~Come over here, All you've got is this moment, Twenty-first century's yesterday~ (INXS)
~
She dropped into the sofa next to her friend, catching her watching Sex and the City reruns. "Carly! You can't watch that in front of him. It's so inappropriate."
Steve, sitting in one of the armchairs, started to say it's OK, "It's… oh," he saw that she was gesturing to the toddler, not him.
"Inappropriate unlike what you two did on my dining table last night," Carly shot.
Steve decided that was his queue to leave the room.
"You know we didn't… I'm going to kill you," she shot back.
"I don't know any such thing," Carly grinned, ignoring the death threat and turned to sit facing her, "So tell me, last night… "
"Nothing happened," she sniffed.
"Come on, you two didn't even make it upstairs. You had to have…"
"There's only been some flirting. Really, I think he's above all that."
Carly looked sceptical.
"You have to remember where he came from-" she stopped, realising she shouldn't elaborate.
"Oh. So they don't do it in Boston?" Carly laughed.
"What? He's from Brooklyn." She backpedaled, "I mean that his parents were old fashioned."
"He's told you about his parents?" Carly smirked. "That's not how men usually flirt. That sounds serious."
"What I'm saying is, we just talk, that's all. It's nice having someone there, everything doesn't feel quite so bleak," she pulled at a loose thread of her sweater.
"Yeah, I get that. Buuuuut…"
She rolled her eyes, and begrudgingly asked, "But?"
"But it doesn't matter how Amish his background may be, or how 'One' you think he is with The Buddha – from what I can see he's all man."
"Yes, he's all… that. I have noticed. How could I not?" Her hands smoothed over her knees, "Trust me, though, Steve's not like other men."
"Unless he doesn't bleed red like the rest of 'em, it's on his mind."
"What's on my mind?" came a deep voice from the doorway.
The women's heads snapped around to see who was there.
"Luke, don't do that!" Carly threw a small cushion at his head.
He simultaneously shrugged and threw up his hands as if to say "What I do?" He looked to their friend.
She was holding her chest and let out a breath to calm down. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Carly mouthing "Steve" to Luke and made some sort of hand gesture, probably an obscene one.
"Hah! No comment."
"See! He agrees with me."
"Nope. I didn't say nuthin'," he went to make popcorn.
"OK, Steve's a red-blooded man, but I'm not at my best to say the least, we've been preoccupied with everything that's happened, and we haven't known each other for that long. Maybe he doesn't see me that way. I might not be his type in the first place," it was a hard thing to admit to herself. She had no defenses against his allure, while she could mean nothing to him.
"Or maybe you just need to give him a harder push," Carly shoved her playfully.
She slapped Carly away as Steve and Sasha came back down the hallway. "There's a low flying Bogey on your six, Captain," she called out to him. Sasha was hot on Steve's heels with a copy of Casablanca in his sticky little fingers. Sasha squealed when Steve caught sight of him over his shoulder. "Roger that. Over."
"Oh, I'd Roger that one, if you know what I mean, over and out," Carly said under her breath, elbowing her friend.
Steve heard her, "Evasive manoeuvres!" and comically slowly jogged away with Sasha running after him in a fit of giggles.
"Now, how did this get here?" Steve asked Sasha when he showed Steve the DVD.
"Mommy," Sasha chirped.
Luke brought out the popcorn in a giant bowl, and then colas in original moulded green glass tumblers, "Play it, Sam!" They started the movie.
When Ingrid Bergman came on screen, Luke joked to Steve, "She wash a shwell dame, washn't she, Shawty."
"I don't think anyone's ever called Steve 'Shorty' before, Luke," she shook her head, eyeing Steve's broad frame and long limbs.
"Actually…" said Steve.
"Shee! Tiny here, he'sh a cool cat."
"Knock it awf," Carly threw a handful of popcorn at Luke, "before I knock it awf faw yah!"
Corn and salt rained down on everyone from Luke's overzealous retaliation. She ate the popcorn from her sweater and licked her salty, buttery fingers. Steve chuckled quietly at the idiots, while he helped untangle the popcorn she couldn't get out of her hair. If only her friends had known where, or rather when, he was from, he could teach them now to really jibe.
In the movie, the reunited lovers, Ilsa and Rick were reminiscing in Rick's Café Américain about the last time they met.
Ilsa said, "How nice, you remembered. But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into Paris."
Rick said, "Not an easy day to forget. I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue."
A sudden stroke of inspiration hit her, "Carly, I have an idea," she whispered.
~
She was humming with energy, fluttering around the room, darting over to the tactical bag when she remembered the Dita Von Teese bag stuffed inside her clothes, what was in it? Retro and racy lace and satin.
It's the colour of his eyes. It was so delicate it tickled her fingers, "I don't know if I can pull it off."
"I'm sure he'll help if you ask nicely," said Carly, "So, do you want to see it…?" She held up her own mystery bag.
"Yessss!"
"It's vintage from the thrift store in town, but it's from the '50s not the '40s." It was a swing dress, had a gathered bust, fitted waist, and a full A-line skirt. It was sheer, flowy and pretty, and it was pale blue.
"I can't believe you found this, it's gorgeous, I love it to bits."
"Sorry I couldn't find you a Madonna bra," Carly teased.
"You're thinking of Marilyn Monroe in a '50s bullet bra. During the 40s, 'sweater girls' became wartime pin-ups in bullet or torpedo bras and victory rolls, even standard issue Victory Red lipstick-"
"You sound like a librarian," Carly found a string of pearls in her jewellery box.
"Thanks a lot."
"Hey, he's probably into that."
"Why would he be?"
"Because opposites attract."
"I have so many problems with that statement. Apart from it being completely bullshit, it sounds like you're implying that Steve isn't smart-"
Carly finished her sentence for her, "Because he's built like a brick shithouse." She laid out her makeup kit.
"Lovely imagery. Steve's highly intelligent, artistic, well read, witty and funny, but also the most kind, caring, compassionate person you could ever meet." Don't mention how it feels when he wraps his arms around me.
"Shit, you are crazy stupid in love."
She huffed at her friend and pointed out an eyeshadow that would look natural, "Can you do my hair like Lauren Bacall?"
"Of course I can!... Lauren who?"
Rolling the pearls against her neck, she wondered what he would do when he saw her, what he would say. He'd finally have to act on his feelings.
When she was all dolled up she had a moment to herself. She took a fortifying breath and sensed that snow was coming. Trying to force her sweaty hands to stay still and not mess anything up, and her heart to stop racing, Simply put one foot in front of the other, and try not to stack it down the stairs. Going slowly, her hand gripped the banister all the way. Steve came into view standing in the living room holding a book.
Steve shut the book when he noticed her. She saw his gaze taking in the distinctive hairstyle, black liquid liner, red lips, then the sheer bodice and the texture of lace showing through. The book thudded onto the floor.
He stood frozen straight and stiffly leaning forward, like a stag staring down the long barrel of a rifle. He didn't approach her, as a king stag might circle his chosen hind, intoxicated by her heady scent, but remained where he was with a confused expression.
He must have needed a moment to comprehend her transformation. She was burning bright with energy, even as she heard hail start to batter the house. She made the first move, feeling like she was all silk, voluptuous curves, warm pearls and smooth curls. As she closed the distance, he held up his hands, close to grasping her shoulders, so close to taking hold of her, This is it, she thought. When he opened his mouth to speak her heart did a flip.
"I can't," he turned and left the house.
She winced when she heard the fly screen door slam shut on its own as he walked away, crushing hailstones under his boots. His bike roared off down the drive. She carefully climbed back up the stairs, went into their bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Then she wiped off her makeup and stripped down to nothing.
~
There was a linden tree that leaned against the house like a thick blanket thrown over the back of a chair. It crackled as sap froze inside its trunk, sending clawed night creatures scrambling across its bark.
When he stepped into the bedroom, the two of them saw each other through the partly open bathroom door. She was towelling her wet hair.
"I washed it out," she said quietly.
"Oh."
"Shut the door. You look frozen."
He closed it, shrugged off his jacket and took off his boots. "Second time's a charm," he warmed up by the radiator.
She decided she couldn't look at him anymore. "Who was it?"
"Who…?"
"The one who broke your heart?"
His voice was soft, "She never broke my heart. Time did that."
There was a heavy silence between them. Eventually, he slumped onto the end of the bed.
"Peggy. She knew who I was before I became… this, and she still wanted me. She saw through it all. She saw me. The only other true friend I had was… lost. Before I lost her too."
"Was she a nurse?" she asked, hanging up her towel.
"She had been, but she was an SSR agent when we met."
"I'm sorry. I should have realised how it would make you feel – that you would be reminded of the people you used to know."
He rubbed the back of his cold neck, "You couldn't have known. It was actually really nice, what you did. You looked very glamorous and beautiful. You still look lovely in that bathrobe. There are just some things I haven't been able to leave behind, as much as it hurts to carry them with me."
"I can't imagine what that must feel like."
He looked up when she came into the room, "Why did you do all that, though?"
She flushed with embarrassment. "I wanted to be surprising, captivating," irresistible.
"It worked. But you didn't need to do anything like that."
She waved it away, "Can we please just forget about the whole thing?"
"How about this? I'll pretend to forget, if you pretend not to have any preconceived notions about me."
She crossed her arms, "Hmm. High price. None?"
"None."
"That would mean you'd have to tell me everything about yourself, from the very beginning."
"I could."
"I would like that."
"Alright, then, the story of my life." He lay back, feet still touching the floor, and stared at nothing, "How to begin?"
"With hot chocolates."
The night was spent sitting together at the head of the bed, her head resting on his shoulder, his low voice telling his story, the aroma of chocolate rising from the hot mug cradled in her hands.
~
Walking through her blackened house, charred debris crunched under her wobbly feet. Fine ash hung in the air, stinging her eyes, coating her airways.
There was a light emanating from her husband's office. She stepped inside and saw that it was untouched by the fire. It was as it had been before their fight, before she even found the papers he hid from her. This is my second chance, get those papers. Finally see what I missed the first time. She went straight for them, laying the sheets out on the lacquered rosewood desk.
Before she could read anything, she was yanked backwards off her feet. Her body hit the floor. Someone grabbed her and hauled her up. They rammed her against the wall. Then she was hurled forward. Her face was slammed onto the desk. Her eyes were pressed to the words on a page.
It was a struggle to read as the lights were dimming, "Azol… Lazol… Lazlo…" The dream vision was fading.
She was wrapped in an embrace as steady as rock. There was a faint scent of sandalwood and chocolate. Steve was there, "You were talking in your sleep."
"Lazlo," she breathed out.
"Laszlo, as in Ilsa's husband in Casablanca?"
"The papers my husband destroyed, they said 'Lazlo's Insignia'."