Vulnerable or Desirous?
894 Words
The creaking of a door gently pulled her from her stillness. Emma had fallen asleep, or perhaps just drifted for a few moments into a half-sleep populated by hazy flashes. Her heart leapt without warning, following the echoes of footsteps resonating through the house after a few minutes of perceived absence. One step. Then two. Slow. Hesitant. Not those of a man in a hurry. Steps that approached without fully revealing themselves. Perhaps her father. Perhaps Serge. Emma remained still, each thudding step intensifying the warmth in her chest. She straightened in bed, hair disheveled, mouth dry.
It was still a little dark inside. Not pitch black, but that grey hour where silence grows heavy. She strained her ears. Nothing more. Maybe she had dreamed. Her gaze slid to the window. Closed. Yet, the poorly latched bolt trembled slightly, swayed by the breeze and engine noises reaching her from outside. Was that enough to explain the sound? Enough to calm her nerves, but not enough to truly reassure her.
She got up, barefoot on the warm parquet floor. Her toes brushed the frayed rug that had belonged to her mother. A scent of dampness hung in the room. Or was it simply the past resurfacing? A shiver ran up her spine. Always that damned shiver, tied to the rhythm of footsteps whose owner she couldn't grasp. She performed a breathing exercise, inhaling and exhaling, to calm her troubled mind.
Then, she grabbed a cardigan from the chair and slowly opened the door. Not a sound. Everything was calm, almost unreal. She went downstairs, avoiding the creaking steps. She knew them by heart. Arriving in the living room, she froze.
Serge was there. Sitting. In the living room's dimness, bathed in the day's first light.
He wasn't sleeping. He was still smoking, by the open window. His back to her. She wanted to back away, slip away. But the floorboard creaked. There was a traitor, just betrayed her escape.
He half-turned.
"You're not sleeping?"
His voice was low, barely a whisper. She didn't know if he was surprised or if he had been waiting for her. She hesitated.
"I heard a noise. And… I was thirsty, I think, and also, it's already day, if I'm not mistaken."
A lie. She wasn't thirsty. She just needed to confirm he was still there. That he wasn't a mirage of her tired mind and that those inaccessible footsteps came from him.
He tapped the windowsill next to him.
"Come. It's nice out here. Look at the morning. And I'll take the opportunity to offer you a drink, so you can quench your thirst."
She advanced, barefoot, like a child. She hated it. Not the act of walking barefoot, but that way she had of regressing when he was around. She leaned against the window. She would have loved to sit there extravagantly and provocatively to draw him to her. She wanted to check if she had an effect on him, as much as he had on her in his presence. The morning glow emitted by the sun and the persistent cold of the dew faced them through the window.
"You smoke now?" she blurted out, her tone falsely light.
She had been waiting for the opportunity to ask him about this new habit she didn't know he had.
He smiled, but his gaze remained lost in the darkness. Then he offered:
"Sometimes. When I think too much."
She followed his gaze. Nothing special, nothing but the garden, fragments of shadows in view. Perhaps memories these places brought back to him.
Then he turned his head. And stared at her.
"Emma, you're trembling!" he pointed out.
She didn't answer. Not right away.
"I'm cold," she lied again.
He raised an eyebrow. He knew. And she also knew that he knew. But he didn't press.
She looked up at him. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in her throat. Instead, she looked down at her hands. Always those hands. Her most trivial tic: twisting her fingers, rubbing them together as if to make an invisible stain disappear.
Serge sighed.
"You haven't changed. You still think you can contain everything."
She clenched her jaw. That sentence. Too precise, too bare for her. She looked away, feigning annoyance.
"Am I talking about you, or vice versa?"
"It's you. Always has been. You pretend to be strong."
A silence settled between them. One of those silences that linger because you don't know whether to speak or to be quiet.
"I'm going back up to get ready," she said, almost curtly.
But as she was about to turn on her heels, he stood up. Approached. Too close. Just enough for her to feel the warmth of his body, the scent of mild tobacco mixed with jasmine. She closed her eyes. An escapist reflex, she thought. It allowed her not to witness his gestures, his gaze, and a host of things that would make her falter. She was already vulnerable enough in his presence to remain aware in front of him of actions that might seem sensual. Yes, sensual, because to her, his mere voice already felt too sensual.
"Emma…"
His voice was just a breath. She wouldn't have known if he was going to kiss her or just place his hand on her shoulder. And if he did kiss her?
- Writer
