The Hounds of Bath by Eric P. Fick

Author:Eric P. Fick [Fick, Eric P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781499007510
Publisher: Xlibris
Published: 2014-12-26T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

He gave nothing more than a view of his back as he left the room.

“Robert. Robert, do not walk away from me,” she called after him, the door left ajar during his departure. “Robert, you know how I feel about people walking away from me, walking out on me.” She released a sigh, half sadness and half drama, and slumped against the upholstered gardenscape of the chaise lounge. She reached for her wine glass. Comfort? Habit? Or to actually moisten her poor parched throat?

Depleting the contents, she replaced the glass unsteadily on the edge of the low table, nearly sending it with its crimson dribble to the carpet below. She caressed her lips with the length of a finger and stared at the sheer curtains and the bright bands of light that penetrated them, breaching the sill only to trip itself up and tumble like ivory pillars to the floor.

“He will come back,” she said quietly to herself. It was not confidence that solidified this in her mind, it was an inevitable fact.

But that is exactly what it was: his unfailing return. She need merely request his presence and he would be there before her with utmost promptness. A proven fact becomes so reliable, so self-assuring; and despite the abuse he might endure during these meetings, he never faltered from that faithful fact. Does not that kind of security become addicting? A fact that seems in all respects to have some frailty, some weak point that might shatter with the slightest touch becomes an obsession, the inability of the human mind to accept that some things cannot be broken, the inevitable thread of pessimism. And yet Robert’s return proved, against all tests, indestructible.

It was kind of pathetic, in all honesty, she thought to herself, but therefore somehow endearing; an innocent little boy built like a mountain, being constructed of the elements that man can never achieve.

And that too was it, was it not? That soft naivety, that always gentle and curious touch, yet supported by impregnable fortitudes. A fortress elegant and awe-inspiring with unbreachable walls. He could be so close, so intimate, elicit enjoyments otherwise forbidden, and yet retained some personal distance, that hidden cache of character, that chest that embraced the finest of treasures but remained locked, that breast that cradled the sacre coueur and its cage barred against any entry. A perfect songbird in its little brass home singing brilliantly, but is one not inclined to wonder what song would breach its beak were it granted freedom to unfurl its wings and release its truest sonata. But then there is only a snippet of that song before the bird hides beyond the horizon.

She could not help but wonder of Robert’s grand finale, but reserved the fear that he would then be gone forever, leaving her in eternal want.

The temptation was sometimes too much and she wanted to push him to that final movement, but she could not imagine if ever she called and he did not come running.

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