Scarlet lips like cherries on a cold winter day. The graceful scorn of one perfectly arched eyebrow. The flutter of eyelashes, eerily reminiscent of the death throes of a butterfly. She could rule me of by a single movement of her face. I loved her and loathed her. Such extreme emotions can easily overwhelm ones heart and mind so that he becomes unable to control his actions. I know I certainly couldn’t. Yet how I desperately wanted to. I wanted to be the man that she desired. Oh, she told me how I failed at fulfilling her desires. She would never let me forget my failures. That would be showing mercy.
Often I would refer to her, when my lips were loosed in the presence of my fellow men, as cold, frigid, black ice on a winter pond. She was like an icicle, sharp and deadly, attached by delicate glue to the eves, ready to fall and impale on the slightest agitation. But no one really understood. They would ask crude questions, such as to our love life. I would blush and drown out the questions with another draught of beer. But the questions would linger in my mind in the dark hours of the night when I would lie alone in my bed. She was there too, but I couldn’t touch her. I never could touch her, unless she wanted it. I would lie alone, in my silk sheets, alone, hugging myself in the cold hours of the early mornings.
People would have thought that we perfect and we certainly looked the part. King and queen in silken robes and diamond rings, sweeping through the parties as glamorous as the stars themselves. We were the envy of the rich, the cream of the elite. Smiles fixed, downing back glasses of champagne and scotch. Champagne for her, scotch for me. She frowned on my scotch, would rather that I sip champagne like her, but I wasn’t like her. I liked my scotch, the stronger the better. Numb the pain if you will. Not that it would last, but we all have our vices. At least that’s what I tell myself. And when the sun rises on the fog of night what does it matter?
We live by night; shun the day, like vampires in a grisly tale of passion. Flesh and silk, entwined on a bed of black roses, lit by a hungry fire. Softly, in the aftermath of our havoc, she will touch my face. Kiss my lips and whisper that I’m her treasure. Her special gem in a house of gold. Nothing more than a treasure to be taken out and admired when boredom strikes.
She collects treasures. Hides them away in her bosom till they are broken. Am I broken yet? In the mirror I am perfect. But the mirror lies, tells us only what we have already heard. In the mirror, the reflections of a whiskey glass in the amber light smeared by a touch of lipstick on the rim. Lipstick stains everything, lips, cheeks, neck, chest, all the way down. Can’t wash away the stains. It suits her, the stains. She stains everything, taking possession of all she touches. Her treasures, stained by the kisses of her lecherous mouth. I am her treasure, or so she tells me.
One day it was over. Life changes people, she said, with falsely beaded eyes. I will always be her treasure. One last kiss, tasting of wine and brandy. A shrug of slender shoulders through her fur stole, a whispered goodbye. Then she’s out on the rain-drenched streets sliding into a taxi, the slit on her dress showing a creamy thigh.
Now the house is empty. I take a final taste of scotch, swallow it down. Pull on a silken jacket, leather shoes. The door clicks behind me; I’m homeless on the street. After all I was her treasure. And now I’m not.