Terra Firma

The weather was bad. It was hot enough to fry chips; the air smelt of pencil sharpenings; the sky was tinged with violet; and Angel felt weird. She had been restless in her room, and had gone out with nowhere in particular to go. She had walked through the streets and sat at the park, watching perfectly toned people in perfectly accessorised tracksuits stroll in and out before walking away, once again. She had gone to the mall and drifted with the currents, finding nothing and no-one of any interest. She drank a tasteless cup of coffee with an outlandish name to justify an outlandish price tag. She felt the lukewarm liquid seeping through her body. It was highly unsatisfying.

She tipped the waiter and wandered aimlessly out of the mall and up the road. She wished she had work to do, but she had worked late last night and finished everything up. What a stupid thing to do! She could have watched crappy American movies on TV, or learnt some useless trivia from Discovery channel, she could have chatted up friends on the internet. She could have read a book or even worked on her assignment on cryptology, or called some friends on the phone that she hadn’t talked to for ages because her life was so boring she could think of nothing to say.

She could even, and she realised this was a stretch, have talked to her husband. He had come up on chat once or twice, lurking hopefully, offering up some bait: “Mythbusters is just starting, if you want to...” or “I’m just making a fire in the sitting room if you want to...” Her husband never finished his sentences these days - he was as sure as she that no, she didn’t want to.

Contemplating her comatose marriage depressed her even more, and on a whim she walked into an art gallery. Here, at least, it was expected of you to stand around and do nothing. In fact the less you did the better.

The main hall which was peopled by large sculptures, an imposing army of malformed humanity, which at once appealed to her loneliness, and forced her further into her own skin. One in particular caught her attention - a little girl, crouched down, staring intently at something Angel could not see. She walked past some sculptures - a hand brushed across her breast and she jumped in surprise, but it was just a stone banker, his eyes staring eternally at a calculator. She reached the little girl, and saw she was staring into a small side room. One finger was pointing. Not knowing why, Angel murmured “thank you”, and walked into the room.

It held only one painting, but it seemed too small to hold even that. A woman smiled at Angel, directly at her, a knowing smile, a smile that cut right through Angel. This woman had what Angel wanted. She moved closer to the canvas, she wanted to touch it, to rip the woman off the wall. She raised one arm, fingertips outstretched.

“Don’t turn around,” a voice breathed behind her. “Just act natural. Act like you and I are both just looking at the painting.” Normally Angel would whip around and mace anyone who said that, but this voice spoke to be obeyed. It made the hairs on her neck tingle, but in a good way.
She continued to study the portrait - the lady smiled down at her, as if she knew what was coming, and approved. Angel felt the heat of masculinity behind her, wondered how close he was. Here was a complete stranger and she wanted to lean back and rest against him, he felt so alive.
“I’ve been watching you. You’re the most beautiful work of art in this gallery. Instinctively Angel started to turn, but, “Don’t worry,” the voice whispered, “I’ve seen the wedding ring. I’m not actually proposing anything. But I just wanted to tell you.” The voice was right in her ear now, lips touching her, sending bolts of electricity straight down her spine,“if you weren’t married, I know exactly what I’d do with you.”

There was a silence so tense that Angel almost stopped breathing. He was obviously waiting for her so she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I’d take you to my room - I have one of those big four poster beds, the kind you only see in movies and museums? Wooden, with red velvet. I’d tell you to strip, and I’d go into another room, but I’d watch you through my secret window. You’d undress without self-consciousness, and I’d see the real everyday beauty of your body, stripped of clothes, stripped of vanity.
While he spoke, his fingertips touched her neck. His touch was so light she thought she might be imagining it, but then the warmth from his hands started to permeate her skin, and soon the impressions of his fingers glowed in vibrant detail.

“Before I came in I’d let you drape yourself in a silk sheet, until you got so carried away that you wouldn’t care if anyone saw you naked, you wouldn’t care if we were in the middle of a highway performing for the world to see. You would get that carried away. I guarantee it.”

“You think I’m that easy?” she asked, her voice breaking uncomfortably.

“No. I think I’m good!” the man laughed, a warm laugh that should be collected up and sold in cans for lonely women to open on cold Friday nights. “I’d lie you in bed, draped in silk scarves, for you are my artwork to enjoy as I please. I would slowly draw down the silk sheet, exposing every tiny inch of you. And I’d watch with joy as your nipples sprang up in the cold air. I’d unveil you, and then. starting slowly from your toes, I’d stroke my tongue along your leg. Like a paintbrush, drawing you into existence. My tongue would trace each and every curve and hollow, and when one leg was done, I’d start with the other.”

As he spoke, her legs nearly gave way. She felt like someone else entirely. And it was a good feeling.

“I’m not making you uncomfortable am I?,” his voice spoke suddenly, a different voice almost. “I could stop?”

“Go on, I’m intrigued.”

“I’d kiss your body into life, your arms, each hand and every finger, your stomach. My mouth would form your breast, and then I’d suck each nipple into life. Your mouth would ache for a kiss, but first I’d explore your neck, each little kiss getting closer until I reached your mouth, and for the first time you could taste me and I could taste you.”

Her mouth almost watered for a kiss, but she remained motionless, willing him not to stop.
“It would be hell to tear myself away, but I would, traveling back down your neck, lingering on each soft breast before moving slowly down. I’d kiss the edge of your_____, you know what - are you sure you want me to carry on?”

“If you want,” she said, her voice almost a growl now. Her mind had been completely taken over by her body, and she knew now how men must feel almost every day.

“I definitely want. I want you. Where was I? Oh yes, I was gently nibbling your thighs. I would tease you, lick closer and closer to your ........, and then move away.”

“Of course you would. You’re that kind of a guy, bad guy most men cant even think of anything else!”

Angel had regained her confidence now, and spoke with a power that surprised her, and clearly delighted her seducer...or whatever he was.

“But I’m also the kind of guy who explores - an adventurer. I’d explore you, your deepness and darkness, your highs and lows. I’d play with you and you’d cry out in an agony of unrequited lust, and then, only then, only when you begged, I would plunge my tongue deep into you, and you will feel more alive than ever before, and your entire existence will collapse down into yourself. And you will be ready for me.”

Angel knew what he meant. Because she could feel the uncomfortable knot of the conversation, riding up into her body. Part of her wanted just to take her hand there and offer herself the relief she needed, but luckily somewhere in her brain some part of her remembered she was in public, in an art gallery.

“Listen, maybe I should just - “ the voice taunted her.

“Finish the stupid story!” Angel’s voice burst forth.

“I would devour you. I would eat you until you cried, your entire body shaking - you’re getting carried away now aren’t you?”

Angel felt her body start shaking. The tremor started inside her and radiated through her body, every nerve ending inundated with the most powerful feeling she had ever experienced. She heard herself crying out, and she didn’t care. A feeling as good as this, why should she care. The world went blank, a shower of tingling white stars.

When she recovered, she spun around, in time to see the corner of a black leather jacket. She had to find this man. She rushed to the main gallery, knocking into a thin, nervous man, glasses taped together, who was clearly used to knocking into people. “Excuse me,” he stammered, but Angel had already rushed past, chasing a man who was walking out the door. Bursting into the foyer, she saw two men in identical black leather coats about to step out the door.

“Wait!” she cried. They both turned - one a tall, languid, movie star of a man, the other an angry looking man in his fifties. She put a hand to her neck, where the fingerprints still burned. She waited for one of them to acknowledge her, to acknowledge what she had just experienced. She stared at the men, who stared back. Behind her, the nervous man had come into the room as well. Oh crap. He was wearing a black leather jacket.

“Sorry!” Angel said flustered. She turned back towards the gallery. The statues were still there, maintaining their stone cold silence. She went in to the little room, and looked at the painting. The woman in the painting was smiling at her. She looked - she looked a little like Angel. She looked gorgeous. Angel stepped closer, and read the title. “Satisfied”, it read, “Artist Unknown”.
“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?” Angel whispered to the portrait, smiling. And for the second time that day, Angel found herself thanking an artwork. She was about to turn when she felt the man behind her again. She was about to swing around, but stopped herself. She didn’t need to know, she just needed to feel.

“I come here every weekend,” he said, and her body for a split second remembered. Then he was gone. She waved goodbye to the portrait.

“I’ll be back,” she called, as she left the room.

Outside the world had become a cliché. The sky was blue, the sun was shining bright, the birds were singing in the trees, she had a swing in her step. She fully expected a bluebird to land on her shoulder and a gospel choir to strike up the chorus. She strained her ears, waiting. And her cellphone rang. A jolt back to reality: a client wanting a quote; then the bank wanting some details; an agency looking to put her on the books; her husband...A call to go back. Back to work, back to her life. Back home.

Bad, men in black... shoot them.