R is for Red

Her dress was red. He had spotted her across the room, laughing with a group of friends, all blissfully young and unaware. It was the one in red, though, who had caught his attention; tanned and taught and full of vigor, and glaringly lacking in male companionship. He approached the pack as if a lion on the prowl, and she a wandering wildebeest.

All laughter fell at his approach, replaced with curious scowls and scoffs.

"Hey, baby, what's shakin'?"

The laughter returned, and Red Dress shook her head. "Beat it, gramps."

The lion's paws, now full of thorns, retreated slow and steady into shadows of a jungle meant for younger cubs.

He found a drink on tap, nursing wounds while watching crowds of smiles most surely painted on. No one could ever be so happy...it was a mating ritual, peacock feathers, a colorful facade. He watched couples pressed a bit too tight take to dancing, and swallowed hard, wishing liquor warmed more than throats.

Unreasonable thoughts shoved down with unsatisfying bowls of stale snacks atop a bar. He eyed the young cub beside him; a business type, dressed neat in suit and tie, appearing lonely. Kinship, perhaps.

"She stood ya up, huh?"

He offered up a friendly smile. "Just waiting for my boyfriend."

The lion frowned down at disappointing peanuts. Soon, he veered his eyes towards the cub, a tall and handsome figure arriving to whisk him away.

Who was there to whisk him? Who was he supposed to whisk?

He sat by dim light, feeding thread through needle. Delicate and soft, he watched the strand pass through, a meditative sort of feat, and smiled as he turned head to watch the gentle dance of candle flame. Nights like this were few and far between, these days. He'd learned to sew from his grandmother, spending many an evening by her side, watching needle flow sleek through cloth. As he finished threading now, he reminisced on these days, thankful for a lack of prying eyes; for a lack of mockery.

The knock upon his door, then, was an unpleasant jolt from this solitude. The figure standing in his hallway shortly thereafter, casually waving as if he were a welcome guest, even more unsettling.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't even get a hello?"

"Hello. What are you doing here?"

The lion didn't answer; he simply slipped inside, a sleek display of ownership.

In a fleeting moment, he sized up his prey; something of a wide-eyed, svelte gazelle, naive and ready for the kill. He carried on, confidence in his stride, prepared to strike at any moment.

Prey spoke. "It's been a pleasure, sir, but I really must be getting-"

Predator turned abruptly, holding an authoritarian tone that so made his paid companion's skin crawl. "Y'know, I've been thinking."

"Oh, no..."

"You don't get out enough. Maybe you need to get out more? Studies show that relaxation improves work productivity by up to-" A hand arose, curtailing further speech.

Prey held breath...for just a moment, then paced several careful steps towards his intruder. "I was relaxing quite well before you showed up."

"Really?" Lion's head turned to either side, face reflecting more confusion with each inch of boring, lamentably low-budget apartment. "How?"

"I was having a quiet night at home, believe it or not."

"Snoresville."

Then, an unexpected twist; prey left. A bold and brash animal, the gazelle walked past the lion with a certain grace and flair, directing: "Good evening. You know your way out." There he took exit to his previous, more pleasant quarters.

Oh. Well. Stunned in place...then lost, directionless...several minutes came of lonely pacing and eyes that drank in their surroundings. This was the home of a strange and humble creature. One who kept happy smiling family portraits and high school soccer trophies...religious looking statues and complicated looking literature...on simple shelves, in a humble, human living room.

Russell didn't fit here. His stomach churned in regret and shame and envy, though he scarcely recognized the bulk of it...bad. He just felt bad.

His pacing led him to the open entrance of a bedroom where Timmy sat by dim light sewing; real and soft and quite human, and Russell, as an animal, lost for words and much too tarnished for this scene, turned swift, prepared to walk away.

"You're still here?"

He halted; he turned back. "You spend all your free time like this?"

Timmy glanced up from his needlework, but briefly. "When I'm allowed free time. I've a rather overbearing boss, I'm sure you understand."

"Heh. Whatcha makin'?"

Timmy's hands held still; he would not be granted further solitude this evening, and so he looked to Russell Dunbar with a sigh of resignation, holding up his sewing. "Something for my sister."

"Oh, the one-"

"The one you tried to sleep with, yes."

Russell's mouth popped tight; it had been a decidedly sharp response in both words and tone. He'd only tried to sleep with her a little .

Still, his legs propelled him closer. Timmy sat upon a small chair near a smaller light; Russell took a bed's edge, opening his mouth to speak.

Timmy beat him to the punch. "Yes, I know. Sewing is for women, I'm a woman, hilarious joke as always, sir, where would I have been tonight without your levity?"

Russell's voice held back a moment; then, meekly: "That's...not what I was gonna say at all."

Timmy turned down face, but nodded with a sigh, certain of an alternate jest. "Carry on, then."

"I was gonna say how, uh...my nanny Helga would crochet these long scarves and then wrap me up in…" Russell paused, off-put by the abrupt turn on Timmy's face; a softening, a genuine and growing intrigue. "Never...nevermind."

"Do you know how? To crochet, I mean, did she teach you?" An educated guess. Russell shrugged a shoulder; reluctant admission was enough. "You'd benefit from a hobby, sir. Working with your hands can be highly rewarding. Seeing the fruits of your labor."

"When you say 'work with your hands,'..."

Timmy stood. He moved his chair towards the bed, very near across from Russell, and shook his handiwork a touch. "A form of relaxation, of meditation, I dare say, sir, there's more to your life than just nightclubs and women."

"Tried that. Tried the hobby thing. Tried dropping women. The coitus hiatus...the intercourse intermission…"

"Yes. Yes, I know. Everything looked like a woman. Buildings, potted plants, men. You said I looked like a woman..."

"That was unrelated, and you do."

Timmy nodded in satisfaction, as though he's just proven a point, but carried on unprovoked. He had thrust a needle, thread, and scrap of cloth Russell's way no later, leaving him to stare at these offerings in confusion.

"How about it?"

"Nah, I…"

"I'm certain there's magic in those hands."

Russell side-eyed Timmy with a curious brow, snatching the cloth and needle with a defiant tug. "I'll show you magic hands…"

"Hm." Timmy resisted further commentary, content on watching Russell figure out the task before him. He knew he could do it. Timmy had witnessed marvelous meals, masterpieces formed through brush and chisel, fine music fit for concert halls...the work of a true Renaissance Man. This man could do great things...the only prerequisite being he not succumb to lust.

Well, there were no women here, no distractions. Russell had managed to thread the needle, rejoicing in his victory with a meek smile. If he could simply focus on this simple thread weaving through cloth, his eyes following its path, he would find his way. A sort of meditation, yes. In and out...in...and out...in...out…..

Russell glanced up, puzzled to find an audience so concentrated on his work. Studiously, with furrowed brow and held breath, Timmy had watched each pull of thread as though a great experiment were underway, and Russell couldn't help but hide a laugh as he carried on.

This kid was strange. It was just a thread, it was just a needle. They were only sitting in this room right now, isolated, illuminated by a simple light, far from city noise and office buildings. Timmy had only pulled forward, magnet to metal, intrigued, watching him with childlike intensity as if he were the most interesting person in the entire world. As though...he may really be worth caring abou-

"Hss…" Russell leered upon a pricked finger, head tilting, eyes widening. He rose his hand, mesmerized, a slow bit of bright red easing down a finger.

"Merely a prick, sir, you'll make it. Don't just stare at it, though...put pressure on it, for heaven's sake."

"What...?"

"Put...put pressure on...my word, how are you still alive?" Timmy sacrificed Russell's cloth; he'd wrapped it firm about his finger a moment later, holding it in place.

How are you still alive? Russell jolted back to life, the question echoing against his brain.

You know your way out. Timmy sat holding Russell's hand, a makeshift medic, separated only by a thin scrap of simple white fabric.

The men's eyes locked quickly; quickly, eyes turned down again towards a patch of white cloth, staining red between hands that froze in contemplation. Hesitation.

Timmy's hand was warm, and soft, and real. He radiated sincerity through long, delicate fingers which brushed so carefully with Russell's.

Russell's hand quivered impulsively, seeking further warmth.

Please stay here.

Denied, for just as quick as he'd arrived, he left again. "I believe," said Timmy, "it's stopped bleeding...you'll, uhm…your fingers will remember."

Russell was looking to Timmy silently, holding himself uneasily, decidedly dumbstruck.

"How to sew," completed Timmy. "Or crochet, if you were...to take it back up."

Russell's fingers ached to create further memories.

And Timmy, locked upon a spellbound face, fell quite perplexed, still lost for the fact that he might be the spell.

"Sir?"

Russell blinked his eyes away from Timmy's face, examining his finger. "Live to tell another tale, huh?"

"Can't spill all the magic, I suppose."

Silent questions.

"I, uh...I should get going. S...see ya tomorrow."

Timmy watched him go, an uneventful journey, same as he'd arrived; he might as well have owned the place. He listened for the door to close, expecting some relief at this departure.

Instead, he held a scrap of fabric, inspecting surprisingly neat stitches near a small pool of red, and wondered why his world stopped turning for the likes of such an animal as Russell Dunbar.

"His blood is surely toxic."