You might ask yourself as you laze inside the circle of candles on the chalk outline of a five pointed star tasting salt - Why did he summon me here?
You shouldn't worry so much about why.
Think better upon the what happens now.
Obsession is a cruel Mistress, Angelene..
Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath Broken hymen of your Highness, I'm left back Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back.
I remember the Moon, well placed inside the frame of glass panes peering at me; mocking me around an pithy brick building across the way.
The attic stairs always creaked on purpose, even under the scant pressure of slender feet creeping up them. They always set the alarms in my body to yellow alert. Heightened awareness and hyper acuity.
No one will know....
No one will care.
And so I shared every detail with my simulacrum. He became the keeper of all of the darkest treasures. He tasted the blood on your thighs. He carries the black out ink-marker that has redacted all of my forbidden memories.
I went on about things as usual. Only now when the rivers torrent is painfully quiet, I can hear the trickle of your laughter in the currents.
Salt, stakes, and symbols closed off your jetty.
The door opens quietly, blowing the cold night inside an inch at a time. He likes watching her from this vantage; all legs and lopsided socks and taboo - making all of that wrong feel way more right. In the dark she could be someone else's daughter.. Someone else's ghost... The shadowy lines of her formlessness making his intrusions much more anonymous.
The kind of drunk that makes you do stupid things ( like this ) and regret them in the morning.
On the spring air there is a faint hint of his misgivings and the left over taint from the bottom of a bottle of dark rum. It's a spiritual spirit, one that calls forth the minions of the underworld and sings praises to their leaders.
Eddie just likes the taste. She just likes to feed him the gospel of a holy ghost.
It goes down real easy with blood,
He's hiding behind the island countertop where the stools sit, stewing in a blend of self-loathing and intense desire. She's frying bacon, the whip of wind from the open door blows her hair around her bent face when he realizes the ruse is up. That or she's having one of her spells. He pulls the wide hood halfway off of his head and walks up behind her putting one hand in the 4 that her arm makes out of her hip, the other works around front to squeeze her neck. His breath is potent when he speaks.
"Are you hungry, baby?"
On the subject of expectations:
I can sit up here in the confines of my mind and have secrets about you and me. We can liken me to a force of nature, one that has sharp cracks of lightening and rolling hands of thunder. But, I will never be that beautiful natural disaster; because I am the rain that ruins your gardens. I dig and claw at your petals leaving you shredded.
I can't be a starry night with billions of llums kissing you gently, leaving behind their blinking reminders; because I am the darkness in between the lights. I would, if given the opportunity, cast you in constant shadow.
And, as I have proven, I do.
I can suppress the natural instinct to destroy you only because you fascinate me: the snake-charmer playing the pungi, slowly weaving this spell until I compromise.
Giving in to whatever plans you have manifested for us both.
Just a coins throw away from freedom....
No man enjoys being micromanaged by manipulations seeded inside the unavailable warm cunt of jealousy. All this ruins his sober good intentions and turns them acidic like indigestion. To add insult to the necessity for a Tums, the consequences of this particular game have only two possibilities: Stay or, Leave.
A weaker man might grovel.
A penitent man might beg.
A lover might sweet-talk.
An honorable man might've said the words: I love you Angie.
Unfortunately, that is not who he is.
Eddie is a selfish, self-indulgent, self-centered, peacock who honestly doesn't have the time to spare to give much thought to her hijinx. Throw a tantrum, Run amuck in the afterlife, Haunt him until the Christ Child is reborn; it really won't matter today. He gathers his keys, his beer, his smokes, and his track jacket and heads for the front door, indicating his proclivity for the latter repercussion.
"Don't wait up. I'll be late." Some device akin to a phone flips from the jacket pocket as the door slams closed.