It's a Fine Day
*****
Every morning, Dorothy plays the piano, fingers dancing over the keys to wakew the house and all who live there. In a city with no sunshine, she somehow seems to make the room look brighter. Does she even know she can do it?
I watch her, silently, following her every move, unable to tear my eyes away. She does not feel the weight of my gaze on her. Some would say she cannot feel anything at all, but I know that isn't true.
She is so beautiful, so confused. We are so alike, both alone, both castaways in a world that does not want us. I FEEL for her, and it awakens memories in me of older times, happier times. They are vague, these memories, but they are there, and it is she who stirs them, stirs me.
I think she feels it too. I think she feels for me; could I dare to hope I awaken memories in her as well? What a gift, to be able to give her FEELING.
I cannot tell her any of this. She will never know! I cannot even explain it. All I know is that I wish to serve her, as she serve, feel as she feels. She creates the desire in me, to love and be loved by her.
I do love her. Sometimes, late at night, I creep silently into her room to watch her in simulated slumber, knowing that nothing could be more pleasant than to recline next to her solidity and tiny breaths. But I do not give in to the temptation; I simply gaze at her, watch her eyelashes bat-does she dream?-and her chest move with her unneeded breathing. When my heart is full and aching with my love for her, I take my leave, waiting for the morning and her wake-up call.
Watching her play, perfection itself, I realize it is not the piano that wakes the house and brings it to life. It is Dorothy herself who brings life to this gloomy mansion. I want her to hold me; I want to bask in that light.
"R. Dorothy Wayneright!"
The door slams open, and she calms the waves she has made with talk of the time of day, and a chilled breakfast. How can she make even a conversation about runny eggs fascinating? Why do I hang on her every word?
I know the answer to that, of course.
She cannot hide her smirk, but at the moment I am uncaring, for she has taken me into her arms and my whole world shakes with the beat of her ersatz heart. She is my whole world. I am perfectly happy, locked in the embrace of my Dorothy, my love.
"It is a fine day, is it not, Perot?" she murmurs to me.
I purr, my only way of conveying my feelings. Yes. She is holding me. We are together. It is a fine day.
*****
This story is maybe one of my favorites out of all the stories...I know not why I am so attached to the character of Perot. The feeling is there, but the reason eludes me, rather like a memory itself.
Please review, is everyone familiar with my rule?
I could just purr.
*****
Every morning, Dorothy plays the piano, fingers dancing over the keys to wakew the house and all who live there. In a city with no sunshine, she somehow seems to make the room look brighter. Does she even know she can do it?
I watch her, silently, following her every move, unable to tear my eyes away. She does not feel the weight of my gaze on her. Some would say she cannot feel anything at all, but I know that isn't true.
She is so beautiful, so confused. We are so alike, both alone, both castaways in a world that does not want us. I FEEL for her, and it awakens memories in me of older times, happier times. They are vague, these memories, but they are there, and it is she who stirs them, stirs me.
I think she feels it too. I think she feels for me; could I dare to hope I awaken memories in her as well? What a gift, to be able to give her FEELING.
I cannot tell her any of this. She will never know! I cannot even explain it. All I know is that I wish to serve her, as she serve, feel as she feels. She creates the desire in me, to love and be loved by her.
I do love her. Sometimes, late at night, I creep silently into her room to watch her in simulated slumber, knowing that nothing could be more pleasant than to recline next to her solidity and tiny breaths. But I do not give in to the temptation; I simply gaze at her, watch her eyelashes bat-does she dream?-and her chest move with her unneeded breathing. When my heart is full and aching with my love for her, I take my leave, waiting for the morning and her wake-up call.
Watching her play, perfection itself, I realize it is not the piano that wakes the house and brings it to life. It is Dorothy herself who brings life to this gloomy mansion. I want her to hold me; I want to bask in that light.
"R. Dorothy Wayneright!"
The door slams open, and she calms the waves she has made with talk of the time of day, and a chilled breakfast. How can she make even a conversation about runny eggs fascinating? Why do I hang on her every word?
I know the answer to that, of course.
She cannot hide her smirk, but at the moment I am uncaring, for she has taken me into her arms and my whole world shakes with the beat of her ersatz heart. She is my whole world. I am perfectly happy, locked in the embrace of my Dorothy, my love.
"It is a fine day, is it not, Perot?" she murmurs to me.
I purr, my only way of conveying my feelings. Yes. She is holding me. We are together. It is a fine day.
*****
This story is maybe one of my favorites out of all the stories...I know not why I am so attached to the character of Perot. The feeling is there, but the reason eludes me, rather like a memory itself.
Please review, is everyone familiar with my rule?
I could just purr.