The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part VI
Round 2: Werewolf.
Did you think you could win this race?, she wants to ask the vampire.
She wishes he would read these lines. So that he would know he has serious competition and the competition is winning the race.
She wishes she could tell him all about the werewolf. That he manages to stir something deep inside her just by presenting his body before her eyes. That he most definitely must be a simple man, with simple tastes and simple wants and needs.
Unlike you, vampire, he is not interested in mesmerizing an entire audience with his rhetorical skills. He does not want to change the literary world with his exceptional genius. He just wants to find a place where he can rest his head from the world. Like her.
Yet he is a magician, in his simple, unambitious world. His customers describe him as such. She can imagine his skilfull hands patiently sensing the machine's tantrums and working their way through their restless metal spirits to make them do what they are supposed, but don't want to. She can imagine those hands touching similar places that belong to her and working their way slowly into ecstasy.
In her imagination the vampire wrinkles his nose to all these things, which he will no doubt consider rambling thoughts of an imature soul.
She insists, though, in her mind. The werewolf is down to earth, grounded, solid, secure. The old man seems to like him, for he would not have kept him all these years otherwise.
Someday, she fears, the werewolf will go. Not because he wants to, but because he must. The old man will die and the garage will close. The werewolf will have to find territory elsewhere. She fears that day. She fears that day more than she thought she might ever.
She must do something. Soon.
Are you reading this, vampire? Or did you think you could win her heart just with the touch of that warm, soft, reassuring hand?
The werewolf has touched her all over without ever coming close to her skin. If only he knew that. Would he shed his vampire's outter skin and come nest upon her bosom? She wishes that at least the werewolf can smell her perfume when she passes him on the street while he's sweeping the floor and pretending not to see her because the old man watches him with hawk eyes.
The werewolf is winning. But who cares?
She doesn't want this story to turn into a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel but as the days go by it is resembling more and more precisely that.
Her heart has bled for the werewolf too long. Much more than it would be healthy or wise.
The only thing she can think of is his look at the top of the street, straight into her eyes, straight into her heart, straight into her mind, as if he was inches away from her. And that was not in her imagination.
The werewolf has touched her all over without ever coming close to her skin. If only he knew that. Would he shed his vampire's outter skin and come nest upon her bosom? She wishes that at least the werewolf can smell her perfume when she passes him on the street while he's sweeping the floor and pretending not to see her because the old man watches him with hawk eyes.
The werewolf is winning. But who cares?
She doesn't want this story to turn into a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel but as the days go by it is resembling more and more precisely that.
Her heart has bled for the werewolf too long. Much more than it would be healthy or wise.
The only thing she can think of is his look at the top of the street, straight into her eyes, straight into her heart, straight into her mind, as if he was inches away from her. And that was not in her imagination.
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