― Tennessee Williams
Burning Desire
I'm back home tonight before the fire with Mab, my golden retriever―not Maeve, her namesake.
Writers often name pets after their favourite characters and the same applies to university professors trying to sublimate desires.
In both instances, I'm playing with fire and as is always the case with me, there's comprehension on various levels, and in this circumstance, a conflict between the natural and supernatural.
Not to belabour a point, but as I invariably tell my students, conflict develops character―except in my case where I want to assert some kind of executive privilege seeing as I'm in the position of authority here being seduced by one of my students.
I'm not the instigator or architect of my misfortune.
But then again, as Maeve says, I may protest too much and see myself as victim.
But if truth be told both women are incredibly beautiful and besides, it's Avery, not Maeve, who's oppressing me. So, how can I be responsible?
Make of that what you will, but that's how I see it.
I'm actually feeling very mellow tonight, sitting by the fire with Mab at my feet, staring into the flames and sipping a glass of cab sav.
It's raining softly outside and I'm warm and dry in here, sheltering from the wet blackness and feeling content and drowsy.
There's something primeval about a fire on a wet night and hunkering down with my pack―in this case, just Mab and me and of course, whatever wraiths inhabit my dreams.
As I drift off to sleep I remember to tell myself to be aware of my dreams but the thought is vain and lost in the encantment of fire and rain.
"I missed you, today, Prof," a woman's voice whispers in the stillness.
I turn onto my side to see Avery, dressed in a white sweater and blue jeans, smiling at me from across the room.
She's sitting cross-legged and lotus style on the sofa chair, channeling the elements, her words washing over me like a gentle breeze.
"I wanted to ask you a question," she says in a singsong tone, her voice tinkling like a glass wind chime, "but you ran out so fast―I waited for you, but you never appeared."
Again, I make a fatal mistake and know it, but the words just seem to spill out of me.
"What question were you going to ask me?"
"It was an overwhelming question," she giggles, "and you don't have to ask what it is, because you already know the answer."
The gentle breeze that had wafted my face now changes direction and becomes a searing backdraft behind me.
I stare at her helplessly, unable to move or speak as she rises up and approaches.
She runs her thumb across my bruised lower lip, "Don't worry, I won't draw blood this time," she smiles and gently caresses my cheek, her lips gently brushing my face.
"You know if you talked with me instead of avoiding me, I wouldn't have to visit you this way."
I stare into her endlessly dark eyes until she pixillates and disappears.
I wake up staring up at the ceiling, gasping for air as if drowning.
God, what have I gotten myself into? I mutter as I stumble to the main floor powder room to splash water on my face.
Once again, the window square is lit by lightning. I touch my lips and am relieved to find out they aren't bruised.
But when I flick on the light, I'm shocked by what I see...
A smear of lipstick has left an imprint of her lips upon my cheek.
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