Ashes of Roses

She had such beautiful hair. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Silky and black, it cascaded down her shoulders and between her breasts, teasing him to think of what other treasures she had yet to reveal to him.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

This had become his nightly pleasure. His ritual; watching her sit before the art deco vanity he'd recently purchased, as she brushed her hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

After she finished, he always wished he'd taken the brush from her hand and stroked her wondrous raven locks himself. But he'd always been so dazzled by the sight of her that he'd never considered doing it until after she'd put the brush down, and begun examining her features in the great oblong mirror that crept up more than the half the length of the wall.

He'd given special instructions to the movers to make sure they'd take care of it when they brought it in and reassembled it, with the rest of the vanity. The glass was original, and he'd prided himself on being able to get it for quite a reasonable price. Of course none of that mattered to him now when he saw how much she enjoyed sitting in front of it. She had made it all her own.

It was as if it had always been hers.

As she sat looking into the mirror, he wondered what was going on inside her. What things was she considering besides herself?

Did she ever think of him?

She washed her face with rose water, something he'd heard women used in earlier times to help purify their complexions, and moisturize their skin. No matter to him what it did, the smell of the petals in the lukewarm water filled the room with a tender perfume which made him forget everything except the beauty of the woman before him.

At such moments he felt completely intoxicated. The room swirled around him in a feverish mirage of color, scent and sound. Her nightly visitations affected him like a drug; one which he was happy to be addicted to.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

She wore a pale pink gown, which was almost the same color as her skin. "Ashes of Roses," was what he thought it was called. It was some long-forgotten color which was popular years ago, but had fallen out of fashion. The material barely concealed the darkness of her nipples which protruded from her perfectly formed breasts, or the other darkness that was part shadowy dream, part delicious reality which lay warm and wanton, just a few steps away from him.

He wanted her more than any woman he had ever known, and someday he was going to forget foolish fancy, give in to his desire to touch the wonderful silkiness that cascaded down her shoulders like an inky waterfall, and brush her hair. Whatever came after that didn't matter, though he hoped that she would grace him with a night of pleasure that would keep him dreamy-eyed and smiling for days.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

He was apprehensive about approaching her. There had always been an unspoken agreement between them that she was to be left alone when sitting at the vanity. He could do whatever he liked elsewhere in the room, but this space and this time were hers to occupy. Alone.

She didn't mind him staring at her with a rapt intensity which bordered on obsession, as long as he kept his distance. Even those moments when he'd accidentally knocked something over; she hadn't stopped to judge or berate him, but continued as if he wasn't there.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

This enticed him more, making him want to forget their agreement so that he could break through the unseen barrier which hung between them, and touch her. He bit his lip as he considered the possibility. He didn't want to upset her or worse, lose what was becoming to him the most important part of his life. All day long as he worked at the same job he'd had since he was young and full of dreams, until now when those youthful dreams had died, he thought of the moment when he'd sit on the edge of his bed and wait for her to appear.

Though he knew she must have done something during the day, he never considered it. To him she existed only at night, when they could be alone together.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Sometimes it seemed as if he'd waited forever by the time she sat down and picked up the sterling silver brush which lay in wait for her delicate hand. Of course he knew he hadn't. She always came at the same time each night, but the anticipation of seeing her again made time move as if it were stuck in quick sand.

Every night was the same as the night before. He'd sit on the bed and cross his hands over his lap and wait for the blessed moment when the light which shone underneath the bathroom door went off. His heart pounded, and his hands moistened, because he knew that soon the door would open and she would come through it. Then she would sit down on the padded stool that lay ready for her to mount, and look at herself in the great mirror.

He had no idea what it was, but there had always been something wonderful about watching women. He had always enjoyed watching them, especially when he could do it without them suspecting. Now that he had grown to be the sort of person who faded into the wallpaper as soon as he entered a room, it was easy. The world could pass him by. Yet, that was what he relished. Now he could sit and watch tables of women laughing carelessly. Brushing aside a strand of hair. Gossiping. Crossing and uncrossing their legs. Licking their lips.

But sooner or later they'd see him. Feel his eyes. His attention. His desire. Then he was forced to stop.

Of course it was different now. This woman didn't care that he watched her. Didn't care whether he desired her or not. Her lack of concern was one of the things which drew him to her. It also made those rare moments when she'd look over her porcelain shoulder at him, all the more enticing.

The touch of her gaze sent electric shocks through his body. The warmth of her emerald eyes made him alive in a way he hadn't thought possible. It didn't matter that she seemed to look through him. In fact that only excited him more. Her eyes not only bored through his skin, muscle, bone, blood and marrow. But beyond him. Past the walls to the bare architecture and form of the room which they shared.

He never questioned her about what it was she was looking at. It didn't matter if she was thinking about someone or someplace else. That she might be dreaming of some former lover or some better time. The idea that whatever it was occupied the same space as him, was enough.

Someday perhaps, she might notice him. Just once. Then perhaps she might not look any further than where he sat, with his hands clasped and his eyes feverishly adoring her.

She had a way about her like no other, and he knew he would be content to watch her for the rest of his life.

But he wanted more.

His dreams could barely contain all the possibilities of endless sunny days spent picnicking or holding hands as they walked through some enchanted wood. He wanted to share every beautiful place and every beautiful moment he'd ever had in his life with her. These thoughts filled the parts of his dreams that the image of her brushing her hair didn't. Though he knew that what they shared was probably all they would ever have, he couldn't help himself. She'd made him greedy for more.

If watching her brush her hair sent brought him such ecstasy, then what would it like to watch her put on her stockings, or better yet, take them off?

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Dreamily licking his lips, he felt his manhood being resurrected from the vampire coffin of his pajama bottoms. He'd given up on love longer ago than he cared to remember, and had settled for a life alone. It had come too easily to him, and at too early an age. He'd let career come first. Had made it his mistress and told himself that it was all he needed. Happily he'd found out that he was wrong, and that he wasn't too old to enjoy it.

It had all come so easily to him. All he had to do was wait for her to come each night, and the dreams of love he'd abandoned were not only reawakened, but reborn.
The brush glided through her black hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Then she'd flip it over, and brush it from the base of her neck up, until every strand was smooth on both sides.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

"Mmmmmm....," he unconsciously sighed, hoping she would notice him. But as usual she continued preening herself as if that was what she'd been born to do.

He stopped looking at her for a moment, putting his head down and staring at the Oriental rug which had been there almost longer than he'd been alive. This had once been his parent's room. It had been their haven. The place where secret things happen that you had to grow up to find out about, but could sometimes hear wisps of through the vents that breathed more than air throughout the house. Now it was his. He hadn't looked at the rug in years. Long ago it had become one of those things taken for granted as always being there. As if it had been there since the beginning of time. Now he tried to find something in its weave to distract him from the growing frustration which was growing inside him.

If only she'd pay me some attention. That's all I want. See me! Look at me! Notice me! Is that too much to ask for? You will see me! You will notice me! He nodded an affirmation to himself. Then lifted his head.

She remained as always, transfixed by the image of herself in the mirror, and didn't see that he'd gotten up from the bed and was approaching her.

The palms of his hands became clammy as he grew closer to her. His legs, thick and heavy, weighed down by the task at hand, moved unsteadily across the floor.

Foolishness! All I'm doing is walking from one side of the room to another. How is it possible that I'm finding something as simple as this to be such a strain? He thought, as he drew ever closer to her.

The scent of the rose water became stronger, almost heady. There was something almost unpleasant to its sweetness now. Something which grew stronger and more unbearable the closer he got.

She put her brush back in its place on the vanity table, and began her regimen of examining every unseen flaw on her face. She didn't see him standing behind her. Didn't feel his hot breath as it grazed the top of her head. Didn't notice that he was as close as he'd ever been in his life to passing out. Nor did she notice when he bent over and picked up the sterling silver brush from off its place, then stood back, half afraid to begin, and half afraid not to, brush her hair.

He stood above her for what felt like an eternity. Though in fact, only a few seconds had transpired since he'd gotten up from his place on the bed to where he now stood, brush in hand, ready to touch the magnificence of her ebony hair with his hungry, quivering hands.

He brought the brush up, and as if in a trance, set it lightly upon her head, before sliding it down and through the silken strands which had become more valuable to him than anything else in the world.

He looked at her reflection, hoping to see her smiling. She wasn't. But he continued, hoping that it would reassure her that this was alright. True, he had broken one of their mutually agreed upon rules, but he hoped that since he was doing it in such a simple and gentle way, that she would take pity on him, and his feeble attempts at intimacy.
But being unsure of himself, and afraid that she would use his impulsiveness as an excuse never to let him watch her again, he dragged the brush too quickly through her hair, and tangled it into a great black coil.

He tried circling the brush in the opposite direction, but only succeeded in wrapping even more of her hair into an unholy snarl. She sat frozen before him. Still not seeing him. Not noticing him.

Just the same he knew he'd better fix the situation or risk losing everything that was important to him.

"Please be patient with me, my darling. I honestly meant you no harm. Just give me a minute and everything will be as right as rain." He looked at the ceiling as if he could see through it into heaven, and pleaded with his tired, beady eyes for whatever kind of miracle it would take to not only free the brush from her hair, but make her not punish him for his foolishness.

"Please," he murmured partly to God, but mostly to her, "have mercy."
But the great coil grew, now covering not only the brush, but also overtaking his arm so that it looked like he was being caught in a long, black web.

He began to panic, feeling that he was losing more than his hand to the netting which ensnared it. He tried to pull free.

Her head snapped back, but before he could apologize for his roughness, he saw her gazing at him. There was something cold and unfeeling in her expression. Something far worse than anything he'd imagined. He shivered.

"Please dearest, I promise...right as rain, right as rain...you'll see," but nothing in her countenance changed.

Not even a blink.

The situation was quickly becoming unbearable for him, while the irony of it stared back at him from her cold green eyes. What he'd wanted, yearned for, hoped for, had become the very thing that he wanted to be free of. Now she noticed him, and he wished to God that he could turn back time and return to the sweetness of being happily ignored.

What was worse, he had no idea what to do. He was trapped, and saw no way of freeing himself outside of cutting the hair that enshrouded him. He pulled at the brush again, at first more gently than he had the first time.

Nothing.

He looked down to see the coldness of her eyes becoming even colder, and he knew he had to quickly remedy the situation or else risk her condemnation.

He felt looseness in the coil around his arm and began to steadily untangle himself. He didn't bother to question why what had once held him tightly now seemed to be letting go. He was just grateful to be set free. Then, somehow, he was inexplicably ensnared again.

For a moment, frustration made him forget everything and he jerked his hand back with the same fierceness as a wild animal caught in a trap. But he didn't have the courage to gnaw off his hand to free himself. So he pulled back again. This time so forcibly that his movements caused her head to jerk back and forth in unison with his endeavor.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Nor did he notice the tiny tear forming at the base of her throat which grew bigger and bigger with every pull of his arm.

She said nothing, but only continued staring at him. If she could feel the skin on her throat tear it didn't register on her face. Only the same unyielding look from her ever darkening eyes.

A small trickle of blood streamed down between her breasts as he continued to yank her head this way and that.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

He didn't hear the sound her skin made as it continued to rip, nor did he see the bloody hole growing larger at the base of her neck. His only thoughts were of freedom as he persisted in trying to release the maniacal hold of her hair, which teased him by letting him get a good distance from her, only to pull him back, to her and her upturned eyes.

Somehow he managed to pull himself away until the back of his legs grazed the bed, where he wished he'd remained. His heart pounded. Fear and heartbreak coursed through him, making him feel as if he were being seared from the inside and out, at the same time.

He didn't look at her, afraid of what he'd find staring at him. He knew he'd ruined everything. Grief, mixed with the still heady scent of rose water, made him feel dizzy, and he fell across the bed and onto the floor.

It took him a few moments to realize that he was no longer standing. He looked up at the ceiling wondering why God had played such a cruel joke on him before he noticed that he was free. He almost squealed with joy, but restrained himself, afraid of what sight would be waiting him when he got up and looked in her direction.

Would she still be there? Or would she have left him, never to return, and never to delight him as she had so many times before? Would she forgive him for breaking their unsaid rules and letting his desires overtake his reason? Would she understand that he was just a foolish old man in love with the sight, thought and idea of a woman that he had no idea how he'd ever been blessed to have in his home?

Or worse. Would she still be coldly devouring him with her eyes?

He couldn't see her from where he lay, and was tempted to forever remain on the floor rather than face the possibility of never seeing her again. Then he heard a familiar sound.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

She was still there!

And better yet, she was brushing her hair.

He tried to sit up too quickly and almost fell back down, before he grabbed hold of the footboard and caught himself. The sound of her brushing her hair made him feel giddy.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

When he was able to sit up, he inhaled deeply, noticing for the first time that the scent of the rose water had ebbed, and its fragrance had returned to being pleasant and enticing. He closed his eyes drinking in this moment of redemption. Images flooded through his mind of all the things he wanted to do to show her just how much her forgiveness had meant to him.

He would give her everything.
Even his soul.

Finally the need to see her overtook his apprehension. As he slowly opened his eyes iridescent tears trickled out. The first they'd released in ages. It felt like a pleasant sting, but then again everything was pleasant at this moment, because he hadn't lost her. He hadn't lost everything.

His vision was blurry a bit at first, but he could make out the shape of her as she sat before him. He sighed deeply and contentedly then spoke, "My darling, please..." His voice caught in his throat at what he saw staring back at him. He would have screamed except that he couldn't breathe. His face became an explosion of tremors as an earthquake erupted beneath his skin.

Yes, she was still there as she had always been, and yes, she was still brushing her hair, but there was one very special difference in the woman before him. Her head and neck no longer rested in their usual place, but were clasped in her arms. Her hands worked steadily to release the brush he'd tangled in her hair. The head jerked this way and that as she continued to try to free the brush from her clasping strands.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Finally she got it loose. Then after returning the brush to its proper place, she did the same with her head and neck. They, like the brush were back in their proper places. Except for the dried blood between her breasts, and the reddened line at the base of her neck, there was no evidence that anything wasn't as it had always been.

Everything was as right as rain.

The only thing eschew about the whole scene was that he still remained on the floor with his mouth gaping open, and nothing coming out of it.

He couldn't move. Fear and repulsion mixed in an unholy brew in his stomach and the only thing that kept him from opening the floodgates was that he realized that she was looking at him.

This time however her gaze wasn't cold and terrible, but more matter-of-fact as if she were saying, "what kind of fool are you? Please don't tell me that you've never seen that before?" Then she picked up her brush and began to pull out all the hairs that doggedly remained upon it. After cleaned them out, she once again began to brush her hair.

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Somehow this calmed him. Happily everything was as it had been before.

He never questioned her, nor asked for an explanation. What had happened was as unexplainable to him, as why she'd come in the first place. He'd learned not to ask for more than what he'd been given. Watching her from his place on the bed was enough. He knew that this was where he belonged. Where he would always belong and where he would always be.

It was his proper place
He was willing to give up everything for her.
Even his soul.