Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
I've never been much for talking. To me, actions speak louder than words. So I care, but I usually don't emote. But sitting here in a darkened room with my fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of java has loosened my tongue, and I ramble on at length.
Reliving the Christmas Eve when I left home, never to return. The long bus trip to Manhattan and my first visit to The Cloisters. Busting my hump at a series of thankless jobs. Discovering the art of the pool hustle at John's Bar (where she'd found me today). Drowning my soul with beer and ganja, only living for that next fix. And then that momentous day when Sharon strolled into my life. Reading the next magazine (Popular Science) on the corner kiosk. Shivering through her thin jacket as the January wind cut through her. Honey hair caught up in an elegant twist, sculptured legs spilling out of her little black dress. Killing time before her Broadway audition (newly graduated from Columbia's theatre program).
I can still see her so clearly, cut away from the gray Manhattan skyline like the finest crystal, sparkling and shimmering with her innocence. It radiated from her and lifted my head from between the folds of the latest Mad magazine (visions of Spy vs Spy dancing in my brain). Where I caught her grinning at me (Julia Roberts wide) with all those perfect teeth (6 years of braces). And then she asked if I'd like to go for coffee.
Sharon was the happiest person I've ever known. The time of day didn't matter, she always had a ready smile and a cheerful word. It never grated (like those phony bliss bunnies that clog every office) and it invariably lifted my spirits. So I let her sweep me along in her joy parade, dancing to whatever tune that played on her agenda. On her first try, she landed a substantial part on Broadway, and I thought maybe my luck was changing.
She called me her work in progress, and little by little, she whittled away at all my bad habits. My smokes were the first to leave, with the promise that she'd never kiss me again unless I ditched them. Then she went after my bottles, dumping every last one of them down the drain, swearing that she'd throw me out if she came across any others. By that time, I was camped in her spare bedroom, trying my feeble hand at painting after all these years. And she encouraged my talent, urging me to return to school and really apply my skills.
So I did it. Graduating in less than three years with a fine arts degree and a minor in poly sci (just in case). A winter graduate (like her) without a prospect in sight. We talked about law school (Stanford) and she helped me fill out all the paperwork. By that last day, it was pretty much a done deal. Oh, how we celebrated when that acceptance letter arrived. Dancing and singing through the wee hours and into the next day (Christmas), arms joined as we traipsed through the streets. Ending up at the skating rink, where she slid on some oversized skates and put everyone to shame.
That was the last time I saw her. She didn't come that night or the next and I finally called the police. It was 6 months and 3000 miles later when I got the call that nearly destroyed me. All these years, I've been half a man. Going through the motions, doing my job, barely subsisting on an emotionally bankrupt palette. There were lots of women, but they never lasted past the second date.
And then I met Alice (fidele), whose name means noble. Tireless charity organizer and all around good person. She lives up to her name, but I think she exists on a higher plane that excludes the rest of the world, communing with the angels and looking down on us lesser lights. I always feel inferior when I hang with Alice, like I have to meet some impossible standard that I'll spend my life trying to fulfill. So we tried again, but it was already unraveling by the time her father died. And it took my almost demise to realize that Alice was a pit stop on the road to Syd.
So here we sit, knees to our chests as we stare into the flames of the gas fire. And her hand finds mine, drawing it into her lap, surrounded by the finely boned warmth of her fingers. "It's time," she says with a sigh.