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Rated: E · Prose · Emotional · #1086576
The Aphrodite of the mortal world... I realise it's long. Please READ
“A Red Presence”

With one hand resting on the bar, she is the Aphrodite of the mortal world. One smouldering gesture omitting from her perfectly poised image sends the room into turmoil and suddenly every man in the place wants to be noticed by her. Wives, fiancés, girlfriends – who? A bold aura of passion engulfs the contours of her beautifully proportioned feminine frame as wisps of cigarette smoke cling to her delicate creamy skin. As she slowly rests one dainty leg on top of the other and sits upright on the bar stool, the men’s gazes simultaneously shift downwards. Neatly adapted to her feet are two pointed black shoes, sharp enough to impale her next lust-struck victim. Her button nose wrinkles at the ‘common’ smell of beer and smoke. No, she’s much better that that. A classy lady. She slowly leans forward, tempting, luring them into the depths of her captivating gaze. She picks up the glass of crisp white wine she has just ordered from the bar and parts her lips slightly as she lifts it towards her mouth, taking a small sip.

She can feel the many eyes of the surrounding men boring into her. Suffocating. Slowly she crosses her legs, providing closure from the outside world, protecting herself against her own memories. The stench of pubs creates a drift of decrepit nausea as she stares straight ahead, wobbles slightly, and leans forwards a little to steady herself. Particles of thick dust accumulate within the strands of her chestnut hair, creating a dull layer of grime. She looks down, cheeks becoming progressively hotter as the blood flushes to reside directly under the skin. She feels slightly uncomfortable and gently fiddles with the hem of her flowing dress, inching it further down her knees, covering herself from the wandering eyes around her. Observing her delicate hands she notices the chipped nail polish on each finger but stretches out her hand towards the bar, covering them up. She picks up the glass of crisp white wine and parts her lips slightly as she lifts it towards her mouth, taking a small sip.

She reaches out to them, pleading with them. They turn away, a slight hint of revulsion fixed onto their cold faces “Please” she cries, clutching his hand.

Opening her eyes, she glances around at the drunken men swigging away at their drinks, leering at her, intimidating. One man returns her gaze. She notices something about him, something familiar, but swiftly breaks the contact, shaking all remains of her past away with it. Gently she swirls the wine around the glass, staring down into the surges of ebullition. Again she inches her dress down, feeling the fabric progressing along her leg. She fiddles with the chain delicately suspended from her neck, and closes her finger around the ornate pendant. As she feels the cold glass pressing against her skin, she closes her eyes and squeezes it tight. She can feel the familiar warm oozing of the alcohol within the walls of her stomach. Finally it reaches her head and she relaxes, losing touch with what she has been trying so hard to forget. She picks up the glass of crisp white wine and parts her lips slightly as she lifts it towards her mouth, taking a small sip.

She slips a hand onto his back and feels the warmth of his neck as her hand creeps upwards, caressing the back of his head.

She can still feel the warmth of those nights as she stands up to attend to her makeup in the bathroom mirrors. Approaching her lifeless reflection within the glass she notices the smudged mascara casting rings around her tired eyes. Suddenly, with a great rush of emotion, she thought of him. It was a single tear, multiplying into many forms, cascading down her waxen face. She reaches her hand up to her eyes and shakily brushes the tears away. Boldly she steps out into the bar again, coughing at the fumes invading the cartilage of her nostrils, tired of the same old ‘looks’ she receives from spectators within the roller coaster of her shallow life. Sighing, she sinks back onto the stool. She picks up the glass of crisp white wine and parts her lips slightly as she lifts it towards her mouth, taking a small sip.

She could still remember what it felt like to be genuinely loved and she yearned for those days to return to the present. She had felt no need to sell herself to satisfy her emotions; she received all she had needed from being in that relationship. But she can still vividly recall the horrific moment that crushes her future. She sways on her stool, and grabs onto the bar for support. Slowly her head droops until it is resting upon the solid wooden surface of the bar. The cool superficial wood feels pleasant against her burning cheek and she closes her eyes, basking in the temporary twinkle of tranquillity. Slurring her words, she orders another glass of wine. She picks it up and parts her lips slightly as she lifts it towards her mouth, taking a small sip.

She closed her eyes and slowly loses consciousness into a deep drunken haze, often known as sleep. His empty spiritless eyes glare at her as she sobs into his sleeve. Something she can’t escape, in life or death, sleep or consciousness, was that there was nothing she could do. Her first love, her only love, caused her to deteriorate into a spiral of despair, putting on a false face to hide the pain. Forcing her to sell her body in the only way she knows how.

She will never learn how to love again.
© Copyright 2006 jaja123 (jaja123 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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