The Sagging Orchid
Monday, December 29, 2003
First Scene (3rd post) / Second Scene (1st post)
“Chicory,” she teased.
“Will you be alright?”
“Yes,” she moaned, “You’re not sore, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
She walked towards the coat rack. “You’ll say hello, won’t you?”
“I will.” Clarisse held his coat open and Taylor slipped in his arms. She wrapped her own arms around his waist and again, the head on his shoulder.
“Remember in the field, that day?,” she asked.
He grinned. “Yeah, I do.”
Sandwich had plunged into night when Taylor arrived home. There were winds, but the storms were on the Cape’s south end. His roadster crept into the dusty driveway, leaves rattling underneath its wheels. He unlocked the front door and stepped in. “Bonnie!,” he yelled.
An answer came from a stairwell in the middle of the house, leading up to the bedroom.
“Taylor?!”
“Yeah.”
The staircase was a ladder going straight up. Taylor saw her feet and the bottom edge of her robe touch its highest rung. She descended.
“About time,” she said passively. Her drape of auburn hair came into view.
“Oh, that woman,” he emoted.
“What’s her problem now?”
“She’s been offered a job in Boston and can’t make up her mind.”
“Really?” Bonnie was impressed. “Where at?”
“An art school headsman has an in for her -”
“That’s great!,” she interrupted, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Identity crisis, why am I here, that stuff.”
“Oh, she should take it and run with it.”
“I told her to spend time thinking about it.”
“You didn’t tell her to go?”
“I didn’t want to boss her.”
“Some brother you are.” She headed towards the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what’s giving her the urge to stay here.” She took a can of Maxwell House from the cupboard and a percolator from the range.
“Her family’s here,” Taylor said passively.
“Pseudo-family,” Bonnie corrected, “We’re close to her, but we’re in place of, we’re not the real thing.”
