Valley of the Gods
Some say that life is a full circle and that there are patterns which emerge in one’s life, circling and returning anew.
She was made of beautiful circles; her come-to-bed dark brown saucer eyes, the colour of Jack Daniels, Topaz earrings, flowing black corkscrew curls and legs to die for; lean and slim and caramel, peddling that old Belgravia like she didn’t have a care in the world.
The beer bottle tops in the spokes twinkled like diamonds and I was transfixed. It was around 3 pm. She was always on time and I was always sat here, same table, same flat white, same money on the same trap. Same shit, different dog.
She smelled of bergamot, or at least what I thought bergamot must smell like; not oranges. Not that fragrant. More like a sweetness ready to go off. A luscious, earthy aroma; like sap from an apple tree, baking in the sun; if you can imagine such a thing.
Of course, I never stood a chance. Her boyfriend looked like a black Spartacus, all scars and sinew with dreadlocks like truck towing rope soaked in diesel. I had the sinew and my cheekbones were good, but my gut had seen better days and my salt and pepper hair could have passed for foxy I guess, had it not been constantly matted to my head in five days worth of Murray’s Pomade.
He worked on the custom vape stall across the street, next to bookmakers where my bets went to hell. She worked in the bookstore, where I never bought a book in maybe fifty visits in one year. The only book I have read was an odds bible, but it didn’t take a betting man to know that the chances of a girl like her hooking up with a guy like me were nothing short of a long shot.
The truth stinks, so I lived in the aroma of hope. I’d noticed, recently, and probably more subtly through this long hot summer, although looking back I couldn’t swear to it, that she had become troubled. She didn’t look as carefree as the girl I’d seen in the spring and early summer. Her smile was still infectious, but behind her big eyes, I saw a different disease taking hold.
Call me a cynic, but I guess love was turning sour for my exotic princess. I’d seen the black Spartacus raise his hand to her and I’d heard the word bitch shoot from his loud mouth like a handful of nails from a sling. I’d seen him come striding out from behind his counter and place his hands on the handlebars of her Belgravia and keep her there straddling that crossbar on tiptoes as he put his face close to hers in an angry confrontation.
I had made my mind up to say something, to intervene, to rescue my princess, if I dare to be so foolishly and romantically heroic, the very next time I saw him abuse her in this way, but fate had other ideas.
A white Spartacus killed the black Spartacus in a drive-by shooting. It happened in slow motion. She was cycling away and as the sound of gunshots turned her head, she clipped the curb and fell into the road and was hit by a truck. I held her head in my hands. There was blood everywhere; in her flowing black corkscrew curls, on her lean and slim and broken caramel legs.
A rivulet of fresh blood crawled its way down over her lip, but I was looking the other way; transfixed again by the beer bottle tops twinkling like blue diamonds in the emergency lights.
She was three days out of a coma when I eventually spoke to her. She smiled, her dark brown saucer eyes now more like lucky to be alive than come-to-bed, but she still looked amazing.
“Are you still trying to hit on me,” she said.
Joking, at a time like this? Wow, if I’d known her sense of humour was as good as her looks, I would never have waited so long. Hindsight, though, is a waste of emotion.
“Sorry,” I said. “I figure it’s better late than never and anyway I also figure I stand a better chance with you in one of your weaker moments.”
I nursed her when she came out of the hospital. Every morning and every evening. Lying on her sofa, massaging those lean and slim and caramel legs, feeling the scars and the metal pins, feeling her wince in pain when my touch was too heavy.
“Bet you didn’t imagine it would be this sexy,” she said, her Jack Daniels eyes all smoky and heavy.
“Nope,” I said. “Never could have.”
She sighed, and I felt my heart suck on my soul for a bit.
“Why are you doing this,” she said and quickly added. “Don’t answer, I’m just glad you are.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “I’ll tell you. I’m holding out for a shag when you can.” I said, also quickly adding. “No rush, though. Get better first.”
I tell you one thing. Making love to her was something I could never put into words. So I won’t try. Watching her recover was better still. I can imagine a botanist watching the rarest flower come back from extinction, slowly unfolding and blooming again. That is worth living and dying for.
When I got liver cancer, they gave me less than six months to live. She never stopped looking at me with those come-to-bed eyes.
“Every single day, in every single way, I’ll love you more and more and more,” I crooned as she held my head.
She cried a lot. I hated to see that. So I cashed in my life insurance and some long forgotten bonds that I had acquired years ago and bought her a new Belgravia and also the bookstore. Just to see her smile.
“Into the valley of the gods,” she said.
“What does that mean?” I said.
“Our love is immortal,” she said
Image: “another woman…another bike” by Donatella Marraoni
www.donatellamarraoni.com
