no less."

Love shrugs. It's a wonderful shrug. Very impressive. Metaphysical, even. With these Brits impassive uncaring shrugging is a national art. Love being no exception.

"Love is unpredictable," he replies.

Annoying me. Never trust anyone who refers to themselves in the third person. Especially if they're on your favourite couch. Only trust people in the first person singular. With rare exceptions for the first person plural.

He flashes a charming smile. It's fluorescent. White teeth bright against his pink lips. Charming.

"Love can't be planned cutie and it can't be foreseen."

More of him third-personing himself. Besides, didn't he say that already?

He continues staring. Running a hand with chewed fingernails and scraps of black nail varnish through his bleached dry hair. If Love keeps this hairstyle then you'll never be able to tell when he gets grey hairs. I expected to be able to tell if Love got old or to be able to remind myself that Love was still young or, you know, whatever.

Sitting but still staring, staring but still sitting. With one hand holding the dead cigarette butt and hanging casually off the arm of my chair, he gesticulates with the other: "What are those?"

I look down. They're my favourite pair.

"Sweat pants."

Applause. Meet the master of the obvious.

"And the . . . kittens?"

They have little tabby kittens all over them. Okay so they're pyjama bottoms but there really wasn't time to get dressed this morning. What with breakfast and bills and finances and phone calls and repairs. I'll have to get dressed for Patrol later anyway.

My turn to shrug.

"I'm a lover of all creatures."

Love nods. He understands this. "I see," he says, not really seeing. Then, he gives me a wry smirk.

"Maybe it's not all my fault that you're still disappointed in love after all these years pet. Maybe you're a little too, now, how do you say . . . finely-tuned? Or maybe the other way around, picky without reason to be?"

I'm feeling tired now as I listen to him. Exhausted. Whole day ahead of me. What time is it?

8 p.m.

What?! How long has Love been here for? I hadn't even realised the time.

Okay no matter, no matter. Who needs to keep to a schedule anyway? No plan, no road map, no flow chart.

No meaning.

Yeah that's me, relaxo girl. And anyway it's Thursday. Willow and Tara patrol on a Thursday, Dawn goes to Jenni's after school on a Thursday. Thursday nights are low on the grand scale of meaning. I'll just have to wing it. Guess there is something to do after all, I realize: wondering what the hell some allegorical figure is doing on my couch. But this isn't going to help get the evening off to a good start.

Said allegorical figure flicks cigarette butt onto the floor. My floor. How charming, indeed.

"What do you want?"

That's me. Asking.

"What do I want?" Love says, incredulous. He pulls a battered pack of Marlboros, red, from his pocket. Lights a fresh one. Said cigarette dangles from his mouth.

"Yeah you know, what do you want? To win the Superbowl? Become a Rockstar? Get a career?"

Sarcasm, not always of the good. Especially when I realise that's me. The career thing that is, not the other things - never really had Madonna envy and I wouldn't look too good with shoulder pads. The career thing, that's what I want. My own office and a designer briefcase. Powersuits and a personal Receptionist and one of those funky little door signs. "Buffy Summer's Office."

Xander's got me a job doing Admin work for the construction company. Union bug. Local something.

"This isn't about me. This is all about you. I take it you want to loudly berate me. Express resentment. Shattered hopes. All that."

Angel.

"Now that you mention it . . . "

"Yes?"

Where to start? Images of Angel flood my mind. Angel and his cryptic messages. Angel so deeply in love with me. Angel always so intense. Angel in vampire face. Angel's lips, Angel's strong touch. Angel always there. Angel holding me as the rain falls in on us outside. Angel reading poetry. Angel being sent to hell. Angel returning.

Angel leaving.

"That it?" Love asks, with a bored roll of his eyes. Didn't realise I was even speaking.

I turn away from Love.

Riley.

Riley and his smile. Riley in jeans, Riley in the sun. Riley laughing. Riley and me dancing. Riley lying. Riley the Commando. Riley the supportive, Riley the understanding, Riley always there.

Riley leaving.

Love looks at me, he is intrigued. What I can swear are laughter creases twitch at Love's thin lips.

"What do you miss most about Riley?"

Reflex answer.

"He was warm."

Love nods. He says, "Warmth is always useful. And Angel?"

"I don't miss Angel's love."

Love looks at me as if I'm stupid, cocks an eyebrow.

"I didn't ask what you *didn't* miss, I asked what you *did* miss."

"Angel." I reply plainly. Nothing else to say.

Love sucks on his cigarette, puts his feet up on my modestly polished coffee table.

"We done now?"

I shrug. Guess that's it.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Love is mighty impatient. Love has a stare that you can't ignore.

"Him," I mutter. Sit down on my couch.

"Uh huhh....go on,"

Him.

Him and his stupid leather jacket, him and his Doc Martens and his stupid smirk and his crass Cockney accent. Him with a mouth like a sewer and a fascination with Seventies Punk. Him trying to kill me, him hurting me, him plotting against me. Him with his fangs and his fists. Him by my throat. Him always too close.

"Well that's all very nice," Love interrupts me before I can go on, as he picks up a magazine. The TV guide, flicks through it, "But does he have a name?"

Spike.

Spike looking after my sister. Spike saving my friends. Spike being selfless, Spike being honest. Spike being brave and good. Spike changing. Spike in love with me.

Spike smirking, Spike not smirking, Spike about to smirk, Spike about not to smirk. Spike joking, Spike crying, Spike sneering, Spike in pain.

Spike excited, Spike pissed off, Spike morose, Spike being a jackass. Spike taking the mick out of my sweat pants with the little kittens on them. Spike, Spike, Spike. There is me and Spike, smiling. See Spike, smell Spike, taste Spike, feel Spike.

Upshot: Still Spike.

"And what do you miss most about Spike?"

Love inclines bleached head two and one half degrees south by southwest. One degree indicating callous indifference, a full three degrees complete and utter sympathy. Charming bedside manner.

I frown at him, puzzled now, "Spike hasn't gone anywhere."

Love nods again, seems to understand. "So what do you like about Spike?"

Good question.

"He has nice eyes."

Love nods. He says: "Beauty is in the eyes."

Silence. Spike's eyes fill the air between us, missed.

"Anything else?"

I think for a second, a few seconds more, then say: "He'll be here soon."

Spike degraded. Spike refused. Spike alone. Spike bleeding. Spike abused. Spike shunted. Spike meeting me for patrol in approximately twenty seven minutes.

"And how do you feel about Spike?"

I tell him: "I don't feel anything."

The room seems smaller as Love stands up and over me. Too tall.

"So what do you want from Spike?"

I shrug, lean back into the couch. So nice and soft. Stare at the kittens playing with a ball of string on my pyjama bottoms.

I sigh. "Everything. Nothing...."

Mr. Love sits next to me on the couch. Smelling of cigarettes, eyes staring at me. Ice blue. Hard to miss. Love, languid, exhales a big cloud of Marlboro fumes. I take a deep breath.

"And?" Love asks as he looks at me. Waits patiently for an answer.

Darren. There's Darren. Next row down from me in English Lit. Dark brown hair, nice tan, smooth voice. Heavily muscled. Muscled heavily. Movie-like. More than slight resemblance to Brad Pitt.

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Feedback always appreciated. :) Caitlin@teenagewildlife.com