chompchompchomsky
09-23-2009, 04:30 AM
Dr. Arthur Wallerstein clicked his tongue as he looked over the recipe. The Chelsea Buns called for a whole ½ tea-spoon of salt. His long, pallid fingers danced in frustration as he considered whether he would risk the omission. He would, he decided, yes. He dipped his digits deep into the warm butter and smoothed it into the floury mass–all the while savoring the sensation. After he had slipped the buns into the oven, he flashed into the dining room so as to arrange the flowers.
The affect of the room was palpable. The rich, red cherry wood of the table, and the little silver trays: one with a tea-pot steaming, one with a saucer of cheeses and crackers, one with the whiskey and crystal glasses. Lace doilies peeked out from under every dish, smiling; the candelabra giving off a deep, understated warmth. He placed the orange lilies in a most spectacular construction of exploding blue glass, and set the pair in the precise center of the table. Everything shone. Everything perfect. Everything ready.
There was a knock on the door. He straightened his shirt, and smoothed back his hair as he strode through the hallway. It was Roger. Thank the heavens! He hated to face anyone without Roger. Arthur and Roger were the greatest friends and were nothing alike. Arthur was tall, pale, eccentric, and whimsical. Roger was stout, ruddy, and simple. They embraced each other.
“I am so glad it is you,” Arthur said into his shoulder, “people make me so wretchedly nervous.”
“I know, and here I am. Something smells wonderful.”
Roger had a deep sympathy for Arthur. It was very difficult for Arthur to make friends, much less keep them. He was short, fiery and arrogant. But beyond that, he was a pedophile. He was lonely: doomed to always be lonely, and hated, and feared– unless he hid himself from everyone he met. Roger knew, and understood and didn’t hate or fear him. Their bond was one of those sublime attachments of soul so rarely found among people: a treasure beyond measure.
Roger took off his coat and threw it over his arm as he walked into the dining room. Arthur went straight for the kitchen, removing the buns and meticulously arranging them onto yet another silver tray.
“It’s absolutely beautiful.” said Roger, taking in the room.
“I’ve been at for hours.” said Arthur in that slippery manic tone of someone over-stressed.
Arthur and Roger sat at the table and poured themselves tea. They sat in silence, as they often did, appreciating the company of one another in a beautiful room. The walls were a heavy green with little golden vines trailing up at intervals. There was an armoire, of the same cherry wood as the table, and on either side gilded sconces cast gentle light. A time passed, and no one came.
“I am in love.” said Arthur very softly. He sat stiffly with his knees curled up to his chest, shaking very slightly. Roger looked at him: a penetrating sadness in his eyes. He hated it when Arthur got hurt. He hated it when Arthur found some girl that he could never be with. He hated the contorted solitude of his friend, his dearest friend, from which he was powerless to save him.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Susan. Susan Burroughs.”
The affect of the room was palpable. The rich, red cherry wood of the table, and the little silver trays: one with a tea-pot steaming, one with a saucer of cheeses and crackers, one with the whiskey and crystal glasses. Lace doilies peeked out from under every dish, smiling; the candelabra giving off a deep, understated warmth. He placed the orange lilies in a most spectacular construction of exploding blue glass, and set the pair in the precise center of the table. Everything shone. Everything perfect. Everything ready.
There was a knock on the door. He straightened his shirt, and smoothed back his hair as he strode through the hallway. It was Roger. Thank the heavens! He hated to face anyone without Roger. Arthur and Roger were the greatest friends and were nothing alike. Arthur was tall, pale, eccentric, and whimsical. Roger was stout, ruddy, and simple. They embraced each other.
“I am so glad it is you,” Arthur said into his shoulder, “people make me so wretchedly nervous.”
“I know, and here I am. Something smells wonderful.”
Roger had a deep sympathy for Arthur. It was very difficult for Arthur to make friends, much less keep them. He was short, fiery and arrogant. But beyond that, he was a pedophile. He was lonely: doomed to always be lonely, and hated, and feared– unless he hid himself from everyone he met. Roger knew, and understood and didn’t hate or fear him. Their bond was one of those sublime attachments of soul so rarely found among people: a treasure beyond measure.
Roger took off his coat and threw it over his arm as he walked into the dining room. Arthur went straight for the kitchen, removing the buns and meticulously arranging them onto yet another silver tray.
“It’s absolutely beautiful.” said Roger, taking in the room.
“I’ve been at for hours.” said Arthur in that slippery manic tone of someone over-stressed.
Arthur and Roger sat at the table and poured themselves tea. They sat in silence, as they often did, appreciating the company of one another in a beautiful room. The walls were a heavy green with little golden vines trailing up at intervals. There was an armoire, of the same cherry wood as the table, and on either side gilded sconces cast gentle light. A time passed, and no one came.
“I am in love.” said Arthur very softly. He sat stiffly with his knees curled up to his chest, shaking very slightly. Roger looked at him: a penetrating sadness in his eyes. He hated it when Arthur got hurt. He hated it when Arthur found some girl that he could never be with. He hated the contorted solitude of his friend, his dearest friend, from which he was powerless to save him.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Susan. Susan Burroughs.”