Beauty and the Mustache (50 page)

“
How long am I expected to
write books on this subject?”

“
For as long as you love
me.”

“
Then I guess I’ll be
writing about it for the rest of my life.”

“
Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the
quarrel with ourselves we make poetry
.”

―
W.B. Yeats

“
I think Alex and Sandra
are coming for Christmas,” Ashley says to me from the other end of
the couch. “It was nice visiting them in Chicago over Halloween,
taking the kids out with Fiona, but I think he likes your fishing
excursions.”

I nod, listening. Sandra
and Alex are our family, and I want them to stay in Tennessee. I
have told Alex this. Through Ashley’s chosen family, I have found
the benefits of society. They are vast, and these relationships are
priceless.

“
Also,
I’d like for you to admit that I made an excellent point about the
flaws in Linas Vepstas passage of time theory. I’m not saying I
believe in predestination, but as my momma would say,
predestination makes everything part of the
plan.
”

“
It is an issue of quantum
mechanics, Ashley, a universe of probability. Determinism of any
sort is impossible.”

“
Yes, but you assume time
travel is impossible. Even Einstein never conceded as much. You and
I are meant to be, and you’ve acknowledged that point. Therefore,
you must admit that factors beyond our control, or perhaps our
ability to comprehend, may have a hand in determining our
path.”

“
I admit
nothing.”

“
Typical….” She makes a
little sound, and it makes me smile. “What are you
writing?”

“
Field notes.”

“
If those are field notes
then I’m a one-eyed Cocker Spaniel with halitosis.”

This makes me laugh, but I
don’t stop writing. I think I’ve never laughed in my life as I have
since knowing Ashley. She brings a spark to all things, lights
every empty place.

“
Read it to me,” she says,
nudging me with her toes.

I look down, away from
where my notebook rests on the side table. Her toes are painted
pink, and they sparkle, and they are on my lap. She wiggles them
like she’s waving at me with her feet.

“
Please,” she
says.

My eyes travel the length
of her and enjoy her form. The shade and shape of her legs,
heightened by shadows cast from the single light source. She’s
reclining on the couch, eReader propped on her stomach.

Desires war. As such, I can only watch her
in stillness.

I need her.

When I write, speaking is
an obstacle. I struggle to abdicate thoughts that are shadows of my
feelings and passions. Giving words to these feral impulses never
does them justice because they are not my will; their course leads
to no action, and expressing them is an exercise in unceasing
frustration. But withholding them from the page is a path to
insanity.

I once tried to burn the words, thinking
passage through fire would release me. I was wrong. I mourned the
loss, and rejoiced when I found the book had been saved.

“
Drew, will you read it to
me?” Her eyes remind me of the ocean.

I shake my head. “Not
yet.”

Her smile widens. She peers at me as though
she knows me. She does. She knows me.

“
We’ve been together,
what? Almost a year now? And I can count on one hand the number of
times you’ve read your poetry to me out loud. Besides, you’re
giving me that look.”

“
What look?”

“
Like I’m cake, so I know
it’s a good one.” Her eyebrows move up and down.

I continue to smile, but I say nothing.

Words are clumsy things.
Raw, wild, hunger, need, desperation, fascination do not adequately
define how I long for her complete capitulation. I want her to
weep. I want to quietly tear her apart and lovingly watch her
bleed. I crave knowing that I can inspire one tenth of the torment
she inspires in me. How can I speak such things out
loud?

I need her.

Her surrender, mine to
possess and exploit. This ambition remains intangible because,
though I feel it, I do not wish it. I communicate this greed only
through poetry, and poetry serves as an imperfect
allegory.

Ashley huffs. Her eyes
narrow. I know the workings of her mind; she is contemplating
trickery. She sets her eReader to the floor and comes to me on her
knees, her arms around my neck, her breasts pressing against my
shoulder. I lament the invention of clothes.

“
Drew, if you won’t read
to me, maybe you’ll sing for me?” Her lips are close to mine and I
need to taste her.

I shake my head, keeping
my words soft so as not to betray the ferocity of my need. “No,
Sugar. Not tonight.”

“
Are you going to the jam
session with me tomorrow? Cletus is back in town, and I’m bringing
coleslaw for the twins.”

“
Yes. We should go.” I’m
coming out of the tunnel and speaking, communicating is less
cumbersome.

“
And you will sing for me
then?”

“
Yes, if you’ll sing with
me.”

“
It’s a deal.” She seals
it with a kiss and I don’t let her go. I take her sweet mouth until
I feel her grow restless. I close my book and turn away from it. I
remove the veil of her clothes and I settle for being the implement
by which she loses control.

I would never hurt her,
not through action, deed, or word. I long to soothe her, pet her,
hold her fears, burden her sorrows, be the instrument of her
ecstasy. I am her safe place and she is mine.

I need her.

Being the method of her
madness fuels me. I watch her pant, feeling her uncontainable hot
breath spill against my skin, and it is like water to the thick
weeds that tangle and choke my ignoble instincts.

I should not always like to write poetry. I
should like to live it.

But if I could pick and
choose the poems I live, I would not always be joy, nor would I
want inert contentment. Sorrow and struggle bring gravity to the
soul and to the mind, a gravity that cannot be achieved through
mere happiness. We are most awake to the world and to our own
longings and desires when we suffer.

Ashley stretches, arching
her back, and the lithe movement demonstrates how powerless my body
is to the promise of her body, and with it, the promise of
pleasure, of vulnerability, of communal closeness. Her hands are
above her head, and her obsidian hair tangles with pale arms. I
hold her wrists.

If sorrow as a force is
gravity, and mere happiness is inertia, then love and being in love
is momentum. A force built upon actions of the past, moving
us.

We move.

I see her. She is beneath
me. Her body is slick, yielding softness, sweetness replete. I want
to worship, yet need to possess. I suffer because she is forever
anticipation, even when I hold her, fill her, taste her, dominate
her, consume her.

I need her.

~The End~

This is the fifth full-length novel
published by Penny Reid. Her days are spent writing federal grant
proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent
playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her two people-children
(boy-7, girl-4) or knitting with her knitting group at the local
coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to
hijack your thoughts!

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Read on for:

Sneak Peek of book #1 in
the Hypothesis Series:
Elements of
Chemistry

Knitting in the City
Series

Neanderthal Seeks Human: A
Smart Romance
(#1)

Neanderthal Marries Human:
A Smarter Romance
(#1.5)

Friends without Benefits:
An Unrequited Romance
(#2)

Love Hacked: A Reluctant
Romance
(#3)

Beauty and the Mustache: A
Philosophical Romance
(#4)

Happily Ever Ninja: A
Married Romance
(#5 coming Fall
2015)

Book #6 - TBD

Book #7 - TBD

The Hypothesis
Series

The Elements of
Chemistry

(#1, coming Spring 2015;
continuation of
Bunsen Burner
Bingo
)

Sneak Peek: Elements of
Chemistry, by Penny Reid

Book #1 in the
Hypothesis Series

CHAPTER 1: Introduction
to Matter and Measurement

Quiet, silent, muted,
hushed, stilled, reticent…
I moved my
mouth, breathed the words—soundlessly—from my hiding
place.

This game comforted me, calmed me, settled
my nerves. Yes, recalling synonyms while anxious was a bizarre
coping strategy, but it worked. And very little usually worked.

The voices from beyond the cabinet grew
louder and were accompanied by the click of heals and the dull echo
of tennis shoes. I held my breath and strained to decipher how many
sets of feet were represented by the approaching shoes. I guessed
two, because only two voices were audible.

“…
think that he’s going
to want to fuck you? After what happened last Friday?” The words
were a hiss emanating from an unknown male voice; I tensed at the
use of vulgarity.

“
I’ll get there late. If
you do your job then he won’t even remember it.” Came a feminine
reply. The female was closest to my hiding spot in the chemistry
lab cabinet; her words were, therefore, much clearer.

“
Shit.” He said. I tried
not to huff in disgust at his foul language as he continued. “I
don’t even know how much to use. I’ve only used it on bitches.
”

“
I don’t know either.
Just… double it. Martin is, what? Like, twice the size of the girls
you usually dope out?”

I tensed again, my eyes narrowing. The name
Martin, in particular, made my heart beat faster. I knew only one
Martin.

Martin Sandeke.

Martin Sandeke, the heir to Sandeke Systems
in Palo Alto California and smartypants in his own right. I, also,
came from a notable family—my mother was a US senator, my father
was the dean of the college of medicine at UCLA, and my maternal
grandfather was an astronaut. However, unlike Martin’s family, we
weren’t billionaires. We were scientists, politicians, and
scholars.

Martin Sandeke, the six foot three, modern
day physical manifestation of Hercules and captain of the
University’s rowing team.

Martin Sandeke, unrepentant man-whore
extraordinaire and kind of a jerkfaced bully.

Martin Sandeke, my year-long chemistry lab
partner and all around most unobtainable person in the universe;
who I never spoke to except to ask for beakers, relay findings, and
request modifications to the heat level of my Bunsen burner.

And by Bunsen burner I meant, literally, my
Bunsen burner. Not the figurative Bunsen burner in my pants.
Because I hoped Martin Sandeke had no idea that he effected the
heat levels of my figurative Bunsen burner.

He did affect them. But,
obviously—since he was cosmically unobtainable and kind of a
bully—I didn’t want him to know that.

“
He’s about two twenty,
so… yeah. I guess.” The male responded, his tennis shoes made
scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he neared my hiding
spot.

I rolled my lips between my teeth and stared
at the crack in the cabinet doors. I couldn’t see his face, but I
could discern that he was now standing directly in front of the
cabinet, next to the unknown girl. Maybe facing her.

“
But what’s in it for me?”
The cuss monster asked, his voice lower than it had been, more
intimate.

I heard some rustling then the sloppy sounds
of kissing; instinctively I stuck my tongue out and mocked gagging.
Listening to public displays of affection was unpleasant,
especially when lip smacking and groaning was involved, and most
especially while trapped in a chemistry lab cabinet that smelled
heavily of sulfur.