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25 December 2006 @ 07:33 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 158: Question 158  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1083


Inspired by the holiday mistletoe: Talk about a memorable (or unexpected) kiss at a holiday party.


Just days before her death, the cheap side alley stores that were firmly bread into the heart and soul of New York City, pre-empted the big department stores in the hope for festivity, and started selling mass produced Christmas decorations. Often in the wrong colours, there were ill looking Santa Clauses dressed in a shade of red that looked more like the murky green of an old puddle. A nativity set, a dollar a piece, had Mary dressed in psychedelic, seventies inspired waves of multicoloured paint, the product, perhaps, of someone in a long distant sweatshop having a laugh for their own personal amusement, when the blue ran out. The best park of all was the pink, neon, glow in the dark, mistletoe.

The man grinned as he bought a packet of the stuff, his eyes wavering over the crystalline plastic surface of the packaging, mind already clicking into overdrive, immediately concocting a series of nuances and circumstances where he could use such a dastardly insult to normal coloured holiday decorations. Of course, he wouldn’t wait until December. Why wait until December when he could put it up now and use it to his own personal gain and satisfaction? It made perfect sense to him.

He whisked home quietly, stealing along the streets flecked everywhere with afternoon traffic, grinning and listening to the radio, mind still ticking but attention directed towards the road. Eyes too, and elsewhere in his body, perhaps not. That was him though, sexually fuelled glamour that came about from the most odd and queer of objects, places, thoughts, desires.

Sid smiled as he picked up his boys from school, ruffling their hair and listening to their stories, imagining worlds in which he grew old and watched them grow older, because, in those moments, they looked so happy and hopeful. They fed off his own bizarre excitement, using the big boy words he had spent many afternoons teaching them from books that far surpassed their understanding. “My apple was delicious, Daddy.”, “Class was magnificent!”, “Can we read Moby Dick again?!”, “Please, please, please.”, all screeched merrily in the chorus of youngsters eager to get home, to eat, to watch TV, to love and continue living.

They were so young.

He got home, guided them inside and began the ritual of the afternoon. Snacks, a TV break, homework, washing up, stories if they so wanted. His wife arrived home and he grinned at her, devilish and excited, whispering sweet nothings of future conquests in her ear, silently, his almost silence, paper thin. The boys sat on kitchen stools, hours later, and watched him sharpen knives for the preparation of dinner, the shiny metal flickering off their faces, snicker snack, slip, slip, slide, swoosh, scrape. His wife made the bed, set up the tools of their adventures and waited for her surprise, waited for him to show her what the whispers were all about. Waited for the dance to be played, the actions to be acted out. Boundless excitement, personified into neat tucks in the sheets and the putting out of scented candles and softly melting wax.

She was so beautiful.

When he put the children to bed and read them a story, she washed the dishes and waited in the lounge room, TV on, sipping a coffee, legs folded delicately underneath her, on the couch. Her eyes read the pages of the magazine she held, absently absorbing the nuances of the elite and famous, the trysts of the rich and powerful. One day, all would fall to dust, but right now, she was alive and living her life, and it was nice. She waited, barely concentrating, holding her breath, her exhaled air holding a shred of rapidness. Sid, Sid was beautiful and kind, and he loved to tease her, adored in delighting her sense of impending pleasure. They were not wrong people, not in the least.

He blindfolded her with deathly quiet hands, slightly rough with the work of a kitchen trade, but still smooth in all the right faces. The silk scarf fell across her face silently and without warning, and she dropped her magazine, her breath inwards hitching on its course into her lungs before continuing. He tied a knot and stepped around to stand in front of her, pressuring her off the couch, raising her upwards with gentle hands.

“Tell me how it feels.” he demanded, the breath on her neck un-abating.

“Good.” Marianne replied, head twisting in earnest, her feet shifting cautiously as he guided her up the steps towards her bedroom. She trusted him and that was the most important thing, really. Her speech came out whispered, distracted by the raising warmth in her belly, the hands in the small of her back, gently directing her upwards, step by step, so that if she fell, he would catch her.

The scarf dropped at the doorway to their bedroom, and she knew where she was as her feet fell on familiar floorboards, the number of steps taken to get there an intricate but tiny piece of knowledge hidden somewhere, deep within her head. The scarf dropped away and all was dark for a string of seconds until her eyes found the mistletoe, hung, perhaps, from the ceiling fan in the middle of the room. Cheap holiday time intricacies, brought out early for the masses who wanted to save money, or, who really, just wanted to entertain themselves like they were.

She was beautiful. They were beautiful. They still were.

Passions burnt that night as children slept silently. Lands already conquered raised forth new obstacles, new conquests of love, adoration, declaration, independence. Days before towers burned and people fell and die within blinks, within seconds, days before she took her children to show them the grown up world they would one day be a part of, love burned, love burned bright, and all was good.


Conquests now, were nice. But it wasn’t the same. They were filled with love, but the love was different. He remembered the look on her face that day as her eyes adjusted to the partial dark. Illuminated in the glow of candles and the garish appearance of hideously pink, plastic, mass produced mistletoe, she had loved him, and after all those years of love, of marriage, of conquests and desires, she had still been surprised. The kiss under the mistletoe, the party, as it were, had been unexpected, after all. Of course it had.

Bright and shining, loving, adoring. Of course they were.
 
 
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Current Music: Across the Universe - The Beatles