Disclaimer: The things I own would blow your mind, but I don't own any people. Especially not the ones in this story. The song is 'Magic' by Ben Folds Five and when I saw/heard it in concert it reduced me to tears.
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You're the magic that holds the sky up from the ground.
You're the breath that blows these cool winds 'round.
Trading places with an angel now.
Saw you last night
Dance by the light of the moon.
Stars in your eyes
Free from the life that you knew.
Saw you last night
Stars in your eyes
Smiled in my room.
Hallucinatory bliss. Pain and morphine are a potent mix and I spend twelve glorious hours with Torrie, flying far above the earth. She's an angel in a white gown, a wedding gown, yards and yards of pristine satin, and there are flowers in her hair, silken white blooms strewn through cascades of platinum waves. We exchange vows, our voices blending, musical magnificence and her fingers slip so perfectly through mine. Finally, the kiss, supernal bliss, capturing me with its glory, transcending time and space and I hear her voice, floating upon a summer breeze, speaking confidently of the horrors of spandex and its role in our profession, of leather and lace, of what Donna Karan's been doing this past month. And then I open my eyes to a shock of white and the bland, antiseptic smell I know to be a hospital ward.
A dream. Nothing more than an exquisite delusion, shattered by the ugliness and cruelty that is life. I hurt from head to toe…but mostly head…and I feel what must be a black eye throbbing above my left cheekbone. Devastating. Abruptly, I tense in fear. Is anything broken? Am I disfigured? Will I heal? The terror of every pro wrestler who's ever looked into a mirror and said to himself, 'you know, you're quite a guy.' You weigh up what might happen in the ring to change the looks that have made you just as famous as your signature moves. But of course, this didn't happen in the ring. I can remember, plain as day. A group of street thugs, a misunderstanding, a beat-down worse than anything I've felt inside that wrestling ring. If I thought it'd do any good, now would be the perfect time to begin hyperventilating, but of course it won't do any good. And so I do the next thing I think of. I cry.
And that's when I hear it, the same as before. The musicality of the perfect feminine voice, reciting something…something about an edgy designer from SoHo. Groggily, I turn my head just slightly and there she is. My goddess, my Torrie, sitting in a high-backed hospital chair with one leg crossed over the other, reading aloud from a thick glossy magazine. She is exquisite, clothed entirely in white, just as she was in my dream, only reality is not a flowing, shapeless gown. Reality is the perfectly tailored pants suit, no nonsense high-heeled, pointy toed pumps and what appears to be a corset top, hugging her toned, tanned flesh. I want to applaud, I want to cheer, but all I manage is a pained moan and a breathless whisper of her name.
"Torrie…"
I've startled her and she jumps, before fixing her gaze on me and slowly, slowly breaks into a smile that turns me completely to liquid.
"Oh hi, Rico. You're awake!"
I blink and surreptitiously clear my throat, trying to dislodge a clump of what can only be mucus. Disgusting.
"Is that…" I begin, hating the hoarseness that I can't seem to shake. "Is that Vogue?"
Her face lights up, eyes sparkling like cerulean rhinestones. "Yes, it's the current issue. It's huge! You should see all the advertisements in here for everything you can possibly imagine."
I swallow again. I'm thirsty, dehydrated and my head is throbbing like a dance music beat from the club we visited last night.
"What's in?" I ask, partly because I'm desperate to take my mind off my own situation and partly because I really do want to know, having not had the opportunity to browse the latest Vogue before now.
"Depends what part of the world," Torrie replies and I'm captured by her lips upon which she's swept a gloss with just the slightest tint. Oh, she's lovely. Her eyes, her lips, her nose, the shape of her face, her sculpted eyebrows and long flowing locks. Her entire style, be it sleek and sultry or wild and sexy. I love it all. I love her. I truly love her and I'm just lost in her voice and her beauty as she goes through New York and the next thing I know, we've moved on to London.
"Harem pants, little black dresses…"
"Of course," I cut in, smiling despite myself. In truth, there can't possibly be an article of clothing that's done more for womankind than the little black dress…or maybe the bikini.
"Oh, I know," Torrie agrees, all dimples once more, a smile of so many watts I nearly combust. "I have like five."
"Only five?" I laugh.
She shrugs demurely and I'm sure I must be drooling. "Well, black's not exactly my color."
I scoff and titter briefly. "Torrie, sometimes black is the only color."
"Yes," she agrees, nodding and grinning. "But white is the new black." She sets the magazine down next to her purse and skims her hands over her outfit.
I swallow, struggling to maintain at least a tentative grip on my thoughts as the invasiveness of desire sets in. "White's been the new black for at least a year."
Her face falls and now she looks positively mortified. "Oh, am I last season? How embarrassing!"
"Torrie," I breathe, still relishing the taste of her name on my lips. "You always look magnificent."
She pauses, contemplatively twirling a neat lock of hair around her finger. And then she looks back up at me, rendering me breathless once more.
"Really?"
I stare at her dreamily, absorbing every feature of her loveliness. "Absolutely."
And that's when the clump in my throat that has threatened to embarrass me all this time finally has its way. I'm coughing, coughing and spluttering, head arched forward near my chest.
"Oh, Rico!" Torrie cried, bouncing over to me. "Are you okay?" Her hand is on my shoulder, she's caressing me and, of course, being the smoothest man on the face of the earth, all I can do is choke.
"W-water," I croak out.
She gets it for me, hurries back. I drink it down, nearly spurting it everywhere as the next coughing fit assaults my airways. Finally I can breathe easily and I grab for her, my whole body still trembling with pain, uneasiness and despair, because I've just touched my face and there's a sticking plaster on my cheek.
"Rico," she soothes as I begin choking again, on my tears this time. "I'm so sorry, Rico. If we'd waited for Chuck and Billy, if I hadn't lost you…"
I'm sobbing now, sobbing like a little baby.
"What do I look like?" I cough. "What happened to me?"
I stare at her urgently, clutch at her forearms. I hate this role reversal. It should be Chuck or Billy, anyone but her. Oh, what she must think of me. But she looks sympathetic. Unfortunately, she also looks apprehensive and I know then that I'm about to be struck with bad news.
"Tell me," I beg, still squeezing her arms. "Please, tell me."
She hesitates again and I'm all but shaking her, as much as I hate myself for doing it. I have to know. I have to know now.
"Your sideburns…" she manages finally.
"My…" My hands fly to the sides of my face. My sideburns! They're gone!
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A/N - So ends chapter three. Thanks heaps for all your comments and please keep them coming. After a week's absence, I'm finally back in the groove for this story and hopefully there won't be quite so long a wait before chapter four.