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Apr. 27, 2005 Duende: A woman with an uncanny ability to attract or charm. It’s always difficult to recall the exact moment she walks i8nto a room. It’s not so much she enters as she appears. Like a mirage, only real—and after she makes her entrance, she spawns every emotion from eros to envy. Ladies tend to squeeze their lovers arms tighter or dance a little closer. Men greet her with hungry gazes, sugar-laden hellos and smiles that betray their attempts at subtlety. Sometimes her intentions are obvious, other times enigmatic, for she can play both saint and seductress with equal aplomb. Devilishly delectable even as a casually dressed charmer one minute, a guilty pleasure in a black, satin dress the next. Her power lies in her eyes, which are like bottomless pools of chocolate and at the same time chain lightning. They are complimented by smooth skin the color of molasses and that hints of strawberries. Her body is long and graceful, with breasts that entice like forbidden fruit. When she steps it is ballet and rhythm and blues, a reflection of the comfort she finds in her femininity. Seated across from her I found myself wondering if we were merely going to have a drink, or if I would be given the opportunity to dissect her and wade past her cool. I assumed the latter, for earlier in the evening she had rejected the advances of several others—male and female. My desire was to become more than “the good friend” moniker she had applied to me. She was eyeing me over the rim of her near-empty tumbler. Her gaze was intense, though not glaring. I felt as if she was reading my mind, so I forced myself to think of something other than her cleavage. The Isley Brothers’ Smooth Sailling was playing on the jukebox and we were amused by a half-drunk couple holding each other up on the dance floor. In a far corner of the room two overweight gentleman were engaged in a spirited game of billiards. It was then I became aware of my own respiring and I was sure that she was, too. A week earlier I had written a column for the local paper concerning the tragic death of a mutual friend. She told me that after reading it, “I fell in love with your mind.” I nodded, hopeful that she would elaborate and I could come up with something clever better than, “Thank you, and I’ve admired a lot more than your mind.” She thought my reply was funny, though I was sure she had heard similar lines many times before. However, along with her laughter came a sly grin that in itself excited me; so much so that I swallowed audibly. “Nervous?” I stopped strumming my fingers on my glass. “No.” But my reply was too quick. She turned her head and her smile lingered, as if she were trying not to laugh out loud. Her hands circled her glass and they were the only things about her that looked weak. Her fingers were long and weathered, revealing her age which was close to forty (though by looking at her, one would swear she was no older than twenty-six). I didn’t know how long I had been staring when she brought me back to the world. “It’s almost two o’clock. What do you want to do?” “It’s still early. Why don’t we go to my place and have a drink?” Then I hurriedly added, “And talk.” “And just what do you plan to talk about?” She accentuated the word ‘talk’ in a manner which I couldn’t determine was playful or cautious. “Whatever it is, I promise it won’t be boring.” This time it was my turn to grin with self-assurance. She finished her drink without giving me a definitive verbal prompt. Then she rose, using the back of her chair for support. “Hope I don’t regret this.” “By morning you’ll be kicking yourself for not having done so sooner.” I took her hand and realized that my earlier assumption of her hands lacking power was erroneous. As we walked outside into a biting December night, I experienced feelings of warmth and confidence. We sat in my livingroom sipping Christian Brothers brandy, where the only light was provided by a muted television playing a DVD we had lost interest in. By sunrise we’d finished the bottle and discovered that we shared a passion for black and white films. She was more Bette Davis and romance films like Wuthering Heights. I was Bogie, film noir and talked up the movie Mildred Pierce. She liked the Dallas Cowboys, I was a Broncomaniac; she was liberal, read Ebony and ordered Victoria’s Secret. I was moderate, preferred Bassin’ and shopped Old Navy. She laughed at my jokes, the lighthearted ones and the ones risqué. When she laughed she tilted her head to one side and her eyes held a mischievous sparkle. I marveled at the sleekness of her body, often unable to do so inconspicuously, but she didn’t seem to mind. As dawn approached we frequently punctuated our sentences with soft, dreamy kisses. Around six a.m. I drove her home, where we talked for a few more minutes and afterward shared an evening-ending kiss. We agreed to go out again that night. I hardly remembered the drive home. Our fourth night together took place less than a week later. That night, as if cued by some invisible stagehand we kissed more passionately and discovered various quiver points. There was no need for words—only eye contact and manual cues. We poured ourselves into each others’ sighs and sweat, synchronized as if our actions were destiny fulfilled. We could not pinpoint the moment we fell in love. We only knew that we had to be together whenever possible. During this embryonic stage I found it difficult to watch her do anything without seeing her innate eroticism. From her hypnotic body movement as she walked through the house gown that had me feeling like Superman with his X-ray vision on display, or the way she brushed her hair back—revealing a face time had been quite kind to. Even the way she ate string cheese—first winding it slowly around her tongue and easing it into her mouth. That would later become a private joke, as whenever I went to the store I made sure to return with the desired items plus a package of string cheese. Like all things that shine and seduce, I remained unaware of her totality. It took a couple of years, but I saw that with every joy, sorrow seems to ride its wake and each strength is countered by a weakness. Brandy was her bane. Warm, dark, neat dreams in a smoke-colored tumbler. She displayed an uncommon exuberance to wallow in it, imbibing with all the fervor of a child in a candy rain. Over time she changed from the cliché of lovable lush to a caustic, red-eyed witch. That soothing breeze I was used to coming home to had become a sandstorm, cutting mercilessly. How or why was never discussed, nor could it be. “It’s just time,” she said. And so it had to be. I made my way downstairs hearing the door slam behind me—the exclamation point on a love soured by blind optimism. In a sense I considered myself lucky having been part of a woman once so enamoring. At the same time there was a part of me that was burdened by pity and puzzlement as to how one so enchanting could have such an unquenchable thirst for something that made her uncaring, granite hearted. I looked back to se her face in the window, eyes and face expressionless, but even then uncannily attractive. I got into my car and drove home, listening to the Isley Brothers’ Smooth Sailling Duende. ------------ About the author: Timothy N. Stelly, Sr. is a 46-year old poet, novelist and aspiring screenwriter who resides in northern California with his three youngest children--Lawrence, Kimberly and Dante. He is a member of various writer's groups and has three novels in print, his most recent, "Like A Straight-Up Sucka," is available at www.lulu.com. website: http://stellbreadO@tripod.com Email: stellbread@yahoo.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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