I sit…my hand slowly moving over the volume of my stomach. I find myself waiting for a sign that of the little life inside, my head slightly bent as if I can hear it's laughter … all my focus on the fingers… on whatever sensation of that loved being they may transport to me …3 months to go Clarice and then I don't think you are going to hear or sense anything else…well…almost don't you think it would be amusing watching the father of 'the little one' react, Hannibal 'the Cannibal' singing a lullaby, changing diapers, getting up for midnight feeds…hmmmmm…and the level of those mind games better come down…I don't really want to see my child turning into a physca…or a physco all that soon
That is one thing that concerns me at times. The baby in all probability is going to be a genius. It is going to be tough handling two of them as if one isn't enough. But I guess Hannibal should prepare for competition. I've never been much of a mind reader but can be real stubborn when I want to…that's going to be an amazingly good combination… I can't wait to have someone finally beat Hannibal Lecter well and good…as it is he gets real worked up whenever I win that impossible chess game against him
But on the other hand one of my most cherished memories of him apart from the ones from that fateful night from Chesapeake…I momentarily drift away…
…A night that finally brought out all we had…I remember all of it to the minute yet every time find myself adding detail to it…the silk of his shirt…the warmth in his embrace…the fever in his touch and the passion that ignites having never left us again…
Oh! But…yes? What was I talking about again…of course! Cherished…hmmmmm…
The look on his face when I told him about the newest to be addition to our family…he just stood there a bit puzzled … the way he had when he first saw me that evening as he played before me…before scooping me in his arms and carrying me into the house. The whole night…I've never seen him this way…the twinkle in his eyes…we just lay… my head on his arm…his hand protectively caressing my belly…talking, fighting, postulating the fate of what we held so close to us…love that had taken the shape of another inside…he told me things about Mischa …when she was going to be born…about his father's reaction that a little boy had been delighted to watch through the slight opening in the doorway to the master bedroom…the way his mother laughed out loud, rich and uninhibited as her husband offered his hand for a dance… the way they danced in the light of candles and that of the moon…with no music but that within their hearts.
That was about four months ago when I first realized my state. From then it has been trips to gynaecologists, juices, fruits and getting to know more and more of the real possessive side of Dr. Hannibal Lecter
He storms in now. His face… ice cold. He is clearly agitated. Though that does absolutely nothing but widen my smile.
Sometimes it is really hard loving this man…
Irritating, frustrating (include 'never being too sure of all those dark flavored innocent looking varieties of meat')
At times I wish to do something scandalous…something that will shake that propriety out of him…mischief has taken over me these past few months…doing everything the way it is supposed to be done just isn't any fun…
Sometimes it becomes a big headache…
Living with him by his rules, I mean…
Like the dinners he hosts for all this societies he is a part of…he is actually having one of those tonight…I have never been able to understand exactly why exactly is there a need for as much as four different pairs of knives and forks. One pair will do just as well…
He cooks by himself on such occasions … the servants nowhere in close proximity…if pressed for time…he might (however unlikely that might be) take the help of the cook and these few times as I recognize them are bonafide tests of both the cook's skill and more importantly…his nerve
The wine is always exquisite…the music soft…and well, the food…do you really want me to elaborate? And I end up wondering why I get to play the perfect hostess and the odd part is that every one seems to buy the act.
He has friends, ones who know who he is...Now that was surprising. I found this particular surgeon –an old lady friend of his quite friendly and spend a whole evening in her company listening to anecdotes, comparing notes on the one man I love far too much, and spending the rest dancing with Hannibal .I wonder how they don't seem to mind –what he is or what he can do or well his real frosty nosed looks in the least…and yes he has a good many of them (friends I mean) back from his days in both Baltimore and Italy…though only a select group of these does he consider as not disposable
So given that we have been talking of the company he keeps…let's come to the ladies…
Some of them tend to be rather jealous of my position (so much for thinking that women loved grey not white) Jealousy as I see it is baseless…though I can see brighter smiles on their faces on account of my presently not so sensuous figure from my usual size 8. He never says it…you know…that I am beautiful…that he loves me…but all he does is kiss me so deep…that all I feel is him and him alone…the way he lies back in bed…his hands through my hair…watching over me (for those midnight snack cravings) like a guardian angel. So I sure hope for all those ladies for their very own good never to make him any offers. For all they know the Doctor might find it overwhelmingly rude…
But then there is the other side of him that forever gets on my nerves
"Clarice, may I suggest that tying the ice-cream carton to your neck would make it easier to gorge up the cookies?"
"I ordered for ice-cream, Clarice.What? You licked the carton!"
"No dearest, I want this juice down your throat now…no, I rather stand here and see you drain that tumbler. Juices don't exactly help potted plants or for that matter bathroom sinks, and if I may elaborate pasta isn't exactly going to do you much good"
And defiance lurks behind my eyes and as stubborn as I dare I sure get my share of those famous 'don't try my patience. You don't want to' looks for acting like a rebellious school going boy
And now he stands over me and I can't help feeling just a bit intimidated by the look that would send ladies screaming (include fainting), men running like Chinese cartoons and scumbags like Krendlar and Chilton have instant heartattacks. The interrogation that starts ends in no less than five minutes.Dr.Lecter has been extremely careful not to upset me over anything so I have had the privilege (for the first time) to play with him in any manner I deem fit. So even though his voice spells danger his eyes show none of it and they if I'm not mistaken look rather amused themselves
Another five minutes and he concedes defeat. He cannot win when he doesn't want to. He just simply looks my Way drinking in
It is not easy to deceive him but he has often let me have the misconception. He is letting me have one now. It's like the way he talks to the baby at night; pretending that he thinks me asleep when he knows perfectly well that I always crane to listen to all he says
Finally with an audible sigh he asks
"Clarice, for the very last time did you or did you not eat up the mousse?"
With suppressed laughter and putting up the best angelic look I can muster… Thinking of the amazing flavor of the concerned dessert I speak simply…
"Well…honey. I really do believe your guests would prefer soufflé and chateau d'Yqyem …don't you…"