La Belle Dame Avec Regrets, Part III

Blue-gray light flickers through the spacious den, casting a film of limp, hollow color across the entire room. On a dark suede sofa sits Eric, crystal high-ball glass balanced on one knee, its cracked ice refracting the inconstant glitter of the television and casting eerie light shards across his face. He stares woodenly at the latest reality show, expression more veiled than blank, and his eyes display an unblinking, glossy sheen. Before him, a kidney-shaped coffee table of beveled glass supports an untidy stack of newspapers and magazines, a discarded felt-tip pen, and a bottle of rum that glows a lurid green in the cold light. He does not look away from the aspiring singer clutching desperately at fame as Rory enters, and a nervous warbling fills the air as the high notes of “All By Myself” defeat the doe-eyed, cosmetic plastered girl dominating all fifty two inches of the flat screen hanging on the wall.

“Are you ready to g –“, Rory begins cheerily, punctuated by the sharp staccato of Italian heels upon the polished wood floor. Awkward straining from the wannabe soprano stops her short, and Rory stares with half-open mouth at the TV in silence until the girl finishes with a long, unsteady note and eyes full of emotion that tips the scale from angst to fear. She knows this is the last time she will ever be allowed on television, and the knowledge is bare and raw on her overdone, oversized face.

And now the commercial break. Eric takes a drink and glances over at Rory as she strides forward to grab the remote from the coffee table. He notes her long dress and thinks it looks a little too complicated for a nightgown. Why is she dressed up? Is she going somewhere? Why did she just mute the TV? That’s his favorite Bud Light commercial.

“Obviously, you’re not. You forgot the reception tonight, didn’t you?” She leaves the TV on because the reflected light on his face looks like fairies dancing around his head and she likes it. “Maybe you should go put on your tux. We have to leave in ten minutes.” Please Eric, just go get dressed.

He groans and takes another drink, the slump of his shoulders a precursor to the answer she has already formed in her own head: let’s just stay in tonight. Eric leans forward, breaks the fairy spell by putting his glass on the table beside its parent bottle and propping elbows on knees. His head falls forward and long fingers thread into longer hair to squeeze his temples.

“Let’s just stay in t –“.

“No! We are not staying in tonight! We stayed in last night, and the night before that, and the night before that. Don’t do this to me again.” Her hands rest on charmeuse covered hips, and her expression clouds ominously. Rory has been told all her life that she is beautiful when she is angry. Secretly, she agrees, and uses the knowledge to great effect, though recently her success rate with Eric seems to be at an all time low.

His head comes up and he looks at her with open-faced exasperation, parts his lips as if to speak but closes them abruptly. Scrubbing hands through his hair, he stands, sighs again, stretches his back, and all six feet of him ambles toward the door as if it were his own idea.

She watches, silent, still, waiting. Eric exits without another word, leaving her standing in the blue glow of distraction. She knows he will get dressed, tie his hair back, wear the correct cuff links (if he can find them), the right shoes, the red silk socks that she secretly hates, and that all of this will be accomplished in less than ten minutes, to her envious amazement. He didn’t even say anything about the new Michael Kors gown that made her look like a corvette fresh off the assembly line.

Rory looks down at her feet as she sits on the couch to wait, carefully smoothing out her gown to avoid getting wrinkled. Matching hubcaps, she muses, staring at the scarlet stiletto sandals that display her pedicure to perfection, tiny diamonds encircling the second toe of her left foot on a platinum band. Leaning forward – carefully – she takes the top magazine in the stack from the coffee table and flicks it open to find a full size picture of her devastatingly handsome husband with his arms around a ten foot tall sculpture of curving, undulating bronze that looks, to her, like the issue from a mating of the Venus di Milo and Gumby. Above the photograph is a caption in a bold russet, runic font that reads “Eric the Red”, and opposite, on the next page, is a blurb circled in red ink.

“Popular he may be, but enough with the Valkyries, already. It’s been done to death.” Near the quote, inset into the text, is a small photograph of the well-known art dealer cited. He is a blob of a man, and a hastily drawn red ink mustache enhances his pinched features. Her gaze flicks up to focus on the bottle sitting on the table. She smirks, and tosses the magazine back on top of the pile just as she hears a tired voice call out “Honey, have you seen my cuff links?”