The Key
A vignette by Julia R. DeStefano, written from the perspective of the male.
“I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on 52nd street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me” (The Thin Man, Hammett, 1932).
A Red Queen. My Red Queen. Crimson-lipped, majestic, copper fluid-fire destined to disappear into the unforgiving night. And I would let her. Again.
Or would I?
I put down my gin and tonic. The world appeared before me in technicolor. Had it always been this way, and I hadn’t noticed?
I would have known Arabelle anywhere. Beige heels. Long legs definitively pacing the hardwood. The roll of her hips. Her catwalk gait had not changed. Neither had she. She owned that walk, much like she owned me. My eyes ascended the length of her. At once, I recognized the black wrap dress. I studied the way it curled around her little waist and felt no shame in my attempt to commit its reappearance to memory. I had seen that dress before. I remembered the fringe that lined its hemline. I thought of the way it swung gracefully about her as we danced — carefree — like we were the last people on earth entwined in some sort of supernatural tango. Good fortune had followed us out into the parking lot, then to the backseat of my car, where we held each other. In comparison to our scalding thoughts, it had all been timelessly innocent.
Like the last drop of Italian liquor, I savored it.
Arabelle’s titian hair had been piled atop her head with mid-century sophistication. Now it hung loose. Flowing waves cascaded down her shoulders with newfound ease. It captivated me. The whole of Arabelle captivated me. I recognized her crescent moon pendant, a fitting compliment to the stars spinning in my head.
I had been conjuring up other images of Arabelle from our past when her touch jolted me into reality. Had I been lingering in-between a memory and a dream? I had expected her not to breathe a word of traditional greeting. She did not prove me wrong. Delicately, she skated her fingertips along my arms before bringing her palms to light upon my shoulders. Her fingers met at the back of my neck and they were cold. My eyes met the door, a precautionary measure. I glanced right. Then left. The coast was clear and I knew no hesitation. My hands found Arabelle’s waist with dizzying speed. I pulled her in with a thud against my body, remembering how much she loved that. The scent of vanilla and patchouli met my nostrils. She smelled like my mother’s Christmas cookies. My fingertips alighted upon her curves and pressed into her soft flesh with familiarity.
Her locks had gone unchanged, and I still carried the sacred key. I was home.
’Tis the season to be merry, after all.
At this point, I felt compelled to eliminate the remaining distance. I pulled Arabelle in even closer. The deepest, darkest recesses of my mind became illuminated. I felt a surge of energy uncharacteristic of myself. Dare I say that I even felt romantic? Some time ago, pure happenstance had brought Arabelle into my life. A lit firecracker, she taught me that I was worthy of love, belonging, and purpose. She claimed I had taught her how to enjoy life again. Though, to look at Arabelle — to be witness to the way she could light up a room — I couldn’t imagine her not enjoying life. But I trusted in her words and in the fact that we gave each other a certain kind of hope — the gift of believing in something more.
A priceless gift, when you think about it.
You see - letting her go had plunged me deep into melancholy. Melancholy. My own admission of the word caused me to tighten my grip. I don’t like to rock the boat. But I longed for her to bring down the fortifications, if you get my drift. Then and now. Aren’t we entitled to some compensation for the things we put up with? Not that I thought of Arabelle as some cosmic reimbursement. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t think I deserved this.
It was easy to surrender to the feeling, there in the darkness, and so I did. For all I knew, it was my last opportunity. My gaze fell from the entryway and settled onto my copper beauty. I felt a bit wild, so I slid my hands down to the small of Arabelle’s back and dared to close my eyes. Her content, low moan reminded me of how much she loved that — and how much I loved the feel of her. Surely, this was more than a mere coincidence. Could I call it luck? Did I dare call it fate? I had made some headway in my classification when Arabelle’s lips found my ear. But it all went out the window at the sound of her breathy voice.
“I have fantastic visions just begging to exist outside of the realms of my mind,” she intoned, barely audible over the commotion. “You know how I like to be the poem.”
It had been years since I heard that voice. Arabelle’s words — so deliberately chosen, so piercing, informed me that she was still writing. She always did seem to be on another planet. She was laughing into my neck now. A cheerful, bell-like peal, it filled me with mirth. I had forgotten how much I loved that run-on-sentence laughter. She continued on:
“You — be the poet. Write Paradise into existence.”
I smiled wide, knowing full well what she meant. Usually, it involved putting pen to paper. Not tonight.
Arabelle was vibrant, always trying to get me to write because she saw something in me. So often, she would remark that the point of life is to do something, anything with our words — preferably, something that would outlast us. I had never thought of myself as a writer. But she succeeded in converting me a little bit. Ok, a lot. I wrote more with her and to her than I had in all my years. After so much of her calling me “poet,” I began to believe it. I figured if anyone could tell a poet from a non-poet, it would be her.
But what Arabelle had on her mind didn’t involve writing, not in the slightest. Despite this, there existed a timeless elegance to even her most brazen of ruminations. Kindness, gentleness, and persuasion fueled her.
I didn’t just want Arabelle. I admired her. I struggled with this. If I had simply lusted after her, things would have been so much simpler. I knew she felt the same — though I was fast readying to let go and let live in the way that she had eons ago. She wouldn’t mind that it had taken me some time to catch up to her — only that I had gotten there at all. She wanted me to get there.
“You annihilate my conscience,” I replied.
My sudden capacity for wordplay shocked me, and I found myself on par with Arabelle. Intrigued by my language, she leaned in. Her dark eyes gleamed. My efforts had pleased her. I remembered her penchant for conversation. Our conversation. I recalled our ability to go on like this for hours — engaged in a sweltering game of verbal chess.
“The jealous world will watch, awestruck, as we rearrange continents.”
I sucked in a breath. She had won again. I knew I couldn’t possibly top that, but she made me want to try. You see — the ego has but one desire: to be irresistible.
She still wanted me, yes, but it went beyond that.
My wild heart had broken free from its cage and was doing somersaults in my chest.
I tried but failed to wrap my head around the circuitry of my brain. The evening had taken such an unexpected turn.
How does one go from musing at a crack in the wall paint to this? That had been safer. But this was exponentially better.
I know time went on, but I lost complete track of it. Did it even matter? I had Arabelle clinging to me. I was content to let her hold on for however long she wanted. Clearly, this sort of thing had been absent from her life. It had been from mine, too. She missed me. It felt good to be missed. I smiled to myself. I was still her treasured moment of quiet in a loud, unrelenting world. I supposed Arabelle was like that one puzzle piece you keep jamming to try and make fit but frustratingly get nowhere with. She deserved more than to be categorized like that. But damn, she wasn’t like the others. I once told her that she stood out without even trying.
I meant it then. I was certain of it now. Come hell or high water, she wouldn’t walk out that door again — not without me.
