Penelope Prim
Page 8
Wishing to gaze upon Penelope again and unite the sight of her with what he’s feeling—marvel anew at her beauty and sweetness of expression, further confirm her benign frame of mind—Stuart finds himself gently interrupting their kissing, taking a half-step back, and holding her at elbow’s length.
“What, honey?” she inquires; and the hushed and concerned, ineffably kind and charming, tone in which she poses the question, in itself, is immediate confirmation of all he could hope for as evidence of her being disposed in his favor.
“Just making an indestructible memory, darling,” he smiles, trembling as if he truly is standing before a Goddess, who’s going to convey him to a sacred place of magic and mystery. “Just looking at the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen! Do I need to pinch myself? Is this real?”
“Can you feel this?” she giggles again, gently squeezing his wrists and very lightly scratching, so that it’s a tickle, with her nails.
“As unforgettably as I’ve felt anything in my life,” he smiles again, gazing at her with inordinate delight—thanking his lucky stars for these moments, more rich with promise and inundated with rejuvenating emotions than he could’ve imagined possible. After all, Penelope’s gazing back at him with such gratitude and humility and kindness and love, clearly overjoyed that he’s returned to her. She’s never gazed at him in such a manner before, as if he’s as essential to her well-being as she is to his, and he’s never felt closer to wholeheartedly believing in everlasting happiness, inextinguishable bliss. All the weeks of steadfastly pursuing her, waiting for her to reveal her authentic nature, hidden sensual and loving self, and trust him—the ordeal of earlier this afternoon, not many hours ago, when she made a show of chasing him away and he feared he was on the point of losing her, being forever relegated to hell on earth: he refused to surrender and allow it to happen, persisted despite the magnitude of his bewilderment and panic, and now his life’s been lifted towards heaven in the blink of an eye. He’s assuredly performed the labors of Hercules on Penelope’s behalf, in the sustained-inner-shock sense—the bombardment-of-his-identity sense—and she’s rewarding him now, with all of her heart. It’s obvious she’s been hoping he’d return to her and prepared for his arrival—taken special care to be extraordinarily beautiful, a living vision the likes of which he’s never seen before: she’s not making a secret of it, neither acting coy nor parading pride. She’s openly offering herself to him, all smiles and radiance and jubilation, with no wish for him to endure further tribulations. This is the Penelope he’s been dying to see from the start. This is the Penelope he always knew was concealed behind her willful avoidance of allusions to love and affection. This is the Penelope who vastly exceeds everything he could’ve hoped for in a woman and holds the key not merely to his happiness, but to the serenity of his soul.
And not long thereafter, as they resume embracing and Stuart feels the waves of Penelope’s hair splash against and tickle and tingle his cheeks—feels her shiver with elation as she caresses him with soothing-as-a-fluttering-breeze fingers—hears her inquire in mellisonant loving tones, What took you so long, dearest?—is he aware, or oblivious, of the fact it’s only the light from the building’s hallway, due to the unclosed door of her apartment, that’s enabling him to see her clearly? Aware, or oblivious, of the fact the shades have been drawn and the only illumination within her apartment is that provided by the candles arranged in a circle on the coffee table? Aware, or oblivious, of the fact there’s a gun lying on a gold-fringed scarlet pillow in the center of the circle of candles, beside two glasses and a bottle of Champagne? Aware, or oblivious, of the fact she’s reaching behind him to push the door of her apartment shut?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Scott Leyse was born in San Francisco, grew up in various locales about America, lived in Paris for a spell, and now resides on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Upon arrival in Manhattan he lived in several East Village dumps and worked as a New York cab driver on the night shift, with the aim of atoning for a sheltered upbringing and having adventures the likes of which he'd never had before and he wasn't disappointed; subsequently he acquired over a dozen years of experience in the legal field, where he was pleasantly surprised to find that additional adventures, of the office politics and shenanigans variety, were to be had; presently he works in the advertising field, where he's not looking for any special adventures, having decided to separate work from fun and games and have secrets that are easier to keep. He skis in Sun Valley, Idaho, surfs with board and body in southern California and Puerto Rico, once took a belly dance class in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and the most incandescent yoga class he’s ever had was on a stand-up paddle board in Condado Lagoon during a furious rainstorm. He eats fish heads and insects and drinks blood, but can’t be paid to eat potato chips or cake.
He is a co-founder and the editor of the erotic literary fiction and poetry webzine, Sliptongue (launched May Day, 2001), and the founder and editor of the ShatterColors Literary Review (launched May Day, 2006). His three novels are Liaisons for Laughs: Angie & Ella’s Summer of Delirium (July, 2009), Self-Murder (April, 2010), and Attraction and Repulsion (June, 2011). His two novellas are Penelope Prim and Tallulah Tempest (both February, 2015). The latter was originally intended to be a send-up of volatile relationships but turned out to be an appreciation and celebration of them instead: sometimes a tale decides where it wishes to go, the author be damned. Forthcoming is a collection of short stories.
Website: http://www.robertscottleyse.com