Dear guys-
Found this in an old pile of crap I wrote this summer. It’s a little scene
between Myra Ellen DeSante and Shere (see the Khan
synopsis for more details). She’s recording an album at the studio in the Khan
building, and
she’s taking a break. I believe she and Shere are sitting alone in the coffee
room or something and had been talking about August,
Karmacat
There were tears in Myra-Ellen’s eyes.
Why, Shere thought with rueful anger, do you have to look just like August? Why must you
have her face, her mannerisms, her eyes...he realized himself and handed her a
handkerchief.
“It’s funny,” she said, “that after so many years it still hurts so
much.” When she took the red silk handkerchief from him she did not remove her hand
from his, and it didn’t seem that she realized it. “And you!” she
exclaimed.
“You...you handled it so well, it seemed.” Her voice quieted into a thoughtful
whisper. “But no...not really. You didn’t really, did you? You loved her.”
He paused, his voice lowering to her tone. “I didn’t handle it well at all. Not
as well as most think.”
She put her hand on his cheek - it was small and cool, like August’s -- and moved his
face to hers, making him look into her eyes. A shock of familiarity and sorrow streaked
through Shere - surely these were August’s eyes!
“I knew that,” she replied. “There was always that little bit of passion in
you. I could see it.”
Shere felt another pang of want for her, for August, for August’s little sister...it
was a stupid want. He knew it was a stupid want. Myra-Ellen was no longer the scrawny,
nearly mute teenager he had ignored so many years ago, overcome with grief at her sister’s
death. He just barely remembered her thin arm extending to place that singular white lily
on the smooth black casket that didn’t even hold any remains - the remains were at
the bottom of the ocean so he had nothing left of her to say goodbye to - he couldn’t
even lie a last kiss on a pair of dead lips - not like these warm live ones he found
himself kissing now.
Myra’s.
Not even realizing just what was going on now.
They were trapped in a fierce, needful embrace, not knowing who had first trapped the
other but trapped nonetheless - some strange, senseless kiss of communal grief. The
goodbye he could never give August, it seemed, he was giving to her sister.
Shere abruptly pulled away, shocked at himself. An electric pulse of dull embarrassment
ran through him. He had never in his life done anything so foolish with so little
forethought.
Myra held two delicate fingers to her lips and looked at the floor.
A moment of mind-breaking tension passed.
“Shere, I....” she began.
“It’s not-” he tried to reply.
“I’ve got to go,” she replied abruptly, “Recording now.”
“Of course.”
She stood to leave, and just then her fiance entered the room. He was a small man, about
five seven, a tiger with a light English accent. “Sweeting, we’re starting
again,” he said. Somehow he sensed the tension in the room and his eyes shifted from
Myra to Shere and back again.
“Basil, don’t give me that look!” Myra snapped and pushed past him.
He turned. “Myra! What is it?” He turned back to Shere, as if he had the answer.
Shere only shrugged.
Basil gave Shere a once over and left the room in pursuit of his fiance, leaving Shere
alone to reel at himself.
Main
