Alone With You in the Ether by Olivie Blake

Author:Olivie Blake [Blake, Olivie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf, azw3, mobi
Published: 2020-06-18T18:30:00+00:00

The grandfather clock in the living room below informed Regan that the day had long since changed; one to another. That soon, another sun would rise, and she would still be dirtied by the choices of the night before. She held her hands around herself and shivered, newly frozen in Aldo’s absence, and padded carefully down the hall, bare feet kissing the beams below.

She felt a mix of things, soft and hard. Things were compacting and expanding inside her. They’d been there before she’d entered the room, but now that she had left it, she felt exactly the same only worse. The same, only more so.

She snaked a path back to her bedroom, pausing beside the bathroom door. Inside her makeup bag was the Armani foundation, the Dior mascara, the Givenchy concealer she scarcely had reason to use. There was blush in there to mimic innocence, bronzer to imitate sun, gloss to postulate desire. It was a bag full of lies and somewhere at the base of it were orange translucent bottles calling for her attention, summoning the liar to her rightful place. I’ll take them, she thought, I’ll take them now, it’ll be fine, I was going to anyway, and she was. She’d been standing here in her bathroom just a matter of minutes ago, eyeing the bottles and thinking: I’ll take these pills right now, but then: No, I’ll go see Aldo first, the beat of you-and-me, you and me together, you-and-me-together banging around the reckless channels of her veins.

She didn’t really know what she’d expected to find when she came to see him. No, untrue, she knew what she’d expected, but she hadn’t known what she wanted, and now all she knew was that she’d gotten nothing and was therefore more empty-handed than before. She’d wanted to assuage her curiosity, maybe; to have a taste of something so rushed and overwrought and lurid she’d have no choice but to deem it a disappointment and move on. She’d wanted to plead in his arms to be taken away from all this, from her pretense of a life. She’d wanted him to offer her his devotion, to transform into a nineteenth-century suitor and beg ardently for her hand. She’d wanted to fuck Rinaldo Damiani and then return to Marcus Waite and say: See, he wants me, I am valuable. See, I had a genius between my legs and held him inside me and swallowed him up, and then I made his brilliance mine.

Somewhere, a little voice reminded her that maybe what she’d wanted most of all was for Aldo to refuse her, to kiss her hand and say: Not tonight, Regan, not like this, not when you’re not mine. But he hadn’t even said that, not really, and now she felt nothing but loathing for the way she could only hate herself and still place no blame on him.

Her art. That was what he wanted.

She glanced down at her bag, contemplating the pills. She would take them, go to bed, and then tomorrow she would tell Aldo it was over between them, whatever it even was.

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