TWO by Alexandra Fox

THE DROP
 

The lash bends, soft curved, down drooping as the miserable mouth. Its pointed fineness is fibre-coated, masked, caked with black synthetics, ultra, super, extra extended but not waterproof. Its overdressed emphasis demands attention.

The drop squeezes from its hidden oval hole reluctantly, shyly, unstoppably, forced from the mucous-bed of roiled emotions, emollient, lubricant. Sad sensation sets sail down the stream of revelation.

The drop rolls, slow, opening to the air, the theme, the counterpoint, absorbing the mood, the tone. It is pear shaped, fat round decantered, a crystal Christmas bauble crossed with window squares, gleaming. It quivers, quavers, shivers, glistens.

It is thoughtful, deliberate, reflective. It steals pictures from the air and projects them. It gives nothing of its inner self, curved, cradled in the utter roundness of its epicentre.

Salt water is pure water, clean boiled for bathing wounds. Brine is for pickling, preserving, long drawing out. Salt-stacked grey coldness is the sewage-saturated seaside briny.

But this is a pure drop, salt tinctured. It is a modest drop, hanging back, apart from the flood. It is a naked drop, needing hands crossed in front of it, asking for linen.

It is a manipulative drop, asking for, seeking, demanding his love.

THE ICE HOUSE
 

They skated enfolded, two warm bodies wrapped in one coat, ass to groin, two hands in one pocket intertwined. Blades carved in unison a wake of blinding crystal dust.

She was a straightened blonde, into Evanescence, Lush, Monsoon. He was a square stubbled Booker-reading electrician with perfect fingernails and balti breath.

They moved together, stroking, gliding, speeding, breathless, pulses quickening, pounding. She fell a beat behind. They came apart.

He veered. He went so fast she couldn’t follow. His leaving reverberated.

Small cracks networked; fissures expanded.

‘You’re cold.’

‘You never wait for me.’

‘You’re freezing, frigid.’

‘Then warm me, wait for me.’

He strayed away, traced another figure.

She stamped her foot in anger, and the ice responded, thunder-cracked.

He circled back towards her, but slipped, went under. Dragged by alternating currents, breathless, pulse quickening, he pounded on the clouded screen between. Not waving.

She meandered in circling desperation, searching, seeing her face in the floor, seeking for his. She wailed in devastation, separation, calling for help, for him.

He floated in the cold, blood gelled to Absolut zero.

She saw him. Mirror slivers impaled her heart.

She sank down, knees, nose, lips freezing to the ice, mermaid hair in brittle waves. Lonely tears dripped viscously to build twin stalagmites.

His face pressed up to hers, splayed grey lips, hard-boiled eyes, blue nose squashed against the glasshouse roof.

She lay in her sunshine and knocked. She pounded hard.

He let her in.

END

Alexandra Fox  Middle-England village dweller, mother of five and grandmother of three. Having worked for many years sub-editing scientific and medical journals, she has recently discovered how much more exciting life can be when she writes short fiction for herself and has work currently in the final at Peninsular, a Commended place at Cadenza, a second prize in the Northern Echo/Orange competition, a winner in the BBC/LBF short story competition, a placed story in Scribble competition as well as publications in various e-zines. She writes with Alex Keegan’s Boot Camp.