"Unrequited"

by JLynn

This is an original piece of fiction. Any similarities between the characters and persons, dead or alive, are purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

Please direct any comments to muse@futuremuse.com. Thank you.

© March 2002

The sunlight is simply captivating. Thick, dusty bars of gold infiltrate my room, and since I don’t have much else on my agenda this morning, I watch them slide arrogantly across my floor.

"Some nerve, eh?"

"Oh, completely," I agree and tuck some loose hair back behind my ear. "No manners whatsoever."

"You’d think sunlight was American or something."

I stifle a laugh and immediately make a repentant face; I know several Americans and they’re not at all arrogant. Well... maybe a few. But even for those that are, it’s not really their fault. Just something in the water perhaps. "That wasn’t nice. You know they can’t help themselves."

There’s a muttered, "Whatever," just loud enough for me to hear.

Incorrigible, I sigh, but apologies are about as rare as good programming on television these days, so I take what I can get.

From beyond my window I hear the sound of voices and laughter, and I think I hear one in particular that, of late, has interested me. Not the voice itself, mind you. It sounds like it belongs to a smoker, all hoarse and raspy and such. Yet it’s pitched oddly at the same time. It’s like… well, have you ever smelled something kind of nasty, but it’s intriguing at the same time? And you almost feel naughty and weird about it when you breathe in deeper again, trying to figure out what it is? Like a twisted pleasure. That’s what the voice is to me. It’s awful, but I listen for it in spite of myself.

"Right on time!"

Apparently I wasn’t the only one to have noticed.

"You coming?"

I duck beneath the impertinent rays and come to stand beside the window. The light is brighter here, so I shade my eyes as I take in the view beneath my study. "The grass wants trimming."

"The kid’s late. No sense of responsibility in any of ‘em these days."

"Goodness, aren’t we peaches and cream today," I reply absently as my eyes search among the trees that cover the gardens.

"Yeah? Well, you can just shove your fuckin’ peaches up your-"

"I see her!" She was laughing again at something the man with her was saying, laughing in that raspy squeak that makes me want to hit her as much as have her do it again. Her long hair is loose today instead of in its usual braid down her back. Seaweed in the water. Airweed on the breeze? Whatever the case, little tendrils kept lifting into the air wanting to fly. "Her hair looks soft."

"Oh, for god’s sake, she’s a dog!"

I flush, mortified and angry, not even aware that I’d spoken out loud. "She is not!" I don’t know why I’m protesting; the pathway doesn’t come beneath my window and she’s never come close enough for me to effectively argue my point. A pity, if you ask me.

A disgusted sigh and a head-shake are all the return volley I get.

Irritated by the lack of response, I choose instead to ignore it, though I feel my brow furrowing regardless. Not a good sign, that; I don’t want premature wrinkling. I wiggle the pad of my thumb against the tension spot between my brows and return my gaze to the woman walking slowly along the path.

She’s wearing a dark green cardigan, and it’s as open and loose as her hair. Beneath it, she’s wearing a pair of immaculate dark jeans and a button down shirt. Very casual and comfy. Something shiny around her neck suddenly catches the sunlight and throws glints in my face though, and I whip up a hand to quickly rub my eyes. "Rude," I mutter at the sun again, but it’s weak at best. All my attention is on her and I’m annoyed by how fascinated I am by the way she shrugs. It’s almost twitchy, the way she does it. If I did it that way, I’d pull a muscle for sure.

"That’s disgusting."

"What are you talking about?" My eyes flitter about, wondering what I’d missed.

"There! Did you see that?"

"What!"

"She bites her nails!" Indeed, she appears to chew on a finger as I look on.

I huff and hold out my hands so that my ragged cuticles and uneven nails are readily obvious. "Like she’s the only one around here."

"Gross. You do that around me and I’m outta here."

"Don’t tempt me."

"Har har."

Personal grooming habits are no deterrent; I still watch her avidly. Her gaze flows naturally towards where I am as the path curves around to face my study, and I press my hand against my chest where a pain has started. My breath comes hard for a moment and I blink and swallow, hoping that the medication I took earlier will relieve it.

"You’re pale, eh?"

"Am I?" My eyes unfocus for a moment to look at my reflection in the glass of the window. It’s true, and my worried expression looks back at me.

"Shuffle over and stand in the sun."

"No, thanks." She might see me. And at some point in the last couple of days it’s become important to me that she doesn’t. I look down at myself with my threadworn clothes that, no matter how clean, always hang on me as if I’ve slept in them for a week. Uncomfortable, my fingers brush my hair back again, pausing to rub the thick curls between my fingers. Much like the lawn, I could do with a trim as well. And my hair feels nowhere near as soft as hers looks. Wish I could touch it.

"Who’s the guy with her?"

My gaze narrows on him suspiciously. He hasn’t walked with her before, but she seems really happy to see him. I hate him immediately. "Don’t know."

"Quite the hottie."

"Shut up!"

"Hey! Who got up your nose?"

"You’re doing pretty good all on your own," I snap back. It bugs me, but I feel entirely possessive. And my stomach feels all knotty, did I mention that?

The guy has just put his arm around her and kissed her head. There’s a distant thump as I lean closer, wishing with an intensity that’s breathlessly painful that I could be the one to make her smile like she does at him. "No…"

"Jesus, get a grip and peel yourself off the glass, would ya?"

"She can’t be with him."

"Who’s she gonna be with? You?"

It’s an incredulous thought, but I suddenly grasp at it because it gives form to the pain in my chest that makes my heart hurt. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I think I love her."

A snort of laughter. "You don’t even know her fucking name!"

"I don’t have to!" I shout back. "Love doesn’t need names."

I can hear the eye rolling from here. "Tell it to Hallmark. They’re the only ones who’re gonna buy that crap."

"What do you know about it?!" I turn back to look at her, only to find that they have moved on and beyond my view. My breath leaves me when I realise I’ve missed her. My fist bangs lightly on the window, and I turn away and slide down to sit on the floor, my body as deflated as my hopes.

"You need to get out more. Seriously."

I pointedly chew on my fingernail and glare.

"Pig. I can take a hint."

There’s a sound at my door and I hastily rise to my feet, wondering why I hadn’t heard the doorbell downstairs. It swings open and produces Mr Douglass, a stern black man whose effort at smiling only ever seems to produce a pained gash of emotion across his face. "You got a visitor, Dansker. Just stay where you’re at, okay."

A visitor? I check my watches and see that it isn’t even noon yet. Definitely not time for guests. I step under the sunlight again and move to the other wall, more than a little put off by this unusual development. The secretary hadn’t informed me of a change to my schedule.

From behind the intimidating man steps a woman, and I freeze, pressed up against the wood panelling.

"Hi, Dansker. I’m Cara Lieken." She holds out a hand to me, but I can’t move to accept it. She’s standing right here, and I’m not ready. "Your counsellor asked me if I wouldn’t drop by for a talk. Would you like to come outside for a while with me? It’s lovely out."

Her voice sounds different up close, I notice. Gravel on top with silk beneath it. Fascinating layers that make my hearing itch. She’s standing in the sunlight and I can see the scar that runs from the corner of her jaw down across the front of her throat. It looks jagged and thick, so personal, and I watched her fingers unconsciously scratch at it while I stare. I have to tear my eyes away; I feel like I’ve touched her when I shouldn’t have.

"Dansker?"

Suddenly, it’s important for me to share something of myself, to make up for having invaded her privacy. "Erin."

"I can’t believe you’re doing this," I hear the disgusted undertone.

"Excuse me?" she asks, a little puzzled.

"My name is Erin. But only to you." I shoot a look at Mr Douglass, who’s looking back at me in surprise. I was quite insistent that no one be on a first name basis with me from the first day I arrived here. It's not professional if you ask me.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Erin," she responds easily. "So, what do you say? Feel like a walk?"

She’s prettier than I expected. My cheeks feel hot and I don’t understand why I’m letting this happen. It’s only the warm ache inside that feels as good as it hurts that convinces me that I don’t really have as much say in this as I think I do. "Alright," I finally answer and walk slowly, hesitantly, towards the door.

Mr Douglass leads the way in his usual lumbering stroll and she follows after, but I pause at the door to look back. "Well?" I ask, expectantly. "Aren’t you coming?"

A hand on my arm startles me, and I nearly gasp at her touch. She’s looking at me, concerned, and I worry too, wondering what’s distressed her.

"Erin, who are you speaking to?"

Is she blind? I turn to look back into my room, but find it confusingly empty except for the sunlight that’s taken over the floor. "I…" Oh, dear. I blink a few times and try to compose an answer.

"Let’s go out and you can tell me about your friend." Her eyes are kind, interested even, and the very fact that she doesn’t laugh at me like some do makes me love her more.

"Alright." I nod and let her slip her arm through mine. Mr Douglass glances back, his uniform making that crackling sound over-starched clothing makes. He watches me closely, and I mentally stick my tongue out, and hope he's jealous. He's not going to interfere. She chose me. And really, it’s more than I could have dared hope for, after all, and I soak it in as we step out into the hallway to leave the building. "Your hair…" I begin, but pause, suddenly aware of how it might sound.

She laughs, almost self-consciously I think, and runs a hand through it. "Messy? There’s a breeze today. Must look a wreck."

Something about the way she says that, the way she pats it down, that makes me feel I could say anything I want to her. "No. Not at all," I reassure her softly. "I just wanted to tell that your hair is beautiful."

The smile she gives me holds a soft, gentle glow, and if sunlight could be like that, I think to myself as we descend the stairs, it would be welcome in my room any time.

End

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