Venal and Tornado have a discussion, Part Deux

As the Poetess demurely made her rounds, nodding politely to all that had gathered that night to meet her, Tornado stealthily toed his errant muscle further under the table and smiled politely. The observant attendant winced and rolled his eyes heavenward; what he would give to see these people perish in some cataclysmic event—tsunami being his current favorite scenario.

When the Poetess had perfunctorily greeted all she turned to return to her seat, Tornado thought to scramble to get her seat like a gentleman, but then thought better of it. No use in setting up expectations that he would fall short of. Again, there was that sound—like a droning—it was a mesmerizing sound that he could also feel in the soles of his feet, like someone waiting for a train and could sense its maniacal propulsion towards them.

Venal sidled up to her chair and sat quietly, nodded to a gentleman on her left with her sylphlike neck and then in a most elegant contropposto turned to face Tornado.

‘Lord, we have not had the pleasure to meet before now—and yet, I have heard so much about you. I feel that you are already an intimate. Forgive me—do stop toeing that little muscle under the table—it’s terrible distracting.’ She smiled calmly and he thought her exquisitely beautiful with a smile so dangerous and expansive that he worried her mouth was a secret hinge within her face and her head would suddenly open up like a box and suck him whole within, right there at the table. This excited him terribly. Her voice was soft and soothing, sharp, like the blades of a scissor slowly forced shut.

He smiled, stole a sip from his flute and leaned in a little closer to respond—he noted peripherally that the rest of the occupants at the table moved in closer as well.

‘The pleasure is all mine, Madmoi—I’m sorry, how do you prefer to be addressed?’

‘Titles are tedious,’ she sighed and played with a string of black pearls wrapped languidly around her neck, like a seductive noose, ‘you can start by calling me Venal. Now do be a darling and tell me all about yourself. And not the silly rubbish you’ve been practicing in an attempt to enchant me—lets see if we can make words come out of your mouth that match the thoughts up in that head.’ She raised an eyebrow, cocked her head and in a crescendo of vibrational din, she turned her attention and her lovely torso suddenly away from him and set into a discussion with that old bag, Duke Tampaune, with the musty coiled wig. He couldn’t hide his erection if he tried. ‘And yet,’—he snorted to himself, ‘she asks me to tell her all about myself and then denies me. Maddening.’ He fell deeply in love at that moment and felt like a marked man—he looked peevishly around as if worried he might be struck by lightening at any moment. He wouldn’t be surprised to lift up his sleeve or peer under his arm only to discover that he had been marked in some way, that some kind of a signifier had been burnished into his skin so all would know that he was in love. He would have to go into hiding.

Feeling ignored and in contempt he busily stabbed at his mussels and listened to the clatter of forks on plates and chortles of laughter, the sounds of people enjoying themselves at his expense. The mussels tasted of petulance.

He stole a peek to his left and could see her deep within conversation, could make out the muted sounds of her words but he could not discern what the topic of interest was. Her long pristine fingers were woven together and hands were clasped in her lap, long lovely stems for legs, crossed, and her backbone stretched and curved up into her neck, like a vine up a tree in search of sunlight. Modigliani, he thought. Her hair was swept up and turned and knotted, revealing the powdery white flesh of her nape. The features on her face were not perfect…and yet—they worked perfectly together in some kind of rapturous harmony. Strange green eyes, too far apart—and those lips. The nose he couldn’t even fathom—if it were removed from her face he would surely laugh.

‘So where do we go from here?’

He thought he heard something but the buzzing noise was too intense and he had his pinky jammed tight into his ear to try and shake the confounding sound from his head. He will have to phone the good doctor in the morning. It dawned on him that he was being spoken to again. ‘Je suis désolé?’

‘I asked you a question, darling. So where do we go from here?’

He thought a moment. Stared at her lips, that dangerous mouth.

‘I should like to take you back to my house and pluck you, prick you, boil you, and consume you until our skin falls from our bones. I would do everything in my power to make you eat your pillow.’

She smiled. ‘You are finally not entirely full of shit.’