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12 November 2006 @ 09:15 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 152: Question 152  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1196

Road trip.

His eyes closed and his spine danced with scintillating tingles as a warm summer breeze made its way errantly through his hair, caring neither for the direction it went in, nor its overall effect on the person it passed by. Still damp from an early morning shower, the usual wave formation that resided upon his head was tousled and wet looking, void of a certain commonplace splendour. This was instead replaced with enhanced ruggedness, which suited him just fine. The woman behind him thought so too, sidling up from the direction his back was facing, and slowly, deliberately, curling her arms around his neck. On her part, she had to stand extra tall because he had the advantage of height over her, but only by so much. Two lovers they were, expert in an art that filled poems and films and stories, and reminiscent of, as the masses sometimes said to justify particular actions, the greater good.

“You know, stud.” the woman said, and paused, letting the deliberate inflection towards his masculinity stir a wayward longing in his heart, amongst other, places.

Sid raised his eyebrows and tried to crane his neck towards her breath, hot on his neck, to no effect. Something inquisitive rumbled in his throat, a sound of mere polite inquiry, but otherwise he stayed, fairly, silent.

“We’d better get going.” Marianne whispered, masking her speech as she pressed her face into his hair, taking in the scent of recently used shampoo and something like aftershave.

The man just nodded. He let her arms drop from their languid place around his neck, feeling her huff behind him before twisting suddenly, catching her in his arms, holding her and finding her pulse as he pressed his teeth lightly into the flesh of her neck.

“Expeditious and malicious at your service my dear.” he exhaled, and then bit down again, harder, eager and sucking. With a snapping but deliberate suddenness, Sid released her, set her down from being entwined into his grasp, and grinned widely, the proverbial cat at the cream in every respect. Bending, he hefted up two duffle bags from the ground, one onto either shoulder and made towards the car as his wife fled back into the house to make the final arrangements for their prolonged absence.

They made their way out of the city that day, and wound their way into places hidden from view, locations where no one could be disturbed, and where private activities could go on privately and most importantly of all, unnoticed. Sounds were made and fun was had, body pressed against body, mind and spirit raging a blessed and friendly war against a companion faction. They went on a road trip and arrived at a place of perfect sanction, a nice little holiday where they could live and forget any of their worldly troubles.

Years later a man sat outside at a shaded cafe table, entertaining the dying afternoon sun against the back of his neck, his head bent over a newspaper, eyes behind glasses scanning the headlines and categorising things away in case they came up later and needed remembering. He watched, eyes vague but still lingering, as a woman, smartly dressed and busy looking strode through the tables, head held high, cheeks dusted in a prominent but complimentary pink. He went back to his paper as she entered the establishment to make her order, put went back to stealing furtive glances when she re-emerged again, hands already picking blindly through her handbag to find what he assumed, correctly, to be a packet of cigarettes.

She probably had a few years on him, but the demeanour was the same. The way her head would inevitably rise above it all, amongst even the tallest of surroundings, the way she dressed, to please herself for the day ahead, and the blind but knowing fumble through the intricacies of her handbag. True, Marianne hadn’t smoked, but he knew that fumble, knew the dancing fingers to be looking for something they would recognise instantly on contact. Whereas the person he now watched had an immediate need in mind, the fumbles of his wife’s hands in her own handbag had often had more salacious undertones in store, for both him and her. That act of recognition though, was true indeed, for within a few seconds he saw the woman lock onto what she wanted, and quickly, within moments, she was seated and cradling a small flame into life as it flickered against the end of the cigarette. From behind the set up confines of his paper he watched her hair, straight and so typically set, as it brushed against her face and was quickly placed behind her ears.

Marianne would have been like that by now. She’d be turning into middle age with carefully practiced dignity about the whole, minimally thoughtful affair. As her hair changed, as her body changed, she’d relish in it. She would have made getting older a perfect art form, where love still remained the most important thing of all, and their life remained as exciting as it ever was.

Except, unbridled passion, their, unbridled passion, or whatever a loving commitment was referred to in the modern day, it didn’t physically, literally, exist anymore. He was no longer, under the main view of the world, a husband, he was a widower. He was not a father, he was someone who didn’t have children, anymore. He was alone, and yet, it wasn’t immediately obvious, everything he had lost to terror and pain and unwanted personal grievances. What had been unbreakable for him, was now in a million pieces, and while it still felt real, while he still loved her, loved his two sons, they weren’t there anymore. The only way they lived on was in memory, and memories were different from real life. Memories didn’t kiss him, memories didn’t come up behind his back and surprise him. He couldn’t bite the neck of memories and feel a pulse, subtle but brilliant and flaming and so very alive.

Sid Hammerback watched the woman smoke her cigarette, smiled in a friendly manner when she eventually noticed his presence, and for a moment, a companionship that bridged a chasm of something unexplainable was formed. But soon she left, ripped herself away from him, squashing the cigarette into an ashtray, rubbing it dead. The business card she dropped over the pages of the entertainment section slid onto the table with an air of calm intention. And later, as he pulled back her hair, fastening it into a bun, later when he cradled the woman, pressing against her searching for reprieve, it wasn’t the same. She looked something the same, she acted something the same, but it wasn’t Marianne. It wasn’t a replacement, it was just another woman in a string of women, another notch to be written down in an address book and called when desired. The bridge was there, and it was broken and then recreated. This could be repeated on an infinite basis, because they were just two people who were living in the same city, who needed some of the same things. But it still wasn’t the same.
Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Current Music: Because - The Beatles