Staying Single #JustWriteIt #SuperCharged

5 - My Apologies Sir, For Being Such A Venus Fly Trap!

"I hope you will forgive me," he was saying now, his deep voice a touch rough with embarrassment, "I assure you I do not ever act upon impulse in such an eccentric fashion."

I listened to the sound of his words with in strange concentration as I looked up at him – this mysterious person who had just recited to me a few lines of one of my favourite poems. I observed the way his rich brown hair blew in the wind, the way he was looking at me – such a mixture of emotions. What had just occurred seemed almost surreal, and I found myself almost in a vacuum – a void of word and sentiment. Yet, seated there, with one of the greatest love-stories ever written resting on my lap, I did find the right words to say.

"It's quite alright," I said returning his smile, as I patted the bench for him to sit beside me, "I happen to live by the conviction that the best things done, are done by accident."

"I think you're right," he said after a moment, sitting down beside me, "and my action – though I cannot imagine what would have been it's consequence had you not been acquainted with the poem, and worse the poet himself – was in the spirit of the poem's composition."

"Well, I would have probably thrown my book at you!" I said solemnly, "and it is a heavy book." "Ahh, yes, that would be a good response." he laughed, giving me a glimpse of beautiful white teeth; while Evil Inner Leila decided to screech (spoiling completely the moment), You're sitting on a bench with a stranger and observing his teeth. No! I said in alarm, pushing her horrid voice away and forcing Brain to consider the second part of what he had said. "How," I asked him by and by, "was your action in the spirit of the poem's composition?"

"Don't you see?" he asked, turning towards me with enthusiasm, "Ode to the Nightingale was composed by Keats when he went into the woods by his house one evening, to walk among the trees and flowers. There he heard the Nightingale, and returned a few hours later with sheets of paper filled with one of the most beautiful poems he ever wrote."

"Oh!" I nodded, understandingly, "you mean inspiration. You – like Keats – were inspired to recite poetry to a solitary dame under spreading birch trees."

"Yes exactly," grinned my companion, "I saw you, and seemingly out of nowhere this verse of this poem just . . . popped – for the lack of a better word – into my mind!" I chuckled at the incredible though of poetry 'popping' into people's mind, as we both in strange coordination turned towards the brightly lit house in the distance – the wind softly caressing our faces as we sat together in companionable silence on a lone bench under a solitary birch tree.

"Yet," I said softly after a moment's consideration, reluctant almost to break the magical spell of silence. "Yet," I repeated a little louder now, "Keats was provident enough to carry sheets of paper with himself into the forest making only the poem and not the thought of its composition a result of inspiration."

"Right," said my companion, turning to look at me, with a frown. "What if he was one of those chaps who went about the place carrying pieces of paper?"

"It would be quite useless," I said with feigned seriousness, "pieces of paper can hardly be thrown at poetic fiends." "Correct," he assented with equal seriousness, "But I hardly think any poetic fiend – no matter how inspired or eccentric – would attack Keats!" "Oh," I exclaimed quite confused by his suggestion, "why not?"

"Well, you see," replied my companion very seriously, "they say he was a man." "Ah," I exclaimed in mock astonishment, "you don't say so!"
"Yes indeed," came his truthful reply, "and you see," he said pausing to look very secretive, "poetic fiends usually set their eyes on lone damsels."
"Oh!" I exclaimed my hand on my heart, "how scandalous!"

My companion nodded sedately and then, after a moment's thought added, "So you see: unlike Keats you being a lone damsel – and a rather beautiful one at that – would be perfect in ensnaring inspired poetic fiends."

I laughed lightly at his joke especially the fiercely serious way in which he had pronounced it, but my breath caught involuntarily at his utterance of the word 'beautiful'. I turned then to look at him and that was when our eyes met, and held – a little longer than normal – steel grey on black. That was when I observed the length of his lashes as they fanned out on the bronzed skin of his face. That was when I suddenly realised how cold the night was, and shivered.

And that, was when with an almost inaudible whisper of "Thank-you." I looked away at the springy grass under my feet, a slight blush colouring my cheeks.

"Well," he started again, clearing his throat to perhaps quell the sudden tension that had sprung up between us. I sat up immediately, hoping that he wouldn't among the shadows notice the warm colour on my cheeks. I wanted to – in that moment – say something smart and witty, but as I looked at him, he smiled at me – and I was so disarmed by the charm and genuineness of his smile, that rational thought seemed to all at once desert me.

Staring is bad manners dunderhead, cackled a sudden voice in my head. And for once in my life as I woke up from my trance was I thankful for Evil Inner Leila. "So," I said, breaking the silence and looking away, "what brings you to this part of the world?"
"Well, Queen of ThisPartOftheWorld," said mysterious stranger with grandeur pointing at the brightly lit bungalow in the distance, "I was invited to that party, actually."
"Ahh," I replied, as he nodded, "Quite a party, that! But then, if you were invited, shouldn't you be there? Whatever are you doing here?"

"Verily, I should. But I have been grossly deceived." came his reply as he looked at me with an expression of overdone sadness.

"Deceived?" I asked widening my eyes, trying my best to supress laughter at his facial expressions. "Oh yes dear Queen, deceived," he replied.

"In what way, dear Poetic Fiend?" I asked with pretend worry, quite enjoying our little drama.
"I was invited," he continued now, melancholy dripping from his voice, "for a lecture on Language of the 17th century. I encountered however sweat-slicked barely-clad fronts and posteriors, cups of alcohol and plangent music: which not being much to my taste, I decided to catch a breather, whereupon I found you and then," he paused with heightened drama, "then, you ensnared me."

This exclamation, his expression of helplessness and his manner of saying it all seemed so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. Ladies don't laugh so loudly, came Evil Inner Leila's voice, but seated there beside him – involved in such a ludicrous act, I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm very apologetic sir,' I replied with all the seriousness I could muster in between my involuntary chortles, "for being such a Venus Fly Trap!"

Now, it was his turn to laugh loudly, and question me with mock fury if I was calling him a 'fly'. But when sometime later he had schooled himself he said, "You know, as bizarre as this sounds – and it must sound so, because we've hardly spent a day in eachother's' company – but I don't thonk I've ever quite met anyone with whom I've connected quite so easily. And it would be quite justified if did throw your book at me at the end of this sentence, but I'd never imagined I'd meet someone like you so suddenly . . . and under a tree of all places!"

Somewhere behind us a cricket called out to his mate. A little distratced by that and the length of his eyelashes in the glaom of the night, I almost forgot to respond. He uses words, Evil Leila, Real words, I squealed to myself. He tells me how he feels - no, he cannot be real. 

"No, I've never really connected with anyyone else under a tree, or anywhere else really," I whispered, forgetting half the sentence halfway, realising now that somehow we had edged closer to eachother. "Yes," came his reply, and somehow like me he sounded breathless. He had beautiful lips I noticed, perfectly shaped and parted now – almost like an invitation. I looked up into his eyes, they seemed to be saying something. Then, slowly his eyes left mine, sliding down to my lips. I swallowed, my heart was beating in frenzy.

What was happening between us, I wondered as he looked back up at me. In his eyes among the shadows, I saw emotions unnamed. Then, he raised his hand, almost as if he was going to touch me, when both of us were distracted by something like a croak, followed by a chocking sound – and then, before we had enough time to turn and understand what it was that was happening, litres of pungent, noxious smelling liquid was poured out by a certain individual at our feet.