Cobalt on a Rainy Day
The living room didn't look any better than it had before the Scotch. This time Mattie went over and looked at the shelves more closely. She picked up an empty miniature Seagram's bottle.
"I wonder if this meant something", she mused. "You wonder about things like this, these remnants of a life, but it wasn't just any life, it was my father's. Was this bottle his first drink at this cabin? Was it later, with my mother?"
"This sort of thing fascinates me", Angela responded. "That's one of the reasons I write. I can take something like this and build a scene around it. It starts with imaging the person who drank that Seagram's and where and why and who else, if anyone, was there, and before you know it, a story is unfolding almost by itself."
Is that true, then, what I've heard about characters writing themselves?"
"Oh, yes, that thing about something you're writing taking on a life of its own really happens. You get to know the people, and then you find anything you have them say or do has to be true to their characters, because they're there now and you're no longer creating them."
"So even though it's you doing the writing you can't have them say anything you want them to?"
"That's just it. You might want somebody to say a certain thing, but if it doesn't fit that person it won't sound right and you can't do it. The talk just sort of flows the way it has to. You can create a character, but then it gets away from you and isn't really yours anymore.
"It doesn't seem fair. If you create something you should be able to keep control over it."
Angela laughed.
"It's like everything else in life - that's just the way it is."
"I guess so, but - look, it's one of those old kewpie dolls!"
"Must have come from a local fair or something. Maybe he won it for your mother. This place is a gold mine. Everything in it has a story. Actually, it could be a book of related stories - you know, "The Seagram's Story", "The Kewpie Doll Story." And the history of that sofa could really be fun. Hey, wait, we're not here to give me writing material. I'm sorry."
"No, it's fine. Anything that can be gotten out of this place is fair game. Besides, it lightens the mood. But I guess now that I've said that I'd better look at the bedroom again, although I don't think there's anything in there worth keeping. I'm going to take these things on the shelves, though. I think my mother would like to have them, or at least see them, even if they make her sad."
"I don't know your mother, but I'm sure the memories will be worth something. Those things can be sad, but often in a bittersweet way that makes people glad they had them."
Mattie was feeling down as they walked into the bedroom. Looking at mementoes of the man whose sperm had given her life unsettled her. She looked at Angela, who was holding the flashlight, her face in shadow, and from nowhere felt a jolt of desire run through her.
Instinctively Mattie eliminated the few steps between them. Angela snapped off the flashlight and tossed it toward the chair. It missed and clunked on the bare floor as Mattie's hand found the back of her neck and Angela's face came to meet hers. Mattie had had fairly extensive experience with first kisses and this was immediately recognizable as unlike any other. "Wow", Angela breathed into her hair, and Mattie's whole body tingled with excitement, in part at having broken through Angela's self-control. She was breathless as their lips and tongues came together again. Then she was aware that she was moving. Angela was pushing her backwards, and then they were lying on the bed. And there, on the foul, tattered, fetid sheets on which Matthew Carmino had spent his last night on earth over 40 years ago, his daughter made urgent, passionate love to Angela Quinn.
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