Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 12

The room is round. Dome ceiling.

No bed in sight.

Instead of the fireplace I expect, there's a fire pit in the middle. Filled with hot coals.

Lots of candles. Red and black.

On the floor, on shelves built into the walls. Dozens.

No windows.

The floor is black marble. Except for lines of red marble that make a star design.

Inside a red circle. Centered on the pit.

Peter should sue his interior designer for malpractice.

This room is wrong.

It feels wrong. Filled with wrong.

The ventilation is faulty too. Definite sudden chill.

Maybe just a draft. Old buildings are like that.

"This is ... different," I say. My words feel slurred.

Peter sets on my feet beside a big velvet floor pillow.

I bite my lip. "What's this room for?" I say.

I arch my eyebrows.

He smiles that secret joke smile.

"You'll see," he promises.

Peter kisses me. A bit more aggressive this time.

Which I am totally fine with.

He brushes the straps of my dress off my shoulders.

I'm fine with that too.

But he'll never get me out of this dress that way.

I turn so he can undo the silk loop buttons down the back.

Sarvacci doesn't do zippers. Neither does fake Sarvacci.

I shimmy out of the dress. Let it fall in a puddle around my feet. It feels very cinematic. For about two seconds.

Then it's that vulnerable moment when a million self-doubts race through my head like horses at the Preakness.

Am I too heavy? Too skinny? Too curvy? Too thin? Too pasty?

Too freckly?

I mean, I'm not self-conscious about all the freckles on my body.

I'm not.

Just the first thousand or so.

Who is he comparing me to? And how do I stack up? Is he turned on? Turned off?

Will he be disappointed in a minute when he finds out how much is WonderBra and how little is me?

I should have gone to the gym more this week. Month. Life.

I should not have had dessert tonight. Or ever.

My eyes are too close together. My nose is too crooked.

My lips are too—

Peter kisses me again. The crazy train derails.

"You're perfect," he says.

Like he read my mind.

Oh, I could argue the point. At length.

But why would I?

"The fire and the candles paint your fair skin in orange and red," he says. "It's mesmerizing."

Peter nudges me down onto the big floor pillow.

It's soft. I curl my stockinged legs underneath.

I look up at Peter, expectant. Waiting for him to join me.

Or maybe I'm supposed to undress him? Not sure.

The room starts to spin.

The candles seem to stretch toward the ceiling.

Peter looms over me. Disturbing shadows dance around him.

Then he's walking away.

"Where are you going?"

My voice sounds tiny. Like a little girl lost in a well.

"To change," he says. "Don't go anywhere."

Change? Change what? And where would I go?

I yawn. All the tired that has chased me since Barbat catches me now. I lay my head down and curl up to await Peter's return. Sleep comes instantly.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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