Read Online Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play by Sydney Jamesson - Free Book Online
Authors: Sydney Jamesson
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us,” I say, thinking out loud.
“I would have some explaining to do if my neighbour had taken that parcel
in." I bump against his shoulder affectionately, we share the joke and the
ice melts in the warmth emanating from his smile.
***
When we reach my ground floor apartment, I’m suddenly
reminded of the mess I left behind in my eagerness to get ready. He’ll be lucky
if he can find a space to stand. When I put my weight behind the front door and
it opens, I’m stunned to see it’s immaculate. "Charlie," I say
quietly.
"Who?" Ayden looks about the apartment
furtively, fearing our discovery.
"There’s no-one here, come in." I watch him
taking it all in.
"It’s very tidy and ... homely," he
comments, making his way over to the marble fireplace. His eyes are drawn to my
framed piece of Papyrus. “Have you been to Egypt?”
“No. Charlie my best friend went as part of an
incentive programme. She was ‘Top Biller’ or something like that for three
months. She brought it back for me.”
“Is it authentic?”
“I think so, it came with a certificate, saying 8 th Century AD. It looks authentic.” I lean in to take a closer look, our faces
reflect in the glass before it steams over with our combined breath.
“So much of this stuff is banana paper, but you can
usually tell if it’s real by the quality of the script. I have a couple of
wooden masks at my place that date back to around 440 BC.”
“Are you’re a collector?”
“No, but I like lovely and unusual things,” he states
coyly, shifting his attention to me. "Do you want to show me round?"
I nod, hoping he can’t sense my awkwardness. My heart
begins to flutter, the bedroom is only thirty feet away, soon we’ll be heading
in that direction and he must have all kinds of expectations.
I push him around with my hands on his back as if he’s
an inanimate object. "So this is the kitchen." All he can do is nod
and keep his hands in his pockets. We approach the bedroom and instantly his
eyes are drawn to the two framed prints on the walls; one to the side and one
over my bed. Both are by Nobert Gerstenberger.
“Interesting artwork.” He tips up his head to each one
in turn.
“You like?”
“I’m not sure.”
“They’re only prints. I was drawn to the contrasting
images of romanticism and cruelty.”
He spins around, forcing me to take a step
backwards. “Cruelty?”
“Yes. Here these two women were with so many dreams,
so hopeful and yet they’ve been overwritten, coloured over and have faded into
the background. It’s as if they never existed.”
“Why do you have them if they make you melancholy?”
“They make me reflective, that’s not the same as
melancholy.”
He takes a closer to them. “You’re right, it isn’t.
They have a dream like quality but there’s something sinister about them.”
“I think you’re reading too much into them.” I take
his arm. “I simply like the artistry.”
He doesn’t budge. “And what of these women, do they
get their happy endings?” He turns around to face me, making me feel shy and
uneasy.
I have to look away. “Happy endings are a construct
Mr. Stone. Everyone knows that?” I laugh softly but receive only a flat-smile
in reply.
“Do they have titles?”
“Yes.” I point out each one in turn. “The Love Letter
and The Princess.”
He sniggers at that, but I’m not entirely sure why.
“How apt.”
Did I miss something?
I try to lighten the atmosphere with good humour. “You
see, us Cinderellas like to live in hope.”
He circles my chin with a single finger, and returns
his hand to his pocket as if he hadn’t moved. “In hope of what, exactly?”
Words don’t come easily. “Of being loved by a Prince,
of course.” I feel very unsophisticated right now; I have absolutely no idea
what I’m saying. “The Prince Archetype was the focus of my dissertation,” I say
much too hastily, trying to regain some semblance of credibility.
He folds his arms and
“I would have some explaining to do if my neighbour had taken that parcel
in." I bump against his shoulder affectionately, we share the joke and the
ice melts in the warmth emanating from his smile.
***
When we reach my ground floor apartment, I’m suddenly
reminded of the mess I left behind in my eagerness to get ready. He’ll be lucky
if he can find a space to stand. When I put my weight behind the front door and
it opens, I’m stunned to see it’s immaculate. "Charlie," I say
quietly.
"Who?" Ayden looks about the apartment
furtively, fearing our discovery.
"There’s no-one here, come in." I watch him
taking it all in.
"It’s very tidy and ... homely," he
comments, making his way over to the marble fireplace. His eyes are drawn to my
framed piece of Papyrus. “Have you been to Egypt?”
“No. Charlie my best friend went as part of an
incentive programme. She was ‘Top Biller’ or something like that for three
months. She brought it back for me.”
“Is it authentic?”
“I think so, it came with a certificate, saying 8 th Century AD. It looks authentic.” I lean in to take a closer look, our faces
reflect in the glass before it steams over with our combined breath.
“So much of this stuff is banana paper, but you can
usually tell if it’s real by the quality of the script. I have a couple of
wooden masks at my place that date back to around 440 BC.”
“Are you’re a collector?”
“No, but I like lovely and unusual things,” he states
coyly, shifting his attention to me. "Do you want to show me round?"
I nod, hoping he can’t sense my awkwardness. My heart
begins to flutter, the bedroom is only thirty feet away, soon we’ll be heading
in that direction and he must have all kinds of expectations.
I push him around with my hands on his back as if he’s
an inanimate object. "So this is the kitchen." All he can do is nod
and keep his hands in his pockets. We approach the bedroom and instantly his
eyes are drawn to the two framed prints on the walls; one to the side and one
over my bed. Both are by Nobert Gerstenberger.
“Interesting artwork.” He tips up his head to each one
in turn.
“You like?”
“I’m not sure.”
“They’re only prints. I was drawn to the contrasting
images of romanticism and cruelty.”
He spins around, forcing me to take a step
backwards. “Cruelty?”
“Yes. Here these two women were with so many dreams,
so hopeful and yet they’ve been overwritten, coloured over and have faded into
the background. It’s as if they never existed.”
“Why do you have them if they make you melancholy?”
“They make me reflective, that’s not the same as
melancholy.”
He takes a closer to them. “You’re right, it isn’t.
They have a dream like quality but there’s something sinister about them.”
“I think you’re reading too much into them.” I take
his arm. “I simply like the artistry.”
He doesn’t budge. “And what of these women, do they
get their happy endings?” He turns around to face me, making me feel shy and
uneasy.
I have to look away. “Happy endings are a construct
Mr. Stone. Everyone knows that?” I laugh softly but receive only a flat-smile
in reply.
“Do they have titles?”
“Yes.” I point out each one in turn. “The Love Letter
and The Princess.”
He sniggers at that, but I’m not entirely sure why.
“How apt.”
Did I miss something?
I try to lighten the atmosphere with good humour. “You
see, us Cinderellas like to live in hope.”
He circles my chin with a single finger, and returns
his hand to his pocket as if he hadn’t moved. “In hope of what, exactly?”
Words don’t come easily. “Of being loved by a Prince,
of course.” I feel very unsophisticated right now; I have absolutely no idea
what I’m saying. “The Prince Archetype was the focus of my dissertation,” I say
much too hastily, trying to regain some semblance of credibility.
He folds his arms and
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