A Ribbon From His Throat
Exquisite
Ex-quis-ite
The girl laughs to herself. "Who says that?" she asks a passing sparrow. Such an old word, so aristocratic, so dramatic. When was the last time she actually heard it spoken in real conversation, she ponders, much less given to describe her, if ever. But that was what he had said and now, feeling as though she has just had just been newly introduced to the word, she cannot stop saying it herself.
"Ecks-qwis-eetah" She sounds out, extending each S to a soft whistle.
It is dusk and she is on her way home from the market. The grocer’s bags hang from the crook of her elbow, bumping against the side of her leg as her gait assumes a slight skip. In her arms she carries a paper bag holding a separate purchase. She hugs this to her chest as inwardly she revels in the compliment.
E-X-Q-U-I-S-I-T-E What a word! Outside she makes a humble effort to hold back the coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Silly man. He did not ask for her number or for a date. He had pulled his vehicle over as she was walking her usual route and made the statement from the driver’s seat.
Holding his exposed palms at the level of his eyes, as if surrendering, he confessed that this was the third time he had seen her walking and he thought that she was "absolutely exquisite". He drew out the word with an elegant wave of his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed together, as if it were a ribbon he was magically producing from his throat.
It was italicized even as it was spoken.
Then he drove off without even staying for a reaction.
That was it.
Exquisite >adjective
1. Characterized by intricate and beautiful design or execution.
2. Such beauty or delicacy as to arouse intense delight.
3. Excellent; flawless.
What a nice man, she muses, her heart carelessly enamored for the moment. The voice of reason reminded her that it was all too likely that he was not. He was driving a superfluously fancy sports car and altogether he was just too coiffed to be an honest man and unfortunately she was right. He was peer to the most degenerate of assholes. But he meant what he said. For that one moment, his intentions and desires were only pure, without agenda, and he had to tell her before the moment lapsed. Yes, he meant it. In his entire dishonest life he may have never meant anything as much as he meant what he said to her just then.
But a heart free from malice was not needed.
He had given her a nice moment and consequentially she is momentarily happy.
Arriving at her building she is still lost in thought as she approaches the entrance.
"Good evening." greets the doorman.
"Exquisite" she whispers in return.
She repeats the word quietly as she lets herself into her apartment. Humming it over, she sets down the bags and prepares dinner. Her smile still lingers as she sets the table. The china sits stacked in the cupboard and the silvers lay as they've been; stashed away in the buffet cabinet. Meanwhile, she sets out the everyday silverware and plates. The only adornment she allows is one lit candle at the head of the table. She sits at the opposite end.
She had vowed off meat a year and a half ago but regrets each day of the abstinence as the first bite elicits a nostalgic roll of her eyes and a deep moan. Each following forkful demanded and enthusiastic nod of agreement that the food was truly exquisite. While in the midst of enjoying her meal she uncorks a bottle of expensive wine that she had been saving and pours herself a glass. She brings the glass to her nose and inhales its promising aroma and after the first sip she concludes that this too is indeed exquisite.
After the food has been eaten and the wine consumed, she clears the dishes and wipes down the table but leaves the candle to burn out. At the sink, washing the dishes she looks at her hands through the suds in the water, turning them over, from palms to knuckles and back, examining the length of each finger from knuckle to nail. "Exquisite?" She asks the man. She gives up the unanswered question with a slight shrug and continues washing.
When she finishes cleaning she walks into the living room and puts an album from her library on stereo. On the album is La Boheme’s, O Suave Fancuilla. She had always been of the persuasion that this was the sweetest and most innocent love song ever written. As the crescendo of the opening verse makes its ascent, the goosebumps that the song had always made rise shiver over her and she decides that, along with her dinner and the wine, this song too could not be deemed anything less than exquisite. She places the track on repeat and turns the stereo volume high so that it can be heard strong throughout the apartment but particularly in the bathroom where she is drawing water for a bath.
She undresses in her bedroom and wraps herself in a warm heavy robe as she waits for the tub to fill. She is administering a temperature check of the water using her toe as a thermometer when she suddenly remembers something. Trotting briskly back to the kitchen she fetches the paper bag she had left on the counter and brings it into the bathroom which is now thickly fogged with steam from the running water. She sets the crumpled bag on the vanity next to the sink and turns off the tub faucet. She unwraps her robe and rests it on a hook on the bathroom door. Standing naked in front of the mirror she assesses her body.
It isn’t perfect and it isn’t horrible. It is nice. It is pretty good actually. It is nice.
"But exquisite?" Still flattered by his undue sincerity she shakes her head, "What a silly man."
Stepping back up to the sink she opens the paper bag. From it she takes a plastic rectangular instrument with rounded edges. She turns it around, examining it from end to end until she finds a small button located on its side. Holding the tool tightly in her hand she turns and steps daintily into the tub. The water is still steaming as she lowers her body in. Once immersed she rests her head against the cool porcelain edge and exhales. Her mind floats with the notes from the operetta flowing throughout the room. As usual, another crescendo breaks and again goosebumps rise despite the heated water. Rodolfo has finally found his poetry.
She lifts the plastic tool still in her hand and presses the little button. The button then releases a small spring within the tool at which a thin blade protrudes from a small slit at the head. "Fremon già nell'anima le dolcezze estreme nel bacio freme amor!"
She brings the tool to her arm and makes a deep two inch incision along the length of each of her wrist. The pain is acute at first but then turns rhythmic and bearable. She watches the first impearled drops of red fall into the water and unfurl into pink wisps at contact. The flows increase and start to resemble red satin ribbons wrapped around each of her wrists. It only takes Rodolfo once to get Mimi to say she loves him.
Within seconds the water morphs from a sweet pink to an infatuated red. She feels each heartbeat taking consciousness as breaking waves grab at the shore stealing handfuls of sand as they recede. Her shoulder muscles unravel and their knots dissipate with the relief of the release of a burdensome yoke.
"Amore! Amore!" exclaim the lovers.
She is relaxed and puts up no restraint against the heavy fog of lethargy rolling over her, casting the spell of sleep. Her heavy eyelids drop closed with the soft thudded finality of velvet stage curtains closing the final act of which she gracefully bows out.
Ex-quis-ite
The girl laughs to herself. "Who says that?" she asks a passing sparrow. Such an old word, so aristocratic, so dramatic. When was the last time she actually heard it spoken in real conversation, she ponders, much less given to describe her, if ever. But that was what he had said and now, feeling as though she has just had just been newly introduced to the word, she cannot stop saying it herself.
"Ecks-qwis-eetah" She sounds out, extending each S to a soft whistle.
It is dusk and she is on her way home from the market. The grocer’s bags hang from the crook of her elbow, bumping against the side of her leg as her gait assumes a slight skip. In her arms she carries a paper bag holding a separate purchase. She hugs this to her chest as inwardly she revels in the compliment.
E-X-Q-U-I-S-I-T-E What a word! Outside she makes a humble effort to hold back the coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Silly man. He did not ask for her number or for a date. He had pulled his vehicle over as she was walking her usual route and made the statement from the driver’s seat.
Holding his exposed palms at the level of his eyes, as if surrendering, he confessed that this was the third time he had seen her walking and he thought that she was "absolutely exquisite". He drew out the word with an elegant wave of his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed together, as if it were a ribbon he was magically producing from his throat.
It was italicized even as it was spoken.
Then he drove off without even staying for a reaction.
That was it.
Exquisite >adjective
1. Characterized by intricate and beautiful design or execution.
2. Such beauty or delicacy as to arouse intense delight.
3. Excellent; flawless.
What a nice man, she muses, her heart carelessly enamored for the moment. The voice of reason reminded her that it was all too likely that he was not. He was driving a superfluously fancy sports car and altogether he was just too coiffed to be an honest man and unfortunately she was right. He was peer to the most degenerate of assholes. But he meant what he said. For that one moment, his intentions and desires were only pure, without agenda, and he had to tell her before the moment lapsed. Yes, he meant it. In his entire dishonest life he may have never meant anything as much as he meant what he said to her just then.
But a heart free from malice was not needed.
He had given her a nice moment and consequentially she is momentarily happy.
Arriving at her building she is still lost in thought as she approaches the entrance.
"Good evening." greets the doorman.
"Exquisite" she whispers in return.
She repeats the word quietly as she lets herself into her apartment. Humming it over, she sets down the bags and prepares dinner. Her smile still lingers as she sets the table. The china sits stacked in the cupboard and the silvers lay as they've been; stashed away in the buffet cabinet. Meanwhile, she sets out the everyday silverware and plates. The only adornment she allows is one lit candle at the head of the table. She sits at the opposite end.
She had vowed off meat a year and a half ago but regrets each day of the abstinence as the first bite elicits a nostalgic roll of her eyes and a deep moan. Each following forkful demanded and enthusiastic nod of agreement that the food was truly exquisite. While in the midst of enjoying her meal she uncorks a bottle of expensive wine that she had been saving and pours herself a glass. She brings the glass to her nose and inhales its promising aroma and after the first sip she concludes that this too is indeed exquisite.
After the food has been eaten and the wine consumed, she clears the dishes and wipes down the table but leaves the candle to burn out. At the sink, washing the dishes she looks at her hands through the suds in the water, turning them over, from palms to knuckles and back, examining the length of each finger from knuckle to nail. "Exquisite?" She asks the man. She gives up the unanswered question with a slight shrug and continues washing.
When she finishes cleaning she walks into the living room and puts an album from her library on stereo. On the album is La Boheme’s, O Suave Fancuilla. She had always been of the persuasion that this was the sweetest and most innocent love song ever written. As the crescendo of the opening verse makes its ascent, the goosebumps that the song had always made rise shiver over her and she decides that, along with her dinner and the wine, this song too could not be deemed anything less than exquisite. She places the track on repeat and turns the stereo volume high so that it can be heard strong throughout the apartment but particularly in the bathroom where she is drawing water for a bath.
She undresses in her bedroom and wraps herself in a warm heavy robe as she waits for the tub to fill. She is administering a temperature check of the water using her toe as a thermometer when she suddenly remembers something. Trotting briskly back to the kitchen she fetches the paper bag she had left on the counter and brings it into the bathroom which is now thickly fogged with steam from the running water. She sets the crumpled bag on the vanity next to the sink and turns off the tub faucet. She unwraps her robe and rests it on a hook on the bathroom door. Standing naked in front of the mirror she assesses her body.
It isn’t perfect and it isn’t horrible. It is nice. It is pretty good actually. It is nice.
"But exquisite?" Still flattered by his undue sincerity she shakes her head, "What a silly man."
Stepping back up to the sink she opens the paper bag. From it she takes a plastic rectangular instrument with rounded edges. She turns it around, examining it from end to end until she finds a small button located on its side. Holding the tool tightly in her hand she turns and steps daintily into the tub. The water is still steaming as she lowers her body in. Once immersed she rests her head against the cool porcelain edge and exhales. Her mind floats with the notes from the operetta flowing throughout the room. As usual, another crescendo breaks and again goosebumps rise despite the heated water. Rodolfo has finally found his poetry.
She lifts the plastic tool still in her hand and presses the little button. The button then releases a small spring within the tool at which a thin blade protrudes from a small slit at the head. "Fremon già nell'anima le dolcezze estreme nel bacio freme amor!"
She brings the tool to her arm and makes a deep two inch incision along the length of each of her wrist. The pain is acute at first but then turns rhythmic and bearable. She watches the first impearled drops of red fall into the water and unfurl into pink wisps at contact. The flows increase and start to resemble red satin ribbons wrapped around each of her wrists. It only takes Rodolfo once to get Mimi to say she loves him.
Within seconds the water morphs from a sweet pink to an infatuated red. She feels each heartbeat taking consciousness as breaking waves grab at the shore stealing handfuls of sand as they recede. Her shoulder muscles unravel and their knots dissipate with the relief of the release of a burdensome yoke.
"Amore! Amore!" exclaim the lovers.
She is relaxed and puts up no restraint against the heavy fog of lethargy rolling over her, casting the spell of sleep. Her heavy eyelids drop closed with the soft thudded finality of velvet stage curtains closing the final act of which she gracefully bows out.
posted by artfart at 12:59 PM
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