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How to Fry a Poached Egg
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How to Fry a Poached Egg |
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Anne Member
since 1999-12-31
Posts 78 |
How to Fry a Poached Egg I suppose you could do it if you really wanted to, Marna reflected, but I would think you would end up with a terrible mess. There was silence in the movie theater except for the muffled voices of the actors in the film, as distant and irrelevant as dimly shadowed figures in an adjoining room. Marna sat as stiffly as a doll against the faded red cushions of her chair and withdrew herself as much as possible into a hard little knot of concentration, from which perch she could eye the rest of the world guardedly. The silence was deafening in her ears and grated her nerves as much as anything else. A light breeze drafted down the aisle and rippled the movie screen gently, distorting the gaze of one of the actors. For a second, Marna felt as though the eyes of the actor had rested warily on her, and she shifted still more uneasily, filled with the guilty impression that she had been caught spying. Across the aisle, a woman began to tap her foot suddenly, an unconscious twitching, surely, but one that kept Marna’s gaze divided, dartingly, between the woman’s pale clad foot, the figures in the movie, and the man at her side. It was coming, she knew. As of yet, he hadn’t so much as glanced her way, but Marna dreaded the familiar ritual she felt sure was to come. It wasn’t the gesture itself, really, and Marna could even come to accept what the gesture meant—the sense of ownership not intended but still somehow always implied by this tall stranger at her side. (The woman’s foot stopped unpredictably, so suddenly motionless that it seemed to quiver with the very energy of its stillness, and then, just as abruptly, resumed its twitching dance.) She had disliked him from the moment she laid eyes on him, smiling up at her from the cool darkness of her front step. She remembered instinctively drawing her scarf more closely around her neck, grateful for the first excuse to look away, and ashamed to find the excuse welcome. There was a boldness in his eye that had grown more daring of late, and she was confused to find that his attentions disturbed her a little. He had done nothing wrong, but that was precisely the problem. There was no excuse—no petty misdemeanor that Marna could catch hold of to plausibly reject him. Marna looked down at her newly painted nails. In the shadows, the bright red polish looked darker than usual: ten little drops of blood resting demurely on her lap, as powerless as the claws of a kitten. Casually, Marna slipped her gaze around her neighbor’s wrist to sneak a look at their watch. There was still another hour of the movie left, and although Marna had already seen it once before and had liked it, she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever enjoy watching it again now. She would never be able to watch it without having to continually brace herself against the gaze of the hero—or was he the villain?—against that mocking, twisted grimace that would never come again. Marna’s eyes ached trying to keep up with the woman’s foot on one side and the heavy shadow reclined on the other. Wearily, she asked herself why she had come, and wearily she thought, why not? Her friends were all smugly insinuating, her sister was torn between romantic delusions and envy, and even her mother had called twice to dig for gossip. He was crazy about her. Had he not flooded her house with flowers, leaked sonnets from every orifice until she was forced to retreat under the constant bombardment of romanticisms? Had he not done all these things, confident and poised in the certainty of his own assured success? So why was it that she still so…unconvinced? Utterly baffled, Marna searched the dark contents of the room as though one of the forms would give her an answer. The woman’s foot never paused. The actors on the screen pretended to ignore the fact that they were being watched. Maybe they’ll just go away, they seemed to suggest. Maybe they’ll just go away, Marna thought. Suddenly, the setting of the movie switched, flooding the theater with a wash of blue light. It rested on a face two rows ahead, a cheek and a nose and one black-blue eye like a jewel set in the hollow of a stone. The light flickered again, but still it illuminated this face as though it would be sorry to leave it. Marna forgot about the woman’s foot, forgot about the hero’s scornful glance, even for a second forgot the shadow beside her. The face of this new stranger intrigued her; it was neither cynical like the hero, nor assuming like the shadow. She traced the masculine features with interest and was startled when the man’s mouth erupted into laugh. Marna gave a glance back at the screen to see what joke she had missed, but soon she turned back to the man’s one eye as though she would search it. She wanted to search it; she wanted to satisfy her mind as to what thoughts lay behind it. Almost as though he had sensed her thoughts, the shadow beside Marna placed his hand lightly on her knee. When she did not reach back to grasp his hand, his index finger began to trace slow circles in the darkness. You could fry a poached egg if you really wanted to, but surely it would end up looking like a mess. Marna endured the caresses meekly, like a child who submits without complaint. Her eyes fixed feverishly on the blue half-face two rows ahead. I want to see and decide for myself, she thought; I haven’t made up my mind about you yet, but I want to. The draft in the aisle exhaled suddenly, billowing the forms on the screen, halting the erratic beat of the woman’s foot, and, just as suddenly, an awareness flashed through Marna’s brain. Goose flesh crept along the woman’s ankle, and she jerked it once, spasmatically, to dispel the sudden chill. Marna glanced down at the hand on her knee, still obliviously tracing a signature of circles, and she knew why she found the gesture so repulsive: She had never been given the opportunity to decide if she liked it or not. He had assumed—and so had everyone else—that she would naturally love him in return, and so she had never truly given that love; it had been tacitly claimed as rightfully his. Marna looked at the hand on her knee, followed the path of the clumsy circles, and looked away. A sudden movement in the seat two rows ahead arrested her attention: it was the blue-faced stranger, cautiously rising and edging his way to the aisle. As he turned to the back, Marna’s gaze caught his own. He smiled, apologetically and almost invitingly, it seemed, and passed the woman with the twitching foot. Marna’s eyes followed him out of the back door of the theater. She seemed poised on the brink of a great decision. For a second, the phantoms on the screen were silent. Ignoring the surprised expression of the man beside her, Marna got up and left. |
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WolfsMate Member
since 2000-01-14
Posts 121New York |
Enjoyed this very much.  "You never have to worry...Never fear for I am near" |
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netswan Senior Member
since 2000-03-28
Posts 1369Washington |
This was a pleasure to read, Anne. I am glad Marna got up and left netswan |
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Dawn Eclipse Senior Member
since 2000-01-31
Posts 637The Horsehead Nebula |
That was an interesting piece. Great reading. "Even a fool knows you can't touch the stars, but it doesn't stop a wise man from trying." Harry Anderson, "Night Court" *Cassandra Roseen* |
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