Childhood Friends
1043 Words
Cyril
When we arrived at the kitchen, Susan was expecting to be served, but I showed her the empty dish set.
“Oh my. I can't believe I forgot that it's all finished.” I turned to Susan. “I gave it all to daddy. Now we have to make our own food.”
I cracked an egg against the side of a copper bowl, the sound was sharp and final.
Susan made coffee and was humming, a light, airy tune while at it, her tune grated against my nerves like sandpaper on silk.
She seemed entirely too comfortable in my kitchen, moving with a proprietary ease that made my fingers itch to wrap around the handle of the paring knife.
"So, Susan," I began, my voice smooth and inquisitive.
I whisked the eggs with a rhythmic, hypnotic clatter. "Tell me Susan, you and my dad, where did you two actually meet? What is it about my father that caught your eye?”
Susan paused, a soft, wistful smile playing on her lips as she leaned against the counter. She looked younger in the morning light, less like a threat and more like a woman drowning in the shallow end of a fairy tale.
"Oh, it wasn't romantic at first, Cyril," she said, her eyes glazing over with the fog of memory. "We actually go back much further than you think. We were childhood friends, though I suppose life dragged us in different directions after college. We bumped into each other about six months ago outside a bistro in the city. I was in a rush, distracted by a phone call, and I practically tackled him. He was furious."
She let out a small, tinkling laugh that sounded like glass breaking. "You know how Alan is everything in its right place, every second accounted for. He had coffee
all over his charcoal suit. He looked like he wanted to sue me into the next century. But then he recognized me. The scowl just… evaporated. It was like seeing a ghost return to life."
I kept my eyes on the bowl, my whisking becoming more aggressive.
Childhood friends.
That was more like a reconnection. It was a clean, wholesome narrative that felt like a direct insult to the dark, sweaty reality of the office desk.
"We started seeing each other after that," Susan continued, oblivious to the storm brewing in my chest.
"Coffee dates, mostly. He was adamant that we stay just friends. He talked about his work, about the house, about… you. He was so protective of his solitude. But then, a few weeks ago…everything changed. He called me out of the blue. He sounded desperate, almost breathless. He told me he couldn't be alone anymore. He insisted we get married immediately. No fanfare, no long engagement. Just us."
I stopped whisking.
A few weeks ago. Right after he had tasted me.
Right after he had realized that his "paternal" protection had failed and been replaced by a hunger he couldn't control.
He hadn't married Susan for love; he had married her as an exorcism.
He had reached out to a safe, nostalgic piece of his past to act as a barrier against the predatory future I represented.
I smirked, the expression sharp and cold. I turned and clapped.
"What an interesting love story, Susan. Truly. A man who had vowed never to be married suddenly calls and asks that you get married. Surely you must be remarkable.
Susan blushed, her cheeks turning a soft, girlish pink.
She looked like a schoolgirl who had just been asked to the prom by the captain of the football team.
She was undeniably, pathetically in love with him.
We finished breakfast in a silence that was far more loaded than the conversation.
We washed the plates and returned to the living room to continue our girlie talk but found Alan coming down the stairs..
He looked up as we entered, his eyes darting to Susan with a forced warmth that made my stomach turn.
I sat across from them, cradling a cup of black coffee.
I scrutinized Susan as I sipped the bitter liquid.
I looked at the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. I looked at the way she was smiling sheepishly at Alan.
She was neither beautiful nor smart.
She isn't Alan's type, he just used her to get away from me.
I looked in his direction and I noticed his gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second too long when Susan wasn't looking.
His jaw tightened when I crossed my legs, letting the silk of my skirt shift upward a little to reveal my long smooth legs.
He wants me.
Susan is just a placeholder.
She was the white noise he used to drown out the symphony of our shared sin.
But little did Daddy know that I am the water as much as I'm the thirst.
I leaned back, the warmth of the coffee radiating through my palms. I knew exactly what I had to do.
If Daddy want to play house, I would let him.
I would let him believe that he was safe behind this blonde shield.
I would let Susan believe she had won the heart of the great Alan Vance.
I would make him realize that no matter how many rings he put on other women’s fingers, his blood only sang for me.
His body only listens to me
"You're very quiet this morning, Cyril," Alan said, his voice cautious, probably testing the air for mines.
I smiled at him over the rim of my cup, a slow, knowing smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Just thinking, Dad. About family. About how things change so quickly."
I looked at Susan, my gaze lingering on her throat, where a small pulse was fluttering. "I was just telling Susan how lucky she is. It’s not every day a man like you decides to… settle down."
Alan’s expression faltered.
He knew exactly what I meant by "settle." He knew I was calling him a coward without saying the word.
"I’m the lucky one," Susan said, squeezing his hand.
I let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, I’m sure you are, Susan. You are one lucky ho*."
- Writer
