Tag: desponsage

Day #22

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Clearstarcher: One who clearstarches – To stiffen with starch, and then make clear by clapping with the hands

Agog: In eager desire eager astir

Improlificate: To impregnate

—–

He doesn’t know that I saw them, him with her. But I was there.

I was in the corner, leaning on a wall, wearing a leather jacket and with my hair slicked neatly back. Earlier in the night I’d told my reflection, ‘you look just like Buddy Holly, dude, nice work.’

He arrived after I did, at least thirty minutes after to be precise, which is an unforgiveable rudeness in my books. He came alone, as you know, wearing a sharply tailored evening suit, the inky blue of fading twilight. I remember his shirt was a blinding white, cuffs and collars stiff and rigid, gleaming like teeth. Fucking clearstarcher, I thought, with your stiff enamel collar, rigid and broad like the wings of a fucking albatross.

Bear in mind that she was already there at this point, chatting and laughing with friends, Molly from floor four, Sally from floor three, Polly from floor two. They each held a small glass tumbler, full of brown liquid, probably whisky or amaretto. I like amaretto, do you like amaretto? No? Well, she did. She enjoyed the hot flush of aniseed searing her tongue, the warmth on her throat, the gently curling heat in her stomach, a dragon in its pit.

She caught his eye immediately, but, in that dress who would fail to succumb to her charms? The long, slender legs, creamy against the strawberry red of her dress, a bodice tight as bark on a tree pushing fleshy fruits to the forefront of any man’s thoughts. I know they were in mine, plump bosoms bouncing as I stood in the corner, watching.

Did you know her hair fell like autumn leaves? A sheet of auburn silk draped lightly over her shoulders, tresses eddying like an effervescent chestnut river. It was ravishing, simply sumptuous. He saw it. I saw it too.

I saw his eyes agog, bulbous stars in the night, the fog lights of souls passing in the night, drawn to her by the white heat of her shimmering radiance.

Please, bear in mind that I too was partaking in the general imbibements of the night, if not the actual merriments. I was satisfied watching from the corner, she the dormouse to my tawny owl. He wasn’t though. Oh no, no, no!

He flocked to her; strutting, cavorting, talking, carousing, drinking, dancing, touching, holding, groping, kissing, escaping, improlificating. Possibly.

You do know what that word means, don’t you? Improlificate? It means to impregnate. But I don’t say that word. I dislike the hard ‘egg’ sound. It sticks in my throat as though it could hatch at any moment.

Anyhow, I saw them leaving together, hand on ass, tongue in mouth, crotch in crotch. The last thing I saw was the soft, red petal of her lipstick imprinted on his stiff shirt collar. Deep down I hoped it was blood. But it wasn’t. It was just affection.

His wife looks at me, eye-to-eye for the first time since I started talking.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asks, her voice hoarse.

Day #3

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Iceman: A man who is skilled in traveling upon ice as among glaciers

Desponsage: Betrothal

Hyetograph: A chart or graphic representation of the average distribution of rain over the surface of the earth

—–

Flakes of ice scattered in the wind, like frozen confetti thrown over a newly married bride. The Iceman tested the strength of his pickaxe’s hold, three sharp tugs followed by a pause and then two more. He was always cautious when climbing on glaciers. He’d heard too many stories of people being dragged to their death by a desponsage between their bodyweight and gravity. But not him. He had work to do.

After a climb of several hours, the Iceman was finally approaching the top of a sharp, frozen incline somewhere deep in the wilderness of Montana. Clouds hung heavily above him, as if watching with curiosity. Their dark flanks rumbled territorially and it was clear that a storm was going to break sooner rather than later. The Iceman ripped his pickaxe free, dug the spikes of his shoes a foot higher and smashed the axe back into the ice. He heaved himself up. The movement was almost metronomic now.

A wry grimace flitted across his face, stained desert red from a hidden sun, bleached Siberian white by permafrost. He knew that the thick, thermal suit he wore was keeping him alive, but at the same time he knew that from a distance he must resemble little more than an insect clinging to the side of some giant structure. A woodlouse on bark. Rip, kick, heave, smash, grunt. Tick, tock. Rinse and repeat.

The wind was getting stronger, almost sadistically so and the laminated map that hung around his neck was flapping wildly, a startled bird. He managed to grip it between his teeth, their creamy white somehow purer than the deep blue-white of the glacier, then pulled himself up over the final ridge and onto the top of the icecap. He lay on his back staring up the sky, ragged breath spraying a sea salt mist. Overhead the swirling miasma of darkening cloud boomed a congratulatory note.

Knowing how dangerous a breaking storm could be for anyone in his position, the Iceman pushed himself up, ignoring the silent screams of his aching body. He just had to grab a few core samples for the annual hyetograph and he could leave. It seemed like an awful lot of work for what was essentially a glorified jam jar weather report. No sharpie marker pens to note the rainfall here. He thought of the abseil back down. He enjoyed that part the most – an effortless glide down the back of a ten thousand year old monster.

The Iceman suddenly felt very small again, acutely reminded of his situation: a tiny shellac mosquito, leaching frozen blood from a dinosaur. Hemmed in by the endless snowfield of clouds above. Hemmed in by the frozen ocean beneath his feet. The glacier rippled a strange turquoise colour when the first crackle of lightning erupted.