Read Online Orchard Grove by Vincent Zandri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
Tags: General Fiction
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and my impenetrable wall was about to crumble into so much dust and charred rock, just like Sodom and Gomorrah, when God destroyed the lust-infested city with brimstone and fire, sending the inhabitants straight to hell.
I sat at a dining room table that contained only a wood bowl filled with store bought apples and my typewriter, a sea-green Olivetti/Underwood Lettera 32. I sat as still as a stone, my eyes glued to the white paper and waited for my muse to speak to me the way she always had, until Lana arrived and my concentration became entirely focused on her. For a time, it seemed like my muse would no longer come to me. That she was jealous of my affair with Lana. Perhaps more jealous than Susan could ever be. But then you have to still be in love with someone in order to be jealous.
But then something began to happen inside me. A series of words didn’t fill my head, but a face did. Let me correct myself… In my head I saw a series of faces flash by, like I was sitting all alone in a four-walled room with the shades drawn and projected one-by-one on a big white screen before me, were the still faces of the people who now dominated my time and my thoughts.
I decided to begin only with a name. Positioning my fingers on the keys, I typed…
LANA
She’s a lovely apparition, and she knows it. A seductress without purposely trying to seduce. A heartbreaking beautiful attraction without trying to make herself attractive. A voice calling to me without her having to make a single sound or utterance.
Lana just is.
Blonde, or what some might refer to as strawberry blonde, she is of average height for a woman but her body and her being (her presence) is anything but average. She has no qualms, moral or otherwise, about sunbathing topless in a quiet suburban neighborhood like Orchard Grove, and while she knows that I have been watching her, I’m not so sure it turns her on so much as it is something that she has come to expect from a man like me… a man so easily and hopelessly drawn into her web.
She claims to have been born and raised in Albany, but from what I can glean, she hates it here and wishes only to be back on the beaches of Venice and Santa Monica. For the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would want to spend any more time in that plastic place than they have to. Land of sun, lies, false promises, and flavors of the month, be it a brand of frozen non-gluten yogurt or a never before heard of movie starlet with a Pepsodent smile to die for.
I can only wonder what her life was like there… who she seduced, and how many lovers she kept at one time. Judging from what her husband said about her already “starting in” in Albany, it was a lot.
Lana is a take-no-prisoners kind of woman.
I can see that from a mile away. A sultry character played by Sharon Stone if this were a Joe Eszterhas “Basic Instinct” kind of script. If I had even an ounce of strength left in my post-op body, I would throw a drape over the bedroom window and forget she exists. It might make a great opening scene to this script even. But then, my dreams would haunt me, and I would wake up wanting (needing) only one thing: Lana… her ass, her breasts, her hair, her mouth.
Lana, I love you, I lust you, I hate you, I don’t even fucking know you. But I need you like a junky needs a fix.
To Be Continued…
JOHN
A hopeless case. But a dangerous one at that. Like a powder keg set beside an open flame. You never know when the damn thing is going to explode. Beguiled by a wife years older than him, he might have made one hell of a good cop at one time judging by the framed photos hanging on their den wall. In those photographs, you can almost taste the goodness in his eyes… the eagerness to please. The spit and polish. The I’m-gonna-be-the-one-to-finally-make-a-difference quality to his deep, blue, alive eyes. Eyes that, when I looked into them for the first time just an hour ago, had become flat, bloodshot,
I sat at a dining room table that contained only a wood bowl filled with store bought apples and my typewriter, a sea-green Olivetti/Underwood Lettera 32. I sat as still as a stone, my eyes glued to the white paper and waited for my muse to speak to me the way she always had, until Lana arrived and my concentration became entirely focused on her. For a time, it seemed like my muse would no longer come to me. That she was jealous of my affair with Lana. Perhaps more jealous than Susan could ever be. But then you have to still be in love with someone in order to be jealous.
But then something began to happen inside me. A series of words didn’t fill my head, but a face did. Let me correct myself… In my head I saw a series of faces flash by, like I was sitting all alone in a four-walled room with the shades drawn and projected one-by-one on a big white screen before me, were the still faces of the people who now dominated my time and my thoughts.
I decided to begin only with a name. Positioning my fingers on the keys, I typed…
LANA
She’s a lovely apparition, and she knows it. A seductress without purposely trying to seduce. A heartbreaking beautiful attraction without trying to make herself attractive. A voice calling to me without her having to make a single sound or utterance.
Lana just is.
Blonde, or what some might refer to as strawberry blonde, she is of average height for a woman but her body and her being (her presence) is anything but average. She has no qualms, moral or otherwise, about sunbathing topless in a quiet suburban neighborhood like Orchard Grove, and while she knows that I have been watching her, I’m not so sure it turns her on so much as it is something that she has come to expect from a man like me… a man so easily and hopelessly drawn into her web.
She claims to have been born and raised in Albany, but from what I can glean, she hates it here and wishes only to be back on the beaches of Venice and Santa Monica. For the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would want to spend any more time in that plastic place than they have to. Land of sun, lies, false promises, and flavors of the month, be it a brand of frozen non-gluten yogurt or a never before heard of movie starlet with a Pepsodent smile to die for.
I can only wonder what her life was like there… who she seduced, and how many lovers she kept at one time. Judging from what her husband said about her already “starting in” in Albany, it was a lot.
Lana is a take-no-prisoners kind of woman.
I can see that from a mile away. A sultry character played by Sharon Stone if this were a Joe Eszterhas “Basic Instinct” kind of script. If I had even an ounce of strength left in my post-op body, I would throw a drape over the bedroom window and forget she exists. It might make a great opening scene to this script even. But then, my dreams would haunt me, and I would wake up wanting (needing) only one thing: Lana… her ass, her breasts, her hair, her mouth.
Lana, I love you, I lust you, I hate you, I don’t even fucking know you. But I need you like a junky needs a fix.
To Be Continued…
JOHN
A hopeless case. But a dangerous one at that. Like a powder keg set beside an open flame. You never know when the damn thing is going to explode. Beguiled by a wife years older than him, he might have made one hell of a good cop at one time judging by the framed photos hanging on their den wall. In those photographs, you can almost taste the goodness in his eyes… the eagerness to please. The spit and polish. The I’m-gonna-be-the-one-to-finally-make-a-difference quality to his deep, blue, alive eyes. Eyes that, when I looked into them for the first time just an hour ago, had become flat, bloodshot,
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