Callahan: A Gothic Tale

What We Could Be (1988)

30 What We Could Be (1988)

"...But like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living..." -F. Scott Fitzgerald

Flashback, 8 am, Next Morning, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Marisol's Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia

Marisol Sanchez never considered herself the marrying type. Never impressed by the male population on hand, and peppered with infuriating comments throughout her educational career—"careful, or your brain will scare men away," she'd long since given up hope of marriage and kids, let alone dating.

Head pounding from the apple concoction the night before, she blinked once then twice, noticing ribbons of sunlight streaming forth from the airy window to her left, its curtains drawn nearly shut. But not completely. And to her right...? Without looking, her fingers reached—

And felt nothing but straightened bedsheet fabric, fixed and smoothed to near-military precision.

He hadn't left a note.

Who was she kidding?

She sighed. A beautiful hallucination. Of course her powers hadn't returned. Of course she'd never have kids. Of course she'd always be alone. Forever and always. She had long since reconciled herself to that fact, but a man leaving her bed without saying goodbye, or at least a note with his number hit especially hard. Clearly she was losing her touch.

Flashback, 9 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia

Checking her watch, she gasped. Fumbling for her cup of coffee (thank goodness for hotel amenities), she zipped out the door in a navy blue pencil skirt and matching blazer. A sensible choice, for a woman attempting to be so. At this hour.

The moment the elevator opened upon the conference hall corridor, she sprinted into the nearest lecture series; it was imperative she take notes for a course, any course. Hoping it wasn't something like "alligator aromatherapy" or "architecture of acupuncture," she ducked into the last row of seats, setting herself down and taking another sip of coffee.

Oddly enough, the placards denoting the speaker series were replaced. On short notice, a banner read. Guest Lecturer: TBA. Right, whatever, she rolled her eyes. Get on with it...as she heard the announcer drone on about the speaker's expertise in Madalena Village herbs, and various articles—the usual credentials she figured, though the word "Madalena" certainly seemed to ring a bell...but then again, she'd been more than tipsy the night before...she heard a smattering of polite applause before turning to look at her printed-out schedule.

"Madalena Village and the Magic of Holistic Medicine—" a familiar voice boomed, as a sensuous shiver ran down the base of her spine. Oh hellllll no. No way. Oh no. Nononononono—taking another sip of her coffee to soothe her throbbing hangover, she lifted her visage—and found her facing the guest lecturer.

Who was none other than Dexter Vaughn himself.

"Hide me..." she moaned to herself, attempting to obscure her upper form with a scattering of pamphlets and papers being handed out like candy. But it was too late; he'd seen her that precise second. Shiiiiiiit—

Marisol? That you? His mouth gaped in surprise before he came to his senses, realizing he had a captive audience of eighty others to attend to. Decorum, Dex, decorum.

Flashback, 10 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia

After his talk ended, including the Q&A portion in which an overzealous attendee wished to ask the longest-winded questions lasting several minutes but felt like eons—because there was always that one guy—he wove his way through the crowd, determined to follow the beguiling woman who sported the tightest pencil skirt he'd ever seen.

9 am, Weekday Morning, Early November 1994, Biochemistry Laboratory

Sample A: 0% agar/100% pumpkin jam—result: Scythe remnant consumed, mess-free

Sample B: 25% agar/75% pumpkin jam—result: ditto, slight smoldering, 1x1x1 cm across

Pumpkin jam, 1 tiny drop of agar essence...and feverfew.

Macy grimaced upon initial glance at the vector—a gel capsule tablet meant to be a proto-vaccine, that Mel managed to send through the purse that morning, crack of dawn. Said capsule was supposed to be smooth, not sticky nor rough nor rocky, and so it eventually would be, she hoped beyond hope. Several minutes later donned in gloves, coat, and goggles, tweezers in hand, she placed a hybrid mixture of Sample A and B in the empty capsule.

"Why. Won't. You. Fit—" she grunted, attempting to stuff the shell whole with humanity's cure against forceful pestilence, no pressure. "Go in, dammit—" she applied additional repetitive force, pounding the vaguely phallic pipette against the womb-like curvature of the stubborn-yet-moist opening, as she heard Dima snicker behind her.

"Having issues, Vaughn?" he smirked behind his own plasticine goggles.

"Shut up."

"I'd stroke it if I were you—y'know, 'love me tender'?"

"I'll manage on my own, thanks," she answered, gritting her teeth all the while.

"Just saying..." he shrugged, returning to his own project, which had managed to regenerate after eating itself the week before.

Flashback, 10:15 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Empty Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia

Catching up to Soley and pulling her into an empty conference room, her bosom heaving, he thought she'd be happy to see him again, after their torrid rendezvous the night before. But this Soley had veritable flames coming out of her eyes as he stepped back instinctively, his back making contact with the wall behind him.

"Why didn't you warn me?"

Puzzled, he answered cautiously. "Warn you...?"

"That you're a lecturer—"

"A guest lecturer—honestly I had no idea—it was last minute, I swear—Phil had a pending lawsuit, something about impropriety and a female TA—"

"Oh, so you couldn't have given me a head's-up last night, 'oh hi Soley, lemme kiss you, I'm your teacher—no big deal,'" she mimicked as his face grew tense.

"You know it's not like that—" he swallowed hard. "I don't mix work and pleasure—"

"You lied. By omission," her visage drew increasingly close to his as he felt his heart race, his breath momentarily escape his senses. Sweet Jesus, she was hot.

"I think," he paused. "You're scared—"

"Me? Scared?" she laughed aloud though she remained where she stood, spiked heels and all, mere inches away from him.

"Of what this could be—of what we could be—" his eyes narrowed. "Tell me I'm wrong—" as she fell uncharacteristically silent.

Flashback, 10:29 am, November 1988, Ocean Hotel, Empty Conference Room, Copacabana, New South Wales, Australia

Re-buttoning her blouse, she tossed Dexter his belt as he wound it around his muscular torso. Realizing her hair was probably as messy as a bird's nest, she straightened what she could, winding her raven locks into a tightened bun using the ponytail holder she always had on hand. Is this what all business conferences are like? Or just Dex? Figuring now was as good a time as any to make a sensual departure worthy of Jessica Rabbit, she turned, her figure silhouetted against the brightly-lit doorway. "You left without a note—"

A sudden realization dawned on him as he couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, is this what that's about? I knew I was going to see you again—for dinner, tonight? Same place, same time?"

Biting her lip, she regarded his warm visage, his tantalizing features she had spent the past quarter-hour exploring, much to their mutual pleasure. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."