Twelve O'Clock Tales
-
Hailey Michelle
- Posts: 8
- Joined: 06 Apr 2015, 16:38
- Currently Reading: The Razor's Edge
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- Reviewer Page: onlinebookclub.org/reviews/by-hailey-michelle.html
Twelve O'Clock Tales
“You can only ever fully experience life through jazz and cocktails, darling.”
He spoke with an animated sincerity and one of those mischievous half-smiles that Martha found nothing short of devastating. She blushed. Slender fingers traced the edge of her short cerulean dress. Olive eyes darted to the floor as she thought of all the ways she could decline his offer and of all the reasons she didn’t want to.
“Just picture it, honey – great company, wild music, a sidecar in your hand and you on my arm. Refusing me would be as sinful as that dress you’re wearing.” A wink trailed his words. He leaned closer to her. Intoxicating tones of pine, cedar, and fresh rain pooled around her, as though the air surrounding him had arms to pull her closer. She certainly couldn’t tell him that a sidecar, or any other form of alcohol, was out of the question; or that the buttons of the sinful dress were just a little harder to affix than they formerly were. Her hands stopped busying themselves with the dress’ hem and rested on her waist. Slender fingers tapped in gentle succession across her abdomen.
At once the fabric of the dress felt oppressive against her skin, and his inebriating scent felt suffocating. The whole world felt too bright and too close, like a narrow hallway that caved in more and more with each step she took toward the exit.
Martha opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked up into his smug, jovial face, then looked back down to her feet. She said something in breathy undertones that were incoherent and unimportant, because both he and she knew that they constituted her surrender. He draped his arm across her shoulders and led her out the back door, onto the twilight-imbued streets.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The trumpet player took a sip from a glass of water that he wished were scotch and cast his gaze over the crowd. His eyes settled on the girl in the blue dress, twirling carelessly in the crowd. The well-worn instrument in his left hand began to feel very cold and lifeless. He achingly imagined the girl’s soft skin under his fingertips, his hands running through her dark curls. The memories that tripped through his mind left his whole body pulsing as steadily as a metronome. Her body moved rhythmically even though the music had long since ceased. The girl was a tune he couldn’t get out of his head; a song he would never grow tired of hearing.
The trumpet player’s eyes narrowed on the man dancing across from her. He whispered something in her ear and the girl in the blue dress giggled. The trumpet player turned on his heel and snapped the band to attention.
“Let’s play something more lively, boys.”
“What’s that?” asked the pianist. The other players looked equally confused.
“Flat-nine theory – let’s pick up the pace! Christ, does anyone in this band know how to use his ears?”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Feeling his body move against hers was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome. His eyes captured hers – cool and penetrating. Martha felt at once as though he could see under her flesh, as though he were probing her for secrets. They stepped apart. He pulled them back together. Pine, cedar, and rainwater blurred her thoughts.
“Martha, do you love me?” he asked. His words were lighter than feathers – gilded, not with genuine curiosity, but with blithe assuredness.
Martha laughed. She’d been pouring the drinks he’d been supplying her with all night into potted plants, but she somehow still felt that familiar, pleasant tingling that flowed from her head to the tips of her toes.
“Oh, let’s not talk about that silliness,” she pleaded good-humoredly.
His brows furrowed. He concealed his concern with a strained chuckle.
“Well, don’t you?”
“Love has nothing to do with it, dear.”
“Why, love has everything to do with it!”
Martha sighed, smiled gently, and shook her head. Ebony curls danced atop her shoulders with the motion.
“Oh you don’t believe all that, do you? Love is an action – a series of events, perhaps – but it is not tangible or, heaven forbid, eternal. It’s not what we have between us, dear. Not really.” She spoke like a schoolteacher who was delicately rebuking a young boy for mispronouncing a word.
He traced his fingers along her back and snorted incredulously. Cymbals crashed from the stage behind them. A trumpet let out a high-pitched screech.
“If love is an action, how does one take it?” he posed jocundly.
Martha gave him a demure, knowing look. His cheeks reddened.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” she said conspiratorially. The dancing and false booziness had given her an unexpected confidence. She decided it didn’t much matter to whom she told her secret, so long as whichever person it was believed her. The prospects seemed better with him, anyhow, if it was support that she was after.
“I’m always listening, beautiful,” he promised, flashing an entrepreneurial smirk.
“Not here,” Martha whispered. She grabbed his hand and led him out of the crowd.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The man’s blood must have been eighty-proof and burning right through his vessels. His slurred words left a stench of rum in their wake.
“Why don’t you take song requests, huh?”
“It’s like I’ve told you three times already, sir. We’re an improv band, alright?” The bass player rolled his eyes and continued tuning his instrument.
“But my girl wants to hear ‘Stardust.’ I told her we’d listen to it.”
“Look, mister—”
“You don’t listen to jazz, guy, you f-e-e-l it,” the trumpet player cut in. “Why don’t you go grab your girl and show her a little something about feeling, okay?”
An inane grin stretched across the drunken man’s face. The trumpet player slowly shook his head as he watched him stumble back through the throng of energetic dancers. He searched the crowd again and found his target. The girl in the blue dress was making her way toward the corner of the dance hall. The man she’d been dancing with trailed behind her.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“Okay, so, I’m not certain how to say this,” Martha started. He cupped the back of her neck with his long fingers and pressed his forehead to hers.
“You don’t have to say anything, you know.”
Martha pushed him away with an irritated groan.
“Please, this is serious.”
“I’m not making a joke, baby.” He stepped closer to her again.
“Honey, please, listen. I’m – I’m pregnant.”
He blinked once and smiled softly. “Oh, darling, I love you too.” He brought his lips to hers. Martha pushed him away a second time.
“No, listen, that isn’t what I said. I mean if you’re serious about this love thing, sure, but there are real concerns we have to address. The kid, it’s going to need food, clothes…”
“You’re so beautiful tonight.”
“No, no, no! Can’t you hear me? I’m going to have a baby! I’m going to be a mother!”
“Why didn’t you wear that blue dress the last time we went out, honey?”
“Stop this!” Martha’s voice cracked. She’d begun to cry.
“Hey, where’re you going baby? The night is still young,” he called coyly as Martha marched back toward the crowd. She looked down and wiped her filmy eyes. In her distraction, Martha ran into a tall, well-built man.
“Pardon me,” she murmured. Distress drowned her speech.
“Don’t worry about it, doll, I was looking for you anyhow.” Martha’s heart skipped a beat at the familiarity of the voice. Something like hope came over her.
“Is that you—”
“In the flesh,” the trumpet player answered. He caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face toward his. He noticed wet trails down her cheeks. “Was he giving you trouble?” the trumpet player questioned.
“Yes – I mean – no. I was just telling him that...that we can’t see each other any more.”
The trumpet player grinned smugly. “Why’s that, doll?”
“Well…it’s got to do with you, dear.”
“Does it, now?”
“Sure it does. Can we talk somewhere more private?”
The trumpet player nodded. His arm slunk around her waist as they walked to the edge of the dance floor.
Martha took both of the trumpet player’s hands in hers and brought her olive green eyes to his. A sincere smile decorated his face.
“Alright, honey, there’s something you should know.”
“Let me hear it, sugar.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not doing anything after this,” the trumpet player intoned sultrily.
Martha laughed at his absurdity. Certainly he’d misheard.
“Oh, no, dear. I said I’m pregnant. And you understand how that most certainly involves you. We can deal with this together, though, I know we can.”
“Did I ever tell you how gorgeous those eyes of yours are? Like gen-u-ine emeralds.”
“You’re not making any sense. Can’t you hear me?”
“Of course I hear you, doll.”
“Aren’t you listening? I’m pregnant!”
“I’d bet we could sneak out to my apartment right now, you know. The boys would offer to do the last number sans trumpet. Any man with eyes would do anything for you, doll.”
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” New tears burst from Martha’s gen-u-ine emerald eyes. She pushed her way through the dance floor until she was standing in the center, adrift in a sea of people.
“I’m pregnant! Can’t anyone hear me? Isn’t anyone listening? I’m going to have a baby! I’m going to be a mother!” Martha screamed. Something like madness sullied her words.
“I’m going to have a baby!” she yelled, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m going to be a mother!”
The band struck up another number, and the dancers continued swaying lightheartedly to the smooth, brassy notes.
He spoke with an animated sincerity and one of those mischievous half-smiles that Martha found nothing short of devastating. She blushed. Slender fingers traced the edge of her short cerulean dress. Olive eyes darted to the floor as she thought of all the ways she could decline his offer and of all the reasons she didn’t want to.
“Just picture it, honey – great company, wild music, a sidecar in your hand and you on my arm. Refusing me would be as sinful as that dress you’re wearing.” A wink trailed his words. He leaned closer to her. Intoxicating tones of pine, cedar, and fresh rain pooled around her, as though the air surrounding him had arms to pull her closer. She certainly couldn’t tell him that a sidecar, or any other form of alcohol, was out of the question; or that the buttons of the sinful dress were just a little harder to affix than they formerly were. Her hands stopped busying themselves with the dress’ hem and rested on her waist. Slender fingers tapped in gentle succession across her abdomen.
At once the fabric of the dress felt oppressive against her skin, and his inebriating scent felt suffocating. The whole world felt too bright and too close, like a narrow hallway that caved in more and more with each step she took toward the exit.
Martha opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked up into his smug, jovial face, then looked back down to her feet. She said something in breathy undertones that were incoherent and unimportant, because both he and she knew that they constituted her surrender. He draped his arm across her shoulders and led her out the back door, onto the twilight-imbued streets.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The trumpet player took a sip from a glass of water that he wished were scotch and cast his gaze over the crowd. His eyes settled on the girl in the blue dress, twirling carelessly in the crowd. The well-worn instrument in his left hand began to feel very cold and lifeless. He achingly imagined the girl’s soft skin under his fingertips, his hands running through her dark curls. The memories that tripped through his mind left his whole body pulsing as steadily as a metronome. Her body moved rhythmically even though the music had long since ceased. The girl was a tune he couldn’t get out of his head; a song he would never grow tired of hearing.
The trumpet player’s eyes narrowed on the man dancing across from her. He whispered something in her ear and the girl in the blue dress giggled. The trumpet player turned on his heel and snapped the band to attention.
“Let’s play something more lively, boys.”
“What’s that?” asked the pianist. The other players looked equally confused.
“Flat-nine theory – let’s pick up the pace! Christ, does anyone in this band know how to use his ears?”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Feeling his body move against hers was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome. His eyes captured hers – cool and penetrating. Martha felt at once as though he could see under her flesh, as though he were probing her for secrets. They stepped apart. He pulled them back together. Pine, cedar, and rainwater blurred her thoughts.
“Martha, do you love me?” he asked. His words were lighter than feathers – gilded, not with genuine curiosity, but with blithe assuredness.
Martha laughed. She’d been pouring the drinks he’d been supplying her with all night into potted plants, but she somehow still felt that familiar, pleasant tingling that flowed from her head to the tips of her toes.
“Oh, let’s not talk about that silliness,” she pleaded good-humoredly.
His brows furrowed. He concealed his concern with a strained chuckle.
“Well, don’t you?”
“Love has nothing to do with it, dear.”
“Why, love has everything to do with it!”
Martha sighed, smiled gently, and shook her head. Ebony curls danced atop her shoulders with the motion.
“Oh you don’t believe all that, do you? Love is an action – a series of events, perhaps – but it is not tangible or, heaven forbid, eternal. It’s not what we have between us, dear. Not really.” She spoke like a schoolteacher who was delicately rebuking a young boy for mispronouncing a word.
He traced his fingers along her back and snorted incredulously. Cymbals crashed from the stage behind them. A trumpet let out a high-pitched screech.
“If love is an action, how does one take it?” he posed jocundly.
Martha gave him a demure, knowing look. His cheeks reddened.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” she said conspiratorially. The dancing and false booziness had given her an unexpected confidence. She decided it didn’t much matter to whom she told her secret, so long as whichever person it was believed her. The prospects seemed better with him, anyhow, if it was support that she was after.
“I’m always listening, beautiful,” he promised, flashing an entrepreneurial smirk.
“Not here,” Martha whispered. She grabbed his hand and led him out of the crowd.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The man’s blood must have been eighty-proof and burning right through his vessels. His slurred words left a stench of rum in their wake.
“Why don’t you take song requests, huh?”
“It’s like I’ve told you three times already, sir. We’re an improv band, alright?” The bass player rolled his eyes and continued tuning his instrument.
“But my girl wants to hear ‘Stardust.’ I told her we’d listen to it.”
“Look, mister—”
“You don’t listen to jazz, guy, you f-e-e-l it,” the trumpet player cut in. “Why don’t you go grab your girl and show her a little something about feeling, okay?”
An inane grin stretched across the drunken man’s face. The trumpet player slowly shook his head as he watched him stumble back through the throng of energetic dancers. He searched the crowd again and found his target. The girl in the blue dress was making her way toward the corner of the dance hall. The man she’d been dancing with trailed behind her.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“Okay, so, I’m not certain how to say this,” Martha started. He cupped the back of her neck with his long fingers and pressed his forehead to hers.
“You don’t have to say anything, you know.”
Martha pushed him away with an irritated groan.
“Please, this is serious.”
“I’m not making a joke, baby.” He stepped closer to her again.
“Honey, please, listen. I’m – I’m pregnant.”
He blinked once and smiled softly. “Oh, darling, I love you too.” He brought his lips to hers. Martha pushed him away a second time.
“No, listen, that isn’t what I said. I mean if you’re serious about this love thing, sure, but there are real concerns we have to address. The kid, it’s going to need food, clothes…”
“You’re so beautiful tonight.”
“No, no, no! Can’t you hear me? I’m going to have a baby! I’m going to be a mother!”
“Why didn’t you wear that blue dress the last time we went out, honey?”
“Stop this!” Martha’s voice cracked. She’d begun to cry.
“Hey, where’re you going baby? The night is still young,” he called coyly as Martha marched back toward the crowd. She looked down and wiped her filmy eyes. In her distraction, Martha ran into a tall, well-built man.
“Pardon me,” she murmured. Distress drowned her speech.
“Don’t worry about it, doll, I was looking for you anyhow.” Martha’s heart skipped a beat at the familiarity of the voice. Something like hope came over her.
“Is that you—”
“In the flesh,” the trumpet player answered. He caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face toward his. He noticed wet trails down her cheeks. “Was he giving you trouble?” the trumpet player questioned.
“Yes – I mean – no. I was just telling him that...that we can’t see each other any more.”
The trumpet player grinned smugly. “Why’s that, doll?”
“Well…it’s got to do with you, dear.”
“Does it, now?”
“Sure it does. Can we talk somewhere more private?”
The trumpet player nodded. His arm slunk around her waist as they walked to the edge of the dance floor.
Martha took both of the trumpet player’s hands in hers and brought her olive green eyes to his. A sincere smile decorated his face.
“Alright, honey, there’s something you should know.”
“Let me hear it, sugar.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not doing anything after this,” the trumpet player intoned sultrily.
Martha laughed at his absurdity. Certainly he’d misheard.
“Oh, no, dear. I said I’m pregnant. And you understand how that most certainly involves you. We can deal with this together, though, I know we can.”
“Did I ever tell you how gorgeous those eyes of yours are? Like gen-u-ine emeralds.”
“You’re not making any sense. Can’t you hear me?”
“Of course I hear you, doll.”
“Aren’t you listening? I’m pregnant!”
“I’d bet we could sneak out to my apartment right now, you know. The boys would offer to do the last number sans trumpet. Any man with eyes would do anything for you, doll.”
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” New tears burst from Martha’s gen-u-ine emerald eyes. She pushed her way through the dance floor until she was standing in the center, adrift in a sea of people.
“I’m pregnant! Can’t anyone hear me? Isn’t anyone listening? I’m going to have a baby! I’m going to be a mother!” Martha screamed. Something like madness sullied her words.
“I’m going to have a baby!” she yelled, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m going to be a mother!”
The band struck up another number, and the dancers continued swaying lightheartedly to the smooth, brassy notes.
-
DATo
- Previous Member of the Month
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- Joined: 31 Dec 2011, 07:54
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Very nicely penned Halley! I enjoyed both the story as well as your method and style of delivering it. The story serves as a prosaic counterpart of the second stanza of your poem, Slightly Incoherent. I think all readers can identify with Martha's frustrating, existential experience as a result of similar experiences in their own lives.
It is a sobering thought to become suddenly aware for the first time in the midsts of serious psychological trauma that the rest of the world goes on uninterrupted and unconcerned. I think you captured and rendered this idea well as Martha screams her plight while the others continue to dance and make merry.
I truly enjoyed reading this and hope you will favor us with more of your work. Thank you for sharing!
It is a sobering thought to become suddenly aware for the first time in the midsts of serious psychological trauma that the rest of the world goes on uninterrupted and unconcerned. I think you captured and rendered this idea well as Martha screams her plight while the others continue to dance and make merry.
I truly enjoyed reading this and hope you will favor us with more of your work. Thank you for sharing!
“I just got out of the hospital. I was in a speed reading accident. I hit a book mark and flew across the room.”
― Steven Wright
― Steven Wright
