11.17.2012

Cloak and Dagger Tulips Too Soon

"Turn yourself in, Dale," Melanie begged. "You've got too much to lose this time."

She mostly meant herself, and Dale agreed with that assessment, though he couldn't let on that any of it was true. The moment you gave them the satisfaction of having wings you were done. It was an unspoken truth that she'd swooped down and plucked him out of his self-imposed gutter. It would be that much harder to crawl back into it while pretending to stand the stench. Dale didn't fear the law as much as he did what the ramifications could imply for his fate with Melanie. He couldn't believe he'd put that at risk. Even after all the changes he made to prevent himself from losing this chance, the cut ties and deleted numbers, there was still one fact staring him in the face: Dale had a streak of sorts exacerbated by the bottle. It wasn't necessarily a mean one, hence his omission of the word; but it was there. Too much reading of cowboy novels, too many calibers collected like the paper proverb contents of fortune cookies, too long on the trail that almost brought him to that final clearing. Dale had given up on blaming genetics. His father could barely be held responsible for his own actions, let alone those of his wayward progeny. If there was one thing Dale was good at it was simply being Dale. He hoped that would be enough for Melanie. He hoped for a lot of things, but rarely spoke of them sober for fear that mentioning his dreams would scare them away like precious feathers floating on the water in which he'd been treading for years.

"I can't, sweetheart. Not yet."

The pained look of disappointment on her face at the sound of his refusal cut his soul to its stubborn bone. How could he say no to the one woman graceful enough to love the likes of him so completely? It made him want to bury himself in that foul trench from which he'd been rescued. Men of his staggering gait deserved every bit of karmic justice which came their way. Dale felt sick at the thought of what that meant for his hand. It'd been Aces and Eights for far too long. A few pair of Queens came and went along the shuffle, a Suicide King adding blood to the mix. It was his turn to call and watch that black-hooded villain read 'em and weep. Sore knuckles and a barely blackened eye were saying otherwise, however. "Don't think I've come out of this unscathed," one of those Queens had slung at him during a textbook farewell speech. He supposed the same held true for brawling. Winners and losers-- they all walked away with a trifling bit of a limp.

Her eyes never met his, but he felt just as guilty. "It's about time I wash this blood off of me," he said, changing the subject to one equally scandalous. Most of it was not his, not that he mentioned that to Molly. Saying so would have made him sound barbaric, a gloating sadist glad to have inflicted pain. That was not the case. It was merely a fact. He had delivered more blows, and to the face. Not unscathed, though not as worse for the wear as his dance partner.

Dale excused himself to the bathroom. He wiped gingerly, his reddened knuckles resisting certain angles, then took a plunger to the ever-clogging toilet after relieving himself. He'd miss the faulty plumbing if the plan didn't pan out so graciously. Through the hollow bathroom wall he heard his neighbor playing an electric guitar. Something soothing, clean, arpeggiated. He'd miss that, too. Everyone should share at least one wall with a musician, Dale thought as he loosened the shower handles. Warm water came down from the head in giant beads that seemed to find more sore spots than he realized existed. He winced as he scrubbed and he rinsed. Not enough dirt swirled down the drain.

A combination of the warm stinging sensation and the rhythm of the water had him hypnotized as he stared at his toes in the controlled deluge. That's when the lights cut out. They've killed the power, Dale thought, one too many Hollywood shoot-'em-ups swimming through his aching skull. But no SWAT teams burst through any doors or windows to slam him with an arrest warrant after pinning him to the tile floor, naked and ashamed. Instead a thin hand reached through the darkness and drew back the vinyl curtain enough for a lithe female figure to slide in next to the fugitive.

"Room for one more?" Melanie asked as she  wrapped her arms around Dale's torso.

"Always," he said, a grateful desperation in his tone. The legal consultation could wait until Monday. There were larger things at stake than securing a retainer. If and when the time came they'd face the firing squad together; not Dale and his advertised attorney.

There, in the silent assurance promised by an unseen tenderness, the lucky couple made love without the need for intercourse.

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