There was a draught coming from somewhere. The source wasn’t immediately obvious, but Paul alighted the floor from his comfy chair, laying his pristine book on the intricately woven tapestry that saved the arm of the comfy chair from a fate of dust and dirt. The book slid from the arm, the intricately woven tapestry following closely as if the book were clinging desperately, wishing Why-Oh-Why does he not have a bookmark? They fell to the floor without a noise, cushioned by the intimate cuddle of the pile carpet. It sort-of spine-bounced, caught the intricately woven tapestry within its pages, hugging as if having found a new friend, finally resting in peace with its front cover hiding towards the darker floor.
Paul had ignored all this, and had by now, lumbered over to where he had decided the draught must be originating. He squatted, trying to ignore the crackling of knee-joints that overpowered even the fire-embers that craved attention, but would get no more tonight.
The draught, his trailing fingers indicated, was not coming from here.
For fifteen minutes he tried to locate the chilling source, but eventually, with a good deal of irritation, he reconciled his curiosity with his resignation. They danced briefly, but the hour was late, and the book was still.
Paul lifted the thigh-parts of his trousers a little, sat down, crossed his legs, and reached down to finish the remaining pages of his book.
His fingers brushed carpet, but soon touched the smooth, cool paperback. His hand lingered a small detail of a moment, before closing around the spine, and plucked it slowly from its inappropriate mooring, thus losing the marker fate had so kindly offered him. The book found itself melding into the crevice between his legs, at a slightly awkward angle. Years of compensation had placed a convenient grandfathery twist in Paul’s neck, so he soon settled to the rhythm of the chains of words that flitted before him, until the anchor loomed but a few paragraphs away. As his eyes followed, the cumbersome words became letters, the letters tangled shapes, until no amount of concentrated revision could make sense of the final paragraph, which was all just ink now.
He placed the book down carefully, the book closed despite the last paragraph remaining unread. He could find his place later. Alighting once more from the sinking warmth of his comfy chair, he promised himself sincerely to finish that last paragraph the first thing in the morning, as the book slid from the arm of the chair once more to join its companion on the floor.
He wandered from the room, through the ash-cloud darkness of the hallway, and opened the perfectly oiled doorway that marked the bedroom.
The moon cast its soul upon her face again tonight, the curtains wide open, so that he could see her sleeping face, relaxed of troubles, when he finally beckoned sleep.
She looked so pale, so young. Tonight though, he felt strangely compelled to amiss his playful kiss, and instead drew back his side of the covers. He was wary of the indent he made as he sat on the bed and slipped his slippers from his feet. He finally slid in those unclad feet, in that excruciating momentary delight that the action entails.
Soon, he was lying face upwards, eyes closed. She slept so peacably tonight. So lovely.
As he drifted, distant voices whispered sleeping allusions, and darkened eyes came to claim him.
- Simon Huggins, 9th February 1992