Fresh Short Story: Sibilant (6)

Sibilant (1)・Sibilant (2)・Sibilant (3)・Sibilant (4)・Sibilant (5)

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Hans Holbein the Younger was one of the most famous artists of the Danse Macabre. Michael particularly liked how Death dragged people in his woodcuts, clutching their clothing and blithely pulling them against their will into the inevitable final page of every mortal tome. For instance, here it grasped the bedclothes of a startled duchess--

"MICHAEL." The insistent voice had become a constant of his existence. Michael well knew how the duchess felt when interrupted by an unshakable being. He looked slowly up from his computer.

Chest heaving, Alan said, "I finished. 50 push-ups." He grinned and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Michael sat back and gave Alan his full attention. "Very good. You're free until our session tonight."

"Sweet." Alan immediately plunked himself down at his computer and logged onto some MMO.

Michael returned to perusing the woodcuts, but had lost the emotional connection. With a sigh, he went for a walk. For all his reading of Eastern philosophy, meditation had never seemed necessary to him, but now he found it an essential tool for composure and inner peace. He practiced a light form of it when walking, focusing on the now and awareness of his surroundings; he also had several spots where he liked to settle for deeper meditation.

Less manageable were the base sexual urges: a sort of need for release without the presence of higher consciousness. The problem was that it had been a closed loop in the past, where he could simply masturbate and move on. Now he specifically craved the bodies of women, with little concern for a mental or emotional connection. He did not think that this kind of animal interaction was possible in American college society, despite its infamy for it. Humans inevitably form connections, wish to form connections...he did not believe in a truly isolated one-night stand, nor in fuckbuddies sans any emotional yearning. He had sensed for a long time that if he got sexually involved with anyone, they would cling -- if not openly, emotionally. This was how people interacted with him the moment he engaged. He didn't want to be anyone's loss.

But enough. He had set aside time for such ruminations after his nightly sessions with Alan. So he focused on the oak leaves rattling on their branches in the afternoon breeze, and the people by the campus building way over there, and a squirrel scrabbling on the tree trunk, and the cirrus clouds swept lazily across the blue, and the distant sound of a dog barking.

She walked toward him in a denim dress that ended above the knees, staring at her phone while adjusting the blue headband in her curled brown hair. Her eyebrows convinced Michael's subconscious that he might allow himself to enjoy her pale, shapely legs, slightly pink at the knees. They were such perfectly arched eyebrows; one might call them intelligent, which made Michael feel excused for staring at her legs.

"Excuse me," he said before she passed. She looked up with the same startled jolt that one so often sees with people transfixed by their phones. "Are you in a hurry? I'm doing a survey of students here for a project."

"What kind of survey?" Despite her suspicion, Michael could see that she liked the looks of him.

Careful now. It should be safe, but not so ordinary as to be boring. "Independence."

"Independence?"

"Whether you're living with your parents, whether you have a car, that sort of thing."

She bit her lip. "How long will it take?"

"About 15 minutes."

"Well...is it anonymous?"

"If you want it to be."

"Well...OK."

"Thank you so much. Should we go to the cafe?" He motioned to the cafe by the dining hall.

"Can we stay out here? It's such a nice day."

They settled on a tree root under the still-breezy oak, and Michael pulled out his own phone to pretend to record answers to his on-the-fly questions. "What's your name?"

"Emma."

"Very traditional."

"It's making a comeback." She tucked stray hair behind her ear, and Michael admired her sharp cheekbone. She had a small face, heart-shaped. He put her in mind of a fawn.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty. How old are you?"

"Oh, that's a secret." He leaned back against the tree. "But I'll tell you if you'll keep it to yourself." He looked at her slightly from under his brows.

"Fine." Her smiling lips pinched with fabricated exasperation.

"Eighteen."

"Really? I thought you were older."

"Everyone does." He sat back up. "Do you live on campus?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a job?"

"Just weekends, at the campus bookstore. --I don't start for another half hour." She checked her phone.

What am I doing, Michael suddenly asked himself. Trying to start a relationship? Trying to get laid? If I bring her back to the dorm, Alan will feel-- He stopped. Terrible. The light leapt into his eyes. He would feel emasculated, mocked. This has a purpose.

"What time do you get off work?"

"Is this part of the survey?" She didn't look up.

"No." Now she did look at him, and he stared back with absolute calm, a slight smile. "I don't want to keep you when you're about to start work. Finish this over dinner tonight?"

She looked into the distance for a moment of indecision. "I...shouldn't. Well, fuck it. OK. But I'm driving."

"Has...a...car," he mouthed, pretending to enter the information in his survey. She giggled. He considered her tongue. Pink. Wet.

Research, he reminded himself. He watched her as she walked away. This is about me and Alan. Without noticing it, Michael had acquired a new skill: lying to himself.