Captainstrangecollector - Strange Collections

A Spoonful of Sugar…

My girlfriend and I are at a friend’s apartments for a party.

The laughter and loud conversation are interrupted by the delicate sound of a pie fork being tapped lightly against a wine glass. Our friend strides into our midst and announces that she has a surprise for us all.

A magician.

We exchange a look. Were this anyone else’s party such news would have had us heading discreetly toward the door but this friend is wealthy and brilliant, with exquisite taste, so our curiosity is piqued.

She makes a theatrical gesture toward the parlor door, where a handsome, dark-eyed man looms in a well-cut gray suit. He smiles kindly, angling his head briefly to acknowledge the smattering of polite applause, and we as a group all gather closer.

He wanders among us, his hands warm in our own, as coins turn into cards then into feathers and wrist watches somehow switch wrists before vanishing completely.

At one point in his performance he asks for a volunteer. There are murmurs and whispers for an impossible moment, then my girlfriend gives my hand a squeeze and steps forward.

So brave, he says, taking her hand with a flourish and bowing slightly, and so lovely. She blushes, to cheers and whistles.

Hands in front of you, palms up, he says and she compiles. And so obedient, he says, gestures toward her and motioning for a round of applause. She laughs and flushes crimson again.

From the inside of his jacket he withdraws a length of rope and a bracelet-size silver ring. He places the ring flat on her outstretched palm of her left hand, then loops the rope through it and lightly around her wrist, draping the remainder up her arm, over her shoulders, then down around her waist.

He steadies himself, takes a deep breath, then whips the rope away. A gasp goes around the room: The silver bracelet now dangles from her opposite wrist.

Applause and open mouths. He smiles broadly, then raises his eyebrows and holds up a finger. He takes my girlfriend’s left hand and places it over the bracelet on her right hand, then withdraws another, identical ring from within his jacket, and places it onto the back of her hand. He loops the rope through the ring, then lays over her hands three times, back and forth and back again. He steadies himself and, with surprising vigor, he whips the rope away again. 

More gasps, louder this time: The bracelet is around her left wrist but both bracelets are now looped, one through the other.

My girlfriend struggles to separate her hands but the rings are too narrow to slip off. Help, she wails comedically to robust laughter.

He holds up a finger again. Oh what now, she moans, to more laughter. From inside his jacket he withdraws another ring, larger this time, and he places it, with great ceremony, on top of her head.

I’m never coming to one of your parties again, my girlfriend says loudly and the hostess’s laughter is loudest of all. 

Carefully he threads the rope through the ring, then winds it around the back of my girlfriend’s head, over her shoulder, and down between her manacled hands. He takes a moment to stretch his fingers, then, gripping the rope tightly, he sets his feet, breathes in and out deeply, and pulls.

Gasps again: The rings on her wrists clatter to the floor and the one on top of her head now rests snugly around her neck.

The applause is loud and sustained. My girlfriend looks stunned, her hands going instinctively to the collar around her throat. We surround her and run our fingers along its curved shape but the chrome is unbroken and unyielding.

The magician takes a deep bow and blows a kiss with both hands to the hostess, who leads us all in fervent applause. 

Excuse me, my girlfriend says at an exaggerated volume. A little help please?

More laughter, then the music fades back in. 

I’m in the kitchen, refilling our drinks, watching her recount the story over and again animatedly, the collar shining brightly against her skin, when the magician reappears, hat on his head, overcoat draped over his arm, case in his hand. 

Thank you again everyone, he says, giving a wide wave and turning to leave. My girlfriend heads after him, catching him by the arm in the narrow hallway entrance.

So seriously, she says to him. How do I get this thing off?

He smiles broadly. I’m so sorry, he says. It doesn’t come off. 

She laughs then tugs on it helplessly. Seriously though, she says. I can’t just walk around with this thing on for the rest of my life.

I’ll make you a deal, he says. Have a drink with me and I’ll see what I can do.

Deal, she says, taking his hand and turning back toward the party. What’ll you have?

No no, he says. Not here, not now. Next week. You pick the place; I’ll buy the drinks.

 She laughs again, her finger hooked around the metal loop as she shakes her head slowly. Fine, she says finally, looking up at him

He extends his hand and out of thin air a business card appears between his fingers. My number, he says.

You know I have a boyfriend, right? she says, tilting her head, her smile side.

I know, he says. But he can’t come.

For the rest of the party I watch her from across the room. She glows and beams and poses with people for photos. 

Better keep an eye on that, someone says to me as I empty and refill my glass, touching up the smile fixed on my lips.

That night I lie awake, staring at the silver glinting in the streetlight as she sleeps beside me.

I hope you’re not jealous, she says. It’s Tuesday afternoon of the following week and she’s getting ready to meet him. It’s just a drink or two, which I think you have to admit he earned with that show.

She kisses me, then again, opening her mouth to me and for a moment all I think about is crawling into bed with her. But when I put my hands on her face to pull her closer I feel the smooth steel warmed by her skin.

She disappears into the bedroom to change. I hear the sound of leather sliding and I feel the bottom of my stomach drop out. She’s going to wear those pants, the ones she knows I like, the ones she bought herself for my birthday, that she wears whenever she wants to get everything she wants.

Another moment more and out she walks. Sure enough, she’s wearing them, her special occasion pants, pairing them with a clingy sweater and a pair of whisper-thin stiletto heels. She wants to look good for him. And she does.

Another kiss, just a peck this time, brief but long enough for me to catch a whiff of a perfume I don’t recognize. 

Have a relaxing evening, she says, breezy but measured, as if she’s eager to leave but doesn’t want to show it. And don’t forget, as soon as I get this collar off I’m all yours again.

It’s midnight when I finally give up waiting and turn off the light. 

Why We Send Ass.

…which means…<3 emmie @ le cocu quotidien.

"I knew you'd understand," she smiled, clearly relieved.  "As long as we all get what we need, there's no reason to get hung up on labels."

She reached for me and gave me a long, slow kiss.

"I'm not dating Ryan, I'm just his date to the wedding.  I'll only be gone for the weekend and then things will back to normal—or however we want them to be."

As I got closer, she slowed down.  "Now, why don't I try on a few things and you can help me decide what I'll bring on the trip."

"Perfect," I said.

…the way she’s clutching that skirt…how she has her hand hidden inside her sweater…providing an excuse for something that has yet to transpire…it might not be today, but it will be…soon…<3 emmie @ le cocu quotidien.

…just give her time…<3 emmie @ le cocu quotidien.