Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on May 16, 2006 9:03:35 GMT -5
I enwrapped myself in chartreuse-saturated haze of memory and delusion, and when that faded, there came the sweet oblivion of smoke and tinctures, and even through it all I felt the dreams beating at the back of my mind, threatening to submerge all in a tide of blood. The dawn found me a few days later, and brought me back to myself. I bathed, shaved and tried to expunge the toll several days and nights of abuse and neglect from my features with only moderate success. I must be getting old. I’m sure those lines used to be more faint than this, I’m sure my eyes used to glitter more enticingly, my lips quirk more charmingly … oh, it’s so unspeakably depressing.
“Betta,” I asked, allowing her to help me on with my coat. “Am I getting old, do you think?”
She opened her mouth.
“By the way, think carefully before you speak. There is a right and a wrong way to reply.”
She’s not entirely stupid. “No, Master Sly, you’re in your prime.”
“I don’t look in my prime,” I admitted, frowning over her shoulder into the mirror.
“You could try sleeping, Master Sly. And eating, maybe.”
“And fresh air and exercise?”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Master Sly.”
“Don’t be pert. It doesn’t suit you. Nothing suits you. And I don’t like sleeping.”
She shrugged.
I looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you sulking, Betta my love?”
She shrugged.
“Why are you sulking, Betta, oh jewel of my star-studded sky? You know if you keep pulling expressions like that, your face might stay that.”
She shrugged again.
“Oh spit it out, you putrescent doxie.”
“You hit me, Master Sly,” she said, finally.
“Did I?” I asked, carelessly. “Pass me my gloves, would you?”
She didn’t pass me my gloves. “You know you did.”
“Well what do you expect me to do about it?”
She merely looked at me, with that hang-dog look she has.
“You don’t expect me to apologise, do you?” I asked, with a light laugh, picking up my gloves myself. I moved towards the bedroom but Betta was blocking the way, her arms folded across her chest. “Stop looking at me like that. I said stop it. And move aside. Look…” I spread my hands in an appealing gesture, “look,” I said reasonably, “I don’t care, and insisting that I trot out some insincere, conventional apology won’t make me care.”
She put a hand on my chest. “But you should be sorry, Master Sly,” she said softly.
“Fine, fine,” I said, quickly, pushing her hand away. “I’m sorry. See how sorry I am. Witness my sorryness. Happy now?”
She reached out and closed one of her immense meaty hands around my wrist. For the record, Betta is less a woman than a golem. “Don’t do it again, Master Sly.”
The bones in my wrist made an anxious sound. I would have made an anxious sound myself but I am not so feeble that I can’t face down my own dogsbody. “Or what?” I snarled, fixing her with a furious gaze.
There was a long silence.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
I picked up my walking cane and settled my hat on my head a rakish angle. “Try to stop snivelling by the time I return.”
“Betta,” I asked, allowing her to help me on with my coat. “Am I getting old, do you think?”
She opened her mouth.
“By the way, think carefully before you speak. There is a right and a wrong way to reply.”
She’s not entirely stupid. “No, Master Sly, you’re in your prime.”
“I don’t look in my prime,” I admitted, frowning over her shoulder into the mirror.
“You could try sleeping, Master Sly. And eating, maybe.”
“And fresh air and exercise?”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Master Sly.”
“Don’t be pert. It doesn’t suit you. Nothing suits you. And I don’t like sleeping.”
She shrugged.
I looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you sulking, Betta my love?”
She shrugged.
“Why are you sulking, Betta, oh jewel of my star-studded sky? You know if you keep pulling expressions like that, your face might stay that.”
She shrugged again.
“Oh spit it out, you putrescent doxie.”
“You hit me, Master Sly,” she said, finally.
“Did I?” I asked, carelessly. “Pass me my gloves, would you?”
She didn’t pass me my gloves. “You know you did.”
“Well what do you expect me to do about it?”
She merely looked at me, with that hang-dog look she has.
“You don’t expect me to apologise, do you?” I asked, with a light laugh, picking up my gloves myself. I moved towards the bedroom but Betta was blocking the way, her arms folded across her chest. “Stop looking at me like that. I said stop it. And move aside. Look…” I spread my hands in an appealing gesture, “look,” I said reasonably, “I don’t care, and insisting that I trot out some insincere, conventional apology won’t make me care.”
She put a hand on my chest. “But you should be sorry, Master Sly,” she said softly.
“Fine, fine,” I said, quickly, pushing her hand away. “I’m sorry. See how sorry I am. Witness my sorryness. Happy now?”
She reached out and closed one of her immense meaty hands around my wrist. For the record, Betta is less a woman than a golem. “Don’t do it again, Master Sly.”
The bones in my wrist made an anxious sound. I would have made an anxious sound myself but I am not so feeble that I can’t face down my own dogsbody. “Or what?” I snarled, fixing her with a furious gaze.
There was a long silence.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
I picked up my walking cane and settled my hat on my head a rakish angle. “Try to stop snivelling by the time I return.”