Friday, April 3, 2009

Micro Story For A Friday Night

Camille's Fiance

Only in darkness did he feel at ease, sitting for hours just staring out the window. The cold quiet night soothed his growing apprehension. He only asked Camille to marry him because he thought she would say no. He’d been certain that she would refuse to be stuck with the likes of him for the rest of her life. But she hadn't said no. She'd said yes, yes, yes. Breathlessly. Miraculously.

He parked his car the next street over and entered his apartment building from the back alley, so that Camille wouldn’t spot him if she happened by. Cloaked in the dark room, drinking Patron straight out of the bottle, he hid from her. From his fiancé. God he wished that he hadn't rushed in. Just the thought of going through with the marriage made him feel like throwing up. Or maybe it was the tequila on an empty stomach. No matter, he could never back out now. Her mother and his mother had bonded over wedding plans. Checks had been written, deposits made.

If only he wasn’t a sucker for silky elbows and witty banter. If only Camille hadn’t decided to sing those intoxicating Cole Porter lyrics into his ear the night that he’d fallen to pieces: You'd be so nice to come home to, You'd be so nice by the fire. If only the girl wasn’t double jointed. If only he hadn’t fallen in love. If he was so in love, then why didn’t he want to follow through with the steps necessary to see to it that he would always be the one that Camille came home to? Good question. Maybe he was too plastered to come up with a suitable answer. As he thought of breaking it off with her his woozy mind raced to imagine what breaking it off would mean. If he didn’t marry her somebody else would. Another man would take his place. That dirty bastard would watch The Royal Tenenbaums over and over with her because it was Camille's hands-down favorite movie. He’d be the one to send for Chinese food delivery. He’d be the one to sit in Tomorrowland licking a lollipop she held shaped liked Mickey Mouse while listening to her critique the fashion choices of passing pedestrians. Camille’s fiancé nearly went half crazy imaging that other man making love to her. Drunk and uncertain about how to proceed, he passed out on the bed.

 His phone vibrated on the pillow next to his face sometime around two o’clock in the morning, waking him. “There you are,” Camille crooned into his ear. “Here I am,” he replied, “and I always will be.” 

All Rights Reserved. © 2009 by Elizabeth Bradley.


david mcmahon said...

Your prose is as smooth as classic silk.

I'm also intrigued by your equation between interior design and fiction .....

Mojo said...

Egad... I wish this didn't hit so close to the bone. I like it, but man does it bring up some memories.

Lisa said...

really great reading Elizabeth xx

Cheffie-Mom said...

You are a very talented writer!

Elizabeth Bradley said...

Thanks guys.