Beasts II: Abandon
For the third time I have fixed my make-up, my nose only a few inches from the slick surface of the full-length mirror. I try to brush away errant flecks of eye shadow only to resolve they are simply freckles. Heavily I sigh: I normally don't feel so anxious. Then again, I don't go out very much. On a whim, my almost-human companion suggested a night out for dinner and music. Checking the calendar, I concluded there was no lunar reason not to accept. Twirling around, I watch the pleats of my dress fall effortlessly into place. The satiny material, in a riot of colors, catches the light. With another tug at the seams of my stockings my confidence returns.
I scurry down the hallway, hoping to be ready when I hear that familiar knock on the front door. My glossy black heels dig into the plush carpet. As I enter the living-room I hear the shuffle of feet on the sea-grass welcome mat. I take another full breath, my fingers grazing the brass door knob. Once again, I leap backwards at the rapping on the wooden entry to my home. I shake my head, considering he hesitated on purpose. As I pull the door open wide, the devilish grin on his face confirms my suspicion. Pursing my lips at his subtle mischief, I step gingerly out the door. He offers his arm, as I knew he would.
The short walk to the restaurant is quiet. I lean my head on his arm, content in knowing we look perfectly normal. He's wearing a well-pressed shirt and a tidy necktie, and I have selected a retro-styled sundress. There is nothing to suggest that we are not simply a pair of young lovers out for an early dinner. The late afternoon sun is very warm, but a temperate breeze ruffles our hair. The immense heat he emits is the only clue that betrays his otherwise idyllic human masculinity. I try to push away those dangerous thoughts as we enter the patio dining area. He ushers me to a quiet corner near the edge of the black wrought iron fence. The heavy queen palm fronds hang over the table, suggesting a hint of privacy.
Drinks are swiftly deposited on the table, delicate glasses brimming with deep scarlet wine. Dreamily I watch him bring the cool glass to his lips, drawing in the dark liquid. Just over his shoulder the vivid blue sky is streaked by the warm hues of early evening, bright ribbons of rose and vermillion race across the horizon. We sit quietly, as we always do. Words never seem as powerful as these shared silences. Deftly his hand snakes across the table, encasing my hand inside his. Above the crystalline din of dinnertime activity, our silence roars in my ears.
His hand is surprisingly hot, hotter than it should be, even for him. I take long sip from my glass, trying to ease away my concerns. But the deep earthy wine cannot erase the dark flush that blooms upon my companion's face. His flesh is ablaze now, and I feel as though I have wrongly touched a hot iron, but am unable to pull away. I watch the heavy rise and fall of his chest, knowing he is struggling to maintain restraint over his natural state. My nails bite down into his palm until I feel the warm wetness of blood spreads beneath my fingertips. In response, I am greeted by a barely audible rumbling growl from across the table. I am being warned.