The Nest
The sound of keys struggling to take a seat within their deadbolt home precipitated a solid thump. Then came another, that thrust open a heavy exterior door. The world beyond that door was drenched in a dull yellow fog, courtesy of a dozen solar stake-lights that parenthesized a natural stone path...the final, freshly mowed gap between Hell and Home. The silhouette of a Monster stood against the supernatural backdrop, in a frame of pitch-black - through which, it barely fit. The beast lumbered through the opening, scraping the moulding on either side, then extended a shadowy tentacle to the wall that stood opposite the swing of the door.
Click.
The monster and its smoky yellow halo were transformed by a soft white illumination that chased away the blackness. A charming foyer materialized from of the nothingness, replacing and dwarfing the yellow fog. The part of the monster was taken on by its understudy: a disheveled, yet stunningly attractive woman.
What a fucking week, She thought to Herself as she closed the front door behind her. She neglected to lock or latch the door, as was her custom. An attaché case was clutched in one hand and She wore a duffel over her shoulder on the same side. Both a knapsack and pocket-book were draped over her other shoulder. Behind her, She dragged a rolling suitcase.
One of the wheels had been damaged somewhere between the ticket counter and baggage claim of her return flight, which had afforded her a temporary distraction from overwhelming occupational anxiety -by inviting her to rename it. While waiting for her taxi, she'd begun with poor excuses for insult, like "wonky suitboot." As she probed the depths of her internal thesaurus, she'd emerged with such gems as "wibbly-wobbly watchacallit" and "the beatnik boombox." ..The latter had inspired her to imagine a melody to go along with the suitcase's percussion as it rolled unevenly. She'd then made up a corny free-style rap to go along with it, and discovered the embarrassment of landing a cleverly insulting punchline about her 'luggage being thuggish' at the exact moment that a group of teenaged hipsters emerged through an automatic door to witness it.
She'd since changed its name to "worthless piece of fuck-ass shitballs".
It stuck.
The photo of the boys' incredulous laughter had been burned into her memory, instantaneously and permanently, and it floated to the surface of her consciousness for the hundredth time. Her face flushed. Hard.
"Ggggrrrrrrrrr!!!" She half-growled, half-shrieked as quietly as she could. She shook her fists, which, holding bag straps, also shook everything else, and she stomped her stiletto heel into the hardwood floor. The action created a resonating click that echoed obnoxiously throughout the softly lit, silent hallway. Her maternal instincts kicked in, and she apologetically shushed at the photos on the walls. She stood perfectly still for a moment, making absolutely certain that her folly did not rouse the other members of the house.
...
You May Proceed, said the voice in her head.
She then attempted to lob her keys into their designated bowl (that existed for no other purpose than to hold keys), which sat atop the antique desk (that existed for no other purpose than to hold that bowl). Unfortunately, the duffel-bag strap slipped from her shoulder and interfered with her shot. Violently. The keys missed their intended mark by over a foot, clattering and clanging: wall, bowl rim, desk, floor.
After holding everything together for 5 days of work and travel, She dropped onto her bottom and allowed all of her belongings to swallow her up.
Don't you dare cry, girl, she whispered through gritted teeth. She slipped off her stupid, uncomfortable shoes and tossed them carelessly.
The rolling suitcase clearly cared nothing for her insults at the terminal earlier, and decided to take retribution on its own accord.
Wobble,
Wobble wonk wobble
BONK.
The grip at the top of the telescopic handle knocked the crown of her skull, and while it posed no threat of death, sufficed to act as the cherry on top of a very long, very stressful week. She deserved every tear she was about to shed onto the hardwood.
Despair became confusion as the light clicked off at no provocation of hers, and she looked up just in time to see a dimly lit, vertical line of black buttons resting on black fabric, descending downward. The buttons terminated at a black collar followed by a neck and beard. She wiped the recon tears before she allowed Him to see her this way. Despite the lack of photons within the visible spectrum, she felt exposed and vulnerable before him.
He sat in front of her in the darkness.
He stripped her of the straps that bound her to her belongings. Her coat followed suit.
He scooted close to her, their legs interlocking like puzzle pieces.
He placed one heavy hand on her spine, mid-way, and placed the other on her tailbone, scooping her bottom off of the floor and into his lap.
She felt like ice cream.
And that made her laugh.
And cry.
Simultaneously.
It felt weird, but she liked being weird. And He loved her weirdness. In this one little corner of her universe, She could truly be herself. At that moment, as she laugh-cried and vented and let him cheer her up wordlessly, life was perfect.
Neither of them cared to break the embrace, and it was late. She fell asleep on top of him, and He, between his Love and a hardwood floor. The luggage and the trench coat she had shed, created what looked to be a relatively comfortable nest behind them. Unfortunately, neither of them had bothered to notice.