fugue - Oblique Publications

JANE BARON ˆˆˆˆˆ
FUGUE
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ
kiss him, then made himself stop.
“It’s as much for your sake as for mine,”
he whispered, leaning over Avon, knowing the
words went unheard. “Because you’ll hurt yourself,
too, trying to run from this. And I’m not sure
I can stand to watch you do that.” Rising, he was
surprised to find his knees weak, but the feeling
passed quickly and he went into the lavatory,
returning with damp towel in hand.
And then, methodically, he set about
erasing every sign that he had ever been in the
room.
He maneuvered Avon—a heavy but
unresisting bundle—so he could strip off the
sheets and replace them with fresh ones. He
cleaned sweat from Avon’s body and the traces
of spent passion from Avon’s belly and thighs,
and zipped him securely back inside his clothes.
He even smoothed the ruffled hair and arranged
the discarded tunic and boots neatly by the
bedside, in what might safely be assumed as
Avon-ish manner.
At the door he paused, and then moved
back to look down once more on the sleeping
figure. Sleeping a true sleep at last.
“You won’t remember in the morning,”
he said softly, somehow certain of this. Avon
would not remember—and he himself would
never forget. Tonight had changed nothing, and
yet nothing would ever be quite the same.
“I think I understand.” It was all he could
offer in parting. This odd tryst had given him
some insight, not into Avon’s mind, but into his
heart. From now on, in the depths of Avon’s
most bitter diatribes, in his most searing indictments,
Blake would see the shadow of something
else. He’d had a glimpse of what went on
behind the walls.
And it was possible that though Avon
never did remember, something inside him
would not entirely forget. It could be that some
trace of warmth and trust might linger, and speak
to him when Blake was near. In some far distant
future Blake might even be able to tell him about
it.
Looking at that lovely face, waxen with
heat and utterly distant, Blake felt his own shoulders
slump.
The man asleep was not the one who was
dreaming here. And, Avon’s comments notwithstanding,
Blake could recognize dreams.
With one last glance around the room for
disorder or betraying evidence, he left.
PART TWO: FUGUE
Fugue: In music, a piece consisting of
two harmonizing melodies.
In psychology, a state in which a person
performs acts which are not remembered upon
returning to normal consciousness.
THE ONLY THING FOR IT, BLAKE TOLD HIMSELF
THE NEXT MORNING, WAS TO GO ON AS HE’D BEGUN.
This immediately started up the chorus
of voices in his head, this time all yammering
different things. He cut short the ones doing the
wet-eyed pleading.
Of course it was good, he told them
harshly. I hadn’t ma—had sex for god knows
how long. It was good because I needed it.
He dealt as savagely with the others
which pointed accusing fingers. Perhaps he
shouldn’t have allowed it to happen—but he had
not taken advantage of an innocent. He had
practically been raped. And he was damned if he
was going to have trouble looking Avon in the
eye because of it.
Which was all very well in theory, but
when the actual moment came on the flight deck,
his stomach churned. It wasn’t until he was
certain that the computer expert was regarding
him without suspicion and resentment—or at
least with no more than the usual degree of
suspicion and resentment—that he was able to
relax.
Actually, Blake thought, massaging one
shoulder reminiscently inside his shirt, Avon
looked quite fit today. Very…alert. He couldn’t
ask it, and he was half-glad and half-horrified
when Cally did.
“You slept better last night, Avon?”
Blake held his breath.
“Passably. Why?”
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ PÆAN TO PRIAPUS ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ
Page
17