The Union of the Spiritual and the Celestial... or How Mrs. Halliwell Got a Job!

Michael was looking at me over the table, his soft blond hair wet from the shower he'd just had, his shirt unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the dragon tattoo on his left forearm. It was a perfect recreation of Tian Lung, or the Celestial Dragon in Oriental mythology. I had a similar tattoo on my back, starting from the shoulder-blades and going down my spine, but it was of Shen Lung - Spiritual Dragon. We'd gotten the tattoos together, on the day of our first anniversary, which had been one of the best moments of my life. Especially knowing that Michael is phobic of needles and thus having someone tattoo him with one was a much harder experience for him, then it was for me. I held his hand through the whole ordeal, and then he did the same for me. I didn't so much as flinch, while I was getting the tattoo. Why? Because at that time and moment, while lying on my stomach in the tattoo-artist's  studio, I wasn't thinking about the pain or the man inking my skin. I was looking into Michael's deed, deep eyes, the color of emeralds, of a forest after the rain has graced the leaves of the trees, and was lost inside them. It was like magic... only different. It was love, and care, and affection, and need and desire... It was like being alone on an island, where nothing else existed, but the feel of Michael's warm hand in mine, his breathing, the curve of a smile on his lips, the comfort that that smile gave me.

It was like we were taking our wedding vows again, only this time they were being carved into our skin, where we could never betray or forget them.

Now I could see that vow again, remember the words Michael had said, after we left the tattooist, and couldn't believe that we were arguing over something so... silly. Mundane. Pointless. What did it matter if I worked, or if I had to travel, or if I was to be away for a few days at a time, when I was always going to come back to him? Didn't he know that? He was my shelter. My safe haven. My harbour. The lighthouse in the dark, that will always guide me right back home.

I opened my mouth to say all those things, to tell him that he's being childish and unreasonable, but couldn't find the words. I didn't know what to say and that rarely happens to me. I licked my lips. Took in a deep breath. Ran my fingers through my hair. Michael just stared at me. He didn't move, seemed almost like he'd stopped breathing. He seemed so solemn, so... serious. There was something dark and possessive in his eyes. Something primal, that hadn't been there before. In any other case, I would have found that look... inviting, for a lack of a better word, appealing even, but not now. 

Now it made me angry. And, as a favorite writer of mine wrote, anger makes stone.

"You have no right to tell me what I could or couldn't do", I said and my voice showed I wasn't backing out of this fight. Not this time. "You don't own me, Michael. I love you and I know that you love me as well, but love doesn't equal possession." Disappoint sipped into my voice. Bitterness. "I thought you knew that. Thought you knew better."      

For a long while, Michael didn't say anything, he just stood there, motionless, trickles of water running down the side of his face, down his bare chest. Then, finally, he let out a sigh and said. "You don't need to work. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"But you want to do it? Take Miss Munro's proposal?"

"Yes."

"You'll be travelling, Sam", he pointed out o so reasonably. "Won't be here for days."

"You're a big boy. You'll survive without me." My lips curled into a smile, the moment he, against his better judgement, smiled as well. "Besides, you're far better in everything domestic and cooking related then I am!"

"Like the mother, the daughter, huh?"

"Something like that", I shrugged and moved to where he was standing. I was fairly certain that the "fight", or whatever else it had been, was over. My eyes didn't leave his even for a moment. "I promise that even when I'm out of town, we'll talk every day and night, and you won't have time to miss me..."

"Oh, I'll miss you", he said and, when I was near enough to grab, pulled me into his lap. "I'll miss you alright!"

"And I..." I lowered my face for a kiss "...will miss you."

"That's a promise" He whispered, before pressing his lips into mine. We kissed and it seemed like the day had suddenly become brighter and warmer. 

I pulled back first and looked into Michael's face from so close, that I could almost feel his breath on my lips. He had a serious expression on his face, almost... sad. 

"Smile" I said and  ran my fingers down his cheek. "This is something good!"

"Not from where I'm standing!" Michael murmured and a teasing glare filled his green eyes. I grinned. Two could play this game.

"Smile", I repeated. He pressed his lips together and lightly shook his head. There was laughter in his eyes now, a challenge. I was betting on me this time. "Last warning... Smile!"

He didn't. I tickled him under the arms. He laughed.

Then he smiled.

***

Today I woke up late and, after 15 minutes of just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, got up and went to the kitchen to make a phone call and coffee. On the kitchen counter, I found a folded piece of paper that Michael had left for me. Smiling to myself, I picked it up and opened it.

I narrowed my eyes. It had an Internet site written on it and a short note that said simply:

Carter says that's the best way to make cheap international calls. Guess I'd be using it a lot! Thought you might want to check it out! l.u.

I shook my head and laughed at both men's silliness, but put the paper in my pocket anyway. I turned on the coffee machine, switched the radio on, only to hear a familiar song playing (Vienna Teng's "Homecoming"... which was quite a big joke on fate's side if you ask me!), then let out the breath I was holding and reached for the phone...

She picked up on the second ring. "Mrs. Halliwell?"

"Miss Munro", I replied and, after another sigh, said. "I'm calling to tell you that I've thought about your proposal." A second of hesitation. Then. "And I've decided to accept it."

"Heart's hope lies within Belladonna"

Miss Munro Makes an Unexpected Proposal... and Secrets are Revealed (Part 2)

Miss Fanny Munro stopped by for tea late Friday afternoon. It was near 5 pm and the sky was getting dark, so the lights in the house were already on. I was running around the kitchen, unsure whether to put parmigiana cheese in the pasta sauce or import white cheese. It may not sound like a serious issue, but when you're a clumse in the kitchen, like I am, those things really start to matter. Especially having in mind that Michael's great at cooking... almost anything. Guess his mama raised him well. Sigh. Mine thought me to make vodka-tonic & Bloody Mary with eggs and bacon. Not that she was a drunk, mind you... She just never saw fit to "waste time" in the kitchen. She was an eccentric, a free spirit... A hippy back in her day.

***

My mum had aspirations to become a renowned actress, or cabaret-type singer, like Edith Piaf, or a painter, in the vain of Salvador Dali, or... or... Yes, she did try everything. One month you could see her portrait Ophelia in yet another modern rendition of Shakespeare's "Hamlet",  the next she'd be singing "La vie en rose" in a smoky cabaret-style bar, where no one was interested in her voice or her French, but was staring in her legs and short dress, and then she'd be attending an exhibition of modern art, trying to sell her extravagant paintings to an agent. She apprenticed to a sculptor, fought for animals' rights, learned French, and Spanish, and Italian, travelled to Paris and lived in Rome for a couple of years, was even a pretend-psychic, reading Tarot cards, for a scoundrel of the name of Billy Joe Lacey. She never quite settled down, even after I was born. I remember us moving a lot, changing living accommodations, cities... Sometimes my mum makes me think of the heroine in Joanne Harris' novel "The Lollipop Shoes". She never told me who my father was, only that she met him on a clear August night, when the moon was high and full, and the stars were as bright as diamonds sprinkled on the black-velvet sky. He swept her off her feet, with tales of love, and travel, and a life of adventure, only to leave her when he realised she was with child. Or sometimes, she told another version of the story, where she left him and never looked back. I never knew which one was true and which - fabrication. My mum was notorious for her imagination and love for drama and exaggeration...

I was 8, when she married my step-father Charlie. He was the kindest soul that ever walked the Earth and worshipped her as though she was a princess, or a Goddess come down from the Heavens to bring light into his otherwise dull life. And he treated me as his own, loving and caring for me even in those first couple of years of their marriage, when I hated him with a passion. Or so I thought, anyway. At that time, I though he was stealing my mother away from me... Can you blame me? I was a little girl, who'd never known the affection of a father. But have met one too many of mum's "special friends". Special, my... But let's keep the tone civil. If nothing else, my mother thought me proper manners.

Charlie put me through University, where I got a degree in Journalism, which I've never really used. By the time I was graduating, me and Michael were already together, and he wanted me to marry him. I said "yes" and... Well, you know where I am right now.

***

Those thoughts ran through my head, as I battled with the pasta and tried to boil tea for the o so inpatient miss Munro in my living room. I checked the watch on my wrist, just to make sure that Carter and Monica weren't due to come in another couple of hours, and then joined my unexpected guest on the couch. 

Miss Munro stood with her back straight and her chin lifted up high, sipping tea as though we were in the Queen's private chambers and not in my living room. She wore an austere gray dress, that would have put any of the Bronte sisters' characters to shame, with a brooch and a silk scarf in flowing blue colors. Her hair was carefully arranged, her make up - light, but elegant. She was the equivalent of a High-society lady, and she well knew it. I noticed that she'd started wearing her engagement ring, which suited her perfectly with its small blue gem.  I felt clumsy and inadequate next to Miss Munro, and it made me cranky. Which probably showed on my face, because Fanny let out a soft sigh and narrowed her eyes. Right back at you, sister! If we were going to glare at each-other, then she was in for a surprise!

I do Glaring professionally. Just ask my husband about it.

"You seem busy, Mrs. Halliwell" Fanny said in a tone that could freeze the Atlantic. Or Hell, if the chance came. "I do not wish to intrude..."

"We're expecting guests", I confirmed, then sipped my tea, before adding. "But they're not due a couple of hours more, so it's OK". 

"And your husband?"

"At work."

"Your cat?"

"Upstairs, as I know how you dislike cats". I let out a sigh and asked the inevitable question. "What is this about, Miss Munro?"

"You're a blunt woman."

"And you're way too polite for comfort!"

Fanny narrowed her eyes a bit more and put her cup and saucer on the table. Her chin went higher, if that was possible.

"I get the impression you do not like me, Mrs. Halliwell."

"What goes around, comes around, Miss Munro."

"Fair enough" Fanny agreed after a moment's hesitation, then took back her cup of tea and had a small sip, before adding. "I have a proposition for you, Mrs. Halliwell. You may need to consider it for a day or two, and have a chat about it with your husband."

"I'm not following..."

"Let me finish", Fanny smiled and sipped her tea. "All will be clear in a couple of minutes."

She wasn't kidding. By the time she left, I was wondering if the woman wasn't out of her mind. After the proposition, I'd asked her: "Why me?" and she'd just smiled, shrugged that delicate shrug that only someone with French heritage could pull off, and said:

"I have a good feeling about you."

So, Miss Munro was gone and it was almost 6:00, which meant Michael was running late from work, and Carter and Monica were going to be here in an hour or so. I had so many more things to do, before they arrived... 

I ended up postponing most of them and took my time getting dressed and having a bath. Michael came back at quarter to 7, bringing flowers as an excuse for being so late (Ah, isn't he the romantic?) and I promised to "punish" him later tonight... He just laughed and kissed me, which always made me stop teasing and "get serious". Well, not as "serious" as I'd like to be, as Michael still needed to have a shower, and I - to finish dressing up. Just because it's a house dinner, and it's probably going to be very dramatic, didn't mean I don't have to look at my best, right?

Yes, I know that Vanity is a sin. Sue me.

At 5 past 7 the doorbell rang and I rushed down the stairs to open the door. Michael was right behind me, his hair still wet from the shower, his shirt fitting a little too tight around his broad shoulders. Carter and Monica stood at the door... Caring a bottle of expensive French wine and grinning like idiots. Especially Carter. His smile was so broad, that it almost split his face in half.

"We're gonna' have a baby", he said and his eyes beamed with such happiness that I almost thought I'm going to cry. "I'm gonna' be a daddy!"

I laughed and hugged them both, Monica first and then Carter, and jokingly winked at Monica.

"He seems to be taking the news far better than expected..."

"You'be got no idea!" she laughed and poked Carter in the ribs, making him wince and giggle.  "He's been so happy and lovey-dovey, that I almost wanted to strangle him on a couple of occasions!" We all laughed, then Monica asked, her eyebrow raised. "Will you let us in, or are we to have dinner right here?"

We let them in and the dinner went till way past midnight, and Carter, me and Michael drank the wine, with only a little help from Monica, who was pouting about it, and they told us that Carter's taken a few days off work and was taking Monica "somewhere romantic".

"I was thinking France, or Spain, or... I don't know! Brazil!" Carter explained and we all laughed. He added he'd made a couple of cheap international calls, which Michael duly noted (the miser!), and said they'd be leaving at the end of the week. "I got a promotion", Carter's grin was intoxicating. "Apparently, my boss felt like I could use the extra cash!"

O, my. Sometime the Universe does work in our favour, doesn't she? I smiled and looked at Michael for a moment. Then said:

"I have an announcement to make as well..."

A Story of Pot, and Kettle... and Secrets Being Revealed (Part 1)

Miss Picksby was insistent to join me for tea this morning, after Michael left for work. I tried to explain to her, over and over again, that I was busy, had a couple of friends coming over for dinner tonight, and had one too many things to do. Carpet cleaning, after Bast's latest "adventure" in the kitchen. Cooking, which is never an easy task for me. Picking up Michael's dry-cleaning from the dry-cleaner's. And so on and so on... Nothing "deadly" serious, but still things that took time and attention.

Still, Miss Picksby couldn't be convinced to go home. She stood at the door, wearing a gray gown that fell to her ankles and swirled around her when she walked, making her seem like some strange ghost in a haunted house, an apparition. Her hair was tied in a tight pony-tail, her glasses nested on the tip of her nose, as if threatening to fall off at any moment. Her lips were pursed in a line, so thin that it almost looked like she had no lips at all. Creepy, that's how she appeared. Even worse, she was obviously bored and in a bad moon, which in her case usually means she is about to complain. A lot. And about everything and everyone.

"I think I saw your husband on his way to work this morning", she started as soon as she "landed" on the couch. "No gentlemen, is he now? Couldn't even slow down to chat with a neighbour... How rude is that?

I kept quiet, hoping that she would drop the subject, but my hope was lost in vain. Miss Picksby is like a dog with a bone. When she starts chewing at something, she just doesn't let go. So for the next 15 minutes she was complaining about Michael, Michael's manners, Michael's hair ("He should cut it short... Looks like a helmet right now!"), Michael's beard ("And what is that thing on his face... not a fully grown beard and not an attractive stubble either! He looks ridiculous, dear! And it is your place as a wife to tell him so! What... cat got your tongue?") The last one was accompanied by a meaningful glance at Bast's direction, as if to suggest that I should get rid of the cat, as well as of Michael's growth of beard. I loved them both. When Miss Picksby started making comments about Michael's... how to put it delicately? "Bottom", let's call it, I finally had to change the topic and asked her how her brother and his fiancée were doing...

"O, so you want to know about her?" Miss Picksby asked, her voice low and ice-cold. "Such insufferable woman!"

Yes, the pot calling the kettle black. Especially having in mind that Miss Munro said the exact same words as Miss Picksby just did. "The Witches of Eastwick", anyone? I think they'd be great for a new horror version of the movie! They can literally talk behind each-other's backs to death...

"So, I heard..." Miss Picksby started and an endless tirade of gossips, fabrications, half-truths, straightforward lies, and so on and so on followed. In the next half an hour Miss Munro changed at least a dozen names ("a classic con artist, that one!"), twice as much identities ("I heard she was in an asylum!"), committed a number of unspeakable and not-so-unspeakable crimes, was convicted for at least half of them ("Heard they're still searching for her!") and was given a long list of bad names and bad career-choices, that led her to the streets of Paris ("Doing you-know-what for you-know-what with you-know what sort of people!"), down the docks of Genoa ("The hunchback they called her... before the operation!"), and the operation room of a plastic surgeon was Miss Munro's next stop on that verbal journey, until, finally, she was promoted into a man. Yes, you read that right. A man! 

"I read they do these operations..." Miss Picksby started in a conspiratory voice. More operations, seriously?

My, was it so hard for her to simply admit that Miss Munro was like a younger reflection of herself?

After Miss Picksby said everything, and I do mean everything, she could think of about Miss Fanny Munro, she took in a deep breath and set her sights on another target.

Me.

"O, dear, if domestic cleaning is such a tough task for you, why don't you hire some professional help?" She narrowed her evil eyes at me. "You sure need it!"

And you need to go back under the stone from beneath which you crawled out, I thought, but politely kept my thoughts to myself. It's not as hard a task, as it may seem to some!

Anyway, Miss Picksby stayed for another 15 minutes and then, blessed be, left. I looked at my watch and discovered it's almost noon and I am nowhere near ready to have guests!

Even if they were Monica and Carter, and were probably about to have a huge fight amidst our living room!

I let out an exasperated sigh and was just about to go to the kitchen and start musing whether to cook pasta with tomato sauce or tomato sauce with pasta (yes, I know!), when my cell-phone started ringing. I recognised the song playing - "Talk to Me" by Stevie Nicks - and knew it was Monica even before I looked at the display. I swallowed hard, and then answered the call.

"Monica?" 

A moment's hesitation. Then she said:

"I told Carter about the baby. He knows I'm pregnant, Sam."

Well... O, my!

The Healing of the Rain... or a Pregnancy Test Gone Wrong!

 I was humming Heather Nova's "London Rain" the whole morning, while doing some domestic chores, like carpet cleaning and preparing a lush dinner for my o so sweet a husband, and trying to keep the cat away from the plateau of French cheeses I'd sliced and artfully arranged. I dare say, I was a pretty funny picture, if you saw me from aside, dancing around the house, singing verses in the line of:

"I can't wait to get home to you

To get warm warm and undressed"

Or my own personal favorite:

"So keep me, keep me
In your bed all day, all day
Nothing heals me like you do"

Yes, after fixing things with Michael last night, I would have loved to keep him in bed the whole day, but, alas, he had to work, so I just gave him a kiss (more than one, actually) and promised him a special treat for tonight. Yes, I'm talking about dinner. What did you think?

Leaving that misunderstanding aside, the whole morning pretty much looked like the lyrics of the formerly quoted song. The sky was dark and rain was falling silently, cold drops of water running down the windows, leaving small paths behind them, as if asking to be remembered. As if trying to leave their own little mark in the world, before disappearing ingloriously. It is kind of sad, really. Rain always makes me feel both happy and melancholic. Some days, when it's raining outside and lightning splits the sky, I want nothing more, than to curl into Michael's arms, rest my head against his shoulder, and just stay there motionless, silent, part of the world, but separate from it. In such moments, when nothing exists on our own "island" of dreams and hopes and desire, I always think that this must be Heaven. Or, at least, it must be what it feels to be in Heaven. Safe. Loved. Desired. Protected. At the end of the day, isn't that what we all crave? Starve for? Reach for? Fulfilment is bliss, if you have someone to share it with. Funny how I think I've known that for a long time, but only yesterday realised it...

I guess my "white rabbit" did not take me down a rabbit hole, but right back to where I'd started. Back home.

A little into the morning, the phone rang and my friend Monica's voice warned me that something had happened. That there was something wrong. Monica sounded upset. She's never like that. On the contrary, really. She's one of the most genuinely happy and cheerful people I know. So I asked her what's going on and, after a short, tensed pause, she told me. 

She'd done a pregnancy test and it had come out positive. She was pregnant. And she had no idea how to tell her husband Carter about it.

Now, let me explain here. Monica and Carter were a couple of Michael's friends from university. The three of them had been room-mates throughout the 1st and 2nd year of their studies, they'd rented a house together, and for a little while Michael and Monica had had "a thing". I guess you wouldn't call it "being a couple", as they'd never officially dated, so I suppose that "friends with benefits" is the more accurate term.

Yes, they used to sleep together. Regularly. Did that make me dislike Monica or not trust her with Michael? Not really. For I choose to trust my husband completely and not spend my days wondering if he isn't off with some other woman, doing who knows what... Figuratively speaking, of course. I know exactly what men and women do together.  

And, evidently, so did Monica.

Which, probably, wouldn't have been a problem, if she wasn't on the pill and Carter wasn't against having children. Don't misunderstand me - it's not that he didn't want to have children with Monica. He just didn't think that the here and now was the right time for it. Carter's a lawyer, and a pretty good one to that, so he'd been working hard to achieve partnership in his law firm. Really, really hard. So hard, actually, that he and Monica barely see each-other any more. As for Monica...

Being a chef and running a successful French restaurant in the centre of London has its disadvantages. And requires some sacrifices from a woman.

So, pretty much, as happy as the pregnancy news should have been, it was more of a shock to career-oriented Monica and was probably going to give Carter a heart-attack. He wasn't ready to be a daddy. Not yet. Not now.

And he'd have a hell of a hard time dealing with it!

So, when Monica asked me what to do, I had a moment of wandering what to tell her. What do you say to your freaked out, panicked friend, when her control on her life is slipping between her fingers and she feels off balance? 

I didn't know. I'd never been in that position before. So I said the first thing that popped in my head.

"Why don't you and Carter come for dinner tomorrow night? Maybe you could tell him then?"

Truthfully, I didn't expect Monica to accept. But she did and then hung the phone, and I was left staring into nothing, unsure what I've just done.

So I did the only thing I could think of at that moment. I rolled my sleeves and buckled down to the simple task of preparing the house for tomorrow night's guests.

Whoever said that domestic cleaning can't be therapeutic, they should think twice!

Down the Rabbit's Hole... and Back Again!

Sometimes I feel like Alice from Lewis Carol's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland".

I close my eyes and imagine the white rabbit in the back garden, looking at me through his monocle and gesturing for me to follow him, while checking his pocket-watch, worrying that he is going to be late. I think of leaving everything I'm doing behind, getting up and brushing the dirt off my trousers, a wondrous look on my face, and then following in the steps of the rabbit, not thinking of anything, or anyone. Not any more. Will I miss my beloved Michael, when I go where he can never reach me, turn into the little lost girl, who fell down that rabbit hole? Yes, I would. I would miss him greatly and dearly, with all my heart and everything I am. But I will also be able to be someone else... Someone new. Some days that's all you want, isn't it?

To be someone that you're not. If only for a little while.

In my fantasy, falling down the rabbit's hole feels like bungee-jumping, like wild sky-diving, an adventure that could defy your life. I fall to my feet and look around, only to find out that upside down is down, and where the floor should be there's the ceiling. Paving stones in black and white form a chess-like "board" under my feet and there is a door with million locks... Or million locks with only one door, depending on how you choose to look at it. I make my way to this door, these locks, and look around for a key that would open one of them, if not any of them. I know that's not how it's in the story, but it doesn't matter... This is my story. My dream, my fantasy. My adventure.

I blink my eyes and count to ten, and now there is a key, where there was none. I reach out for it, my hand trembling, my heart racing and wrap my fingers around it...

Walking to the door. Echoes. Voices. Thoughts and memories. Reaching out to unlock one of all those locks. Putting the key inside. It fits perfectly. Wrapping my fingers around the handle. Adrenaline is pumping in my veins. My heart is beating fast and faster. So fast. I brace myself to open the door, to take that last step...

Then I remember my wedding vows to Michael and lose the desire to open that door. To turn this key. I remember why I love my life. Why I love him.

This fantasy always comes after we've had a fight. And that's why I'm sharing it right now. Me and Michael had a fight last night. What we fought about? I don't remember. It was something small, insignificant and unimportant, that turned into something... more. And in the same time, into something less. Why do we fight with the ones we love? Is it because of all those things that always stay unsaid? Is it because subconsciously we're afraid that if we're too happy, then something will inevitably break? So we push, and poke, and prod, until something does break. Until I break my own heart.

These thought were filling my head, when I got up this morning. Michael had left for work, without waking me up. No "good morning", or "goodbye". No kisses or sweet nothings whispered in my ear. Nothing. His phone was off, as if the silence was supposed to punish me.

Did I feel the need to punish him? I mused about it, while doing some long-postponed end of tenancy cleaning. Throwing things away can be very therapeutic, when you're feeling like your whole world is falling apart. It can also provide a way to let your anger and frustration out, to serve as a symbol of getting rid of them as well. That's always helped me cool down, even when I was a little girl. But today it didn't seem to do a thing for my mood. So I let everything where it was in the moment, changed into a nicer pair of clothes, and went out.

There's enough end of tenancy London services to come and finish off what I'd started.

I roamed the streets until the light dimmed and the air got chillier, and then made my way back home. I had gone to that imaginary door again, but had been unable to unlock it. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't force myself to do it. That should count for something, right?

Michael was waiting for me at home. There were no words. No apologies. No meaningless accusations. I was in his arms before I could realise what I was doing it, and he was kissing me like there was no tomorrow. As if I was the air and he'd been suffocating without me. I kissed him just as hard, as desperately. 

Then he pulled away and we both said "I'm sorry". And just like that, it seemed like last night's fight had never happened. Or as if it had happened to somebody else. I can't tell you what we did after that...

...but I do know that in one moment I threw away that key and decided to keep that door closed forever.

Sometimes the greatest adventure, is living your own life.

The Mirror That Never Was... or the Tale of the Missing Electricity!

The electricity went out this morning.

I woke a little after 6 am, my hair tangled and my heart beating in a heavy staccato. Bump-bump, bump-bump. I had a nightmare, that had me all shaken-up and feeling sick in my gut. I remembered running down a long corridor, where the distance between "here" and "there" seemed to make no difference, and time and space "shifted" with every step I took. The ceiling was high, so high that it got lost in darkness, but when I looked up it felt as though it would crush on me any moment. The floor was made of stone, but my feet sank as though I was walking through sand, or water, or some other liquid that was... thicker and heavier. My footsteps echoed between the cold walls, sometimes roaring like thunder, other times as soft as the sound of silk gliding down a woman's skin. There was a mirror in the far end of the corridor. A mirror bathed in candle light, that glowed softly, reflecting my figure... Only it wasn't my reflection all of the time. For a moment there, a raven-haired woman graced the mirror, then liquidly flew into a blond with lips the color of lilacs. Afterwards there was no reflection. The mirror was empty, but glowing. Welcoming, but terrifying. Far ahead and only an arm-length away...

Then there was darkness. Deep, deep darkness that embraced me...

...and I woke up in my own bed, next to my silently sleeping husband. I looked at the cloak and saw it was early, o, so early. But I did not feel like going back to sleep. I'd had my share of nightmares for the night, thank you very much! So I pulled the covers off my body, laid the lightest of kisses on Michael's forehead, and got out of bed. Bast stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes. Have you noticed how strange a cat's eyes look in the dark? How good their sight is? When they fix you with their gaze, it can bring shivers down your spine... Although, in this case, after the dream I'd just had, knowing that I wasn't the only awake creature in the house was a small comfort. So, when I headed for the door and Bast followed in my steps, I did not tell her to go back to sleep. Instead, I took her in my arms and carried her down the stairs. To the kitchen. To the coffee machine. To that place where I felt in perfect harmony.

Bast jumped on the counter, stretched and mewed, and then leaped for the bowl of cream I'd let out last night. It all happened so fast, that I had no time to react, to reach out and catch the bowl.

Smack, it "howled", as it crushed into the ground, broken pieces and cream flying all around. Bast just "scowled", unhappy that her "price" has been lost. Cats are ill-tempered creatures by nature. And o so selfish. I scowled, because I knew I'd be in for a lot of carpet cleaning as soon as Michael left for work. What could be better in the morning, right? Who needs time for a long, long bath, when you could just buckle down to the task of cleaning after your cat? Sounds like fun, huh?

I was just getting ready to get all irritated and annoyed, when the most unexpected of things happened.

The light went "puff", and the kitchen was overflowing with darkness. The whole neighbourhood was, actually. It was just like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie. Creepy. Frustrating. A little "too close to home", after the nightmare I'd had.

I shivered and decided that the smartest thing would be to go back up to the bedroom. The unwanted domestic cleaning could wait a couple of hours. Right now, the only thing I wanted was to be as close to Michael as possible. To feel safe, protected. Cared for.

Yes, my darling wasn't getting any more sleep either. As Tracy Chapman once sang "O, the things people do in the dark..."

I think I must have bumped into a chair or something, for I let out a startled yelp that sounded just like the roaring echo in the dream. Bast mewed in question, wondering what's wrong with me and why am I stumbling into things, as though drunk. I'd have thrown something at her, if I'd been in the mood to look around in the dark. I made my way towards the stairs, and the bedroom, and my husband...

Michael met me halfway. He said he'd heard my yelp in his sleep and woken up. He wrapped his arms around me and I pressed my body into his, resting my head on his broad, muscular chest. Safe, I thought. Loved. As though he'd read my mind, he lifted my chin with his fingers and kissed me, like only a lover could. He kissed me and I melted into his kiss. His touch. His warmth.

The lights came back on.

Some days, I do believe that love can make miracles happen.

The Uptight "Mrs. Reed"... or How the Picksbie Came for Dinner (Part II)

When we last "saw" each-other, dear readers, I promised to tell you a funny, if a little tiresome tale of fine cuisine, red wine and lots of laughs and happiness. Or so you might have thought, I imagine. Alas, the truth is far different, if a lot funnier, and I will try to share with you as many details as possible! Without mentioning the weekend or today's (Monday) morning, mind you. Not much to tell, anyway.

"It's only love", as a favourite singer of mine once wrote.

***

So, Thursday night's dinner. Did we meet the future Mrs. Picksby? Yes, we did. And if I was to ever imagine a proper bride for Mr. Picksby, it would definitely be her.

Fanny Munro. 

A lady of approximately 35 years of age, schooled in all the fine manners of society and educated in a University, she was as pleasant and well behaved, as, unfortunately, she was dry and boring. Miss Munro came a bit later than her fiancé, blaming the delay in her arrival to traffic, then stripped her coat and handed it to Michael, as if he was to be her personal butler for the evening. Her greeting was reserved, her clothes - oddly old-fashioned. I noticed her looking me up and down, from the 10 inch heels of my leather boots, through the black skirt that barely reached to my knees, and the low neck dress, to my auburn hair ("An unnatural color" as Fanny so delicately put it) let loose around my shoulders. She made a face, that indicated her honest disapproval of my clothing, then gave Michael the same quick and estimative look, though it did not reach any higher than his tight black jeans. She pursed her lips and asked for the bathroom. We pointed her in the direction and went to rejoin the "lucky" fiancé in the dining room. Poor Mr. Picksby was already sweating and looking nervous.

"I forgot to tell you something...", he started worriedly, but was interrupted by Miss Munro's high-pitched and exasperated cry for help. Michael rushed up the stairs to check what was happening, only to be greeted by another yelp and a sharp word, that I would not repeat in the pages of this blog. When he came down, caring a stressed Bast in his arms, he looked both irritated and entertained.

"Turns out, Miss Munro is allergic to cats. And dogs." He made a face. "And every other type of pet possible."

Now, what kind of person does not like cats, and dogs, and tortoises... and animals in general? The only other one I could think of is a short grumpy lady, who lives next door... 

And goes by the name of Dorothea Picksby.

Letting out a deep sigh, I told Michael to lock Bast in the bedroom and then to sit down. I'd handle it. He squeezed my hand ever so gently and went to "get rid" of Bast for the night. I'm still not sure who was more unhappy for it - the cat or  the husband. A few minutes later Miss Munro came back down and, after a hushed comment about dirty carpets and carpet cleaning, settled down into a chair next to her fiancé. No hand-holding, I noticed. No kisses. Just a brief and despairingly polite "Good evening, Picksby, dear". I mean, shall I start calling Michael "Mr. Halliwell, husband dearest" now? Imagine that! It might have been funny, if it wasn't so tragic!

The rest of dinner didn't go as planned as well, as it turned out that Miss Munro does not "consume" (her words, not mine) anything by the "bloody French", or having fats, or cheese, or... Well, food. 

A photosynthesises for dinner, anyone?

The conversation did not go so smoothly as well, for Miss Munro was a woman who disliked or disapproved of many things, politics, sport and television being just 3 of them. We tried music, but she was not familiar with anything past Beethoven. Yes, imagine that. Michael mused about telling her that the 19th century is long past, but decided against it. Each one for themselves. Mr. Picksby, umm... being Mr. Picksby, did not say a lot the whole night (which lasted till 10:30, because Miss Munro did not find it polite to stay past that), but kept on acting all brotherly towards Michael, patting his shoulder, or squeezing it, or giving him little pokes (Michael's ticklish), which were if not uncomfortable, then... inadequate. Just like the Picksbies themselves, actually. Including the latest addition to their household.

The "goodbye" Miss Munro gave us was just as cold as the rest of her, and we were left with the impression she did not like us very much. And, probably, did not approve of Mr. Picksby's (brief) association with us. So, I figured we won't be seeing him any time soon.

As you could probably guess, when we let Bast out of the bedroom she'd made sure we'd pay for locking her away like a mere animal. Domestic cleaning, anyone? What could be better at 11:00 at night?

A warm bed and an even warmer husband under the blankets.

Alas, a housewife's work is never done!

But I'll worry over it in the morning.

(And so I did, by the way. And so I did...)

A Dream of Regency, French Cuisine and Fine Manners... or How the Picksbies Came for Dinner (Part I)

Thursday night was the dinner party that Miss Picksby had bullied me into organising. I started preparing hours earlier, having a domestic cleaning London company come to take care of the house, the dust, and all those little stains that no woman in her right mind would have noticed, and no man even suspects exist, which both delighted and relieved me. Being not such a great cook myself, I had my friend Monica over to help prepare the dishes, which included three different assortments of salad, a French cream soup, that smelled like Heaven, but was Hell to make, French chesses with Greek olives and cherry tomatoes,  chicken and fish dishes with garnish, French bread and toast, and dessert. Afterwards, of course, we had tea and chocolate sprinkled cookies, which Michael had bought on his way back from work. All along, while Monica was sweating in the kitchen - she's a professional chef, who runs a small French restaurant - I was indulged in carpet cleaning, after Bast managed to spill a bottle of soda on the carpet, and then - into getting ready for the dinner. 

I filled the tub with hot water and aromatic salts, stripped off my dressing-gown, and then lay there for almost an hour, my eyes closed, soft music filling the air and water soaking my skin. Strands of wet auburn hair clang to my face, my breasts rose slowly, steadily. It felt almost like I was meditating, was drifting half-asleep in the space between dreams and awareness. Slowly, the bathroom faded to a blur and darkness crept behind my eyelids, gently wrapping me into a black, black shawl...

Then I blinked and looked around, surprised to find out that I was standing amidst a social gathering in a dimply lit dining room, where candles and a fireplace burnt, and a heavy chandelier hanged from the ceiling. The furniture was old-fashioned, the paintings in polished wooden frames and the mirrors on the walls - stylish and expensive. The scent of incense and melted wax drifted through the air, while an odd looking gentleman, who could be nothing else, but a butler, served the ladies and gentlemen sitting around the table. None of them lifted their eyes to look at me, did notothing to indicate that they even knew I was there. 

A lady laughed, covering her red lips with the palm of her gloved hand delicately, while a particularly articulate gentleman told a joke, or a war story, or whatever else entertained people such as these. A handsome lad, who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a Catherine Coulter novel, made his way towards me, only to walk right past me and to a lady in a red gown, with beautiful golden hair and emerald earnings that perfectly matched the color of her eyes. The young man took her palm in his and, with a gallantry smile, lifted it to his lips to lay the most delicate of kisses on its back. The woman blushed and chuckled coyly, but let the lad escort her to the table. I looked around in fascination and gasped when I caught my own reflection in one of the mirrors on the wall. Was that me?

My hair was lifted, with only two carefully styled locks framing my pale, pale face, and silver earrings with small onyx stones dаnggled from my ears. I wore a green gown, embroidered with gold and silver, and a creamy shawl around my arms. My gloves were the same color as the shawl and my lips seemed as red as Snowhite's were described in the story. It was funny to see myself dressed like this, standing in that Victorian house with all those high-class, blue-blooded people. It was like a fairytale... a vision...

Like a dream.

My breath caught, when I came to my senses and realised I was dreaming... Then the double door to the dining room opened and a dashing blond man walked in the room. His eyes, the color of emeralds, swept the room, taking in everything and everyone, and then came to rest on me. His gaze locked with mine and I forgot how to breath, to think, to keep my mouth closed and not gasp. He was so handsome, dressed like that... Like one of those Regency novels lords and heroes. Like a woman's sweet, sweet dream. I couldn't stop looking at him. Couldn't stop staring.

Michael.

The moment I thought his name, the dream was broken and I woke up in the tub, with Michael looking at me, a mischievous smile on his lips. I blinked water off my eyes, while he started laughing and shaking his head. Then he showed me his watch. O, my.

7:30 pm.

Mr. Picksby and his fiancée were going to be here in half an hour and neither me, nor Michael were dressed and ready to welcome them properly. Quite the contrary, really. We needed to hurry, if we wanted to be even remotely on time! We had to... Michael bent down and locked his lips with mine. For a moment there I couldn't react, then I returned the kiss.

The Picksbies could wait.

A Curious Fact on Storms, Early Morning Calls... and Rooftops.

Heavy rain washed the streets, as the night descended into a day of dark clouds and big raindrops drumming on the windows. Lightning split the sky and illuminated the bedroom, while the roar of thunder brought goosebumps to my skin. I got up and wrapped a dressing-gown around my shoulders, looking for comfort and warmth, while Michael was shaving and taking a shower. I could hear the water running in the bathroom, thought of my husband and felt sweet temptation... Then shrugged the thought off and went down to make coffee and tea.

The house was much darker than it usually is so early in the morning and the windows were creaking ominously, as the wind blew into them. I saw the heavy curtains move a little, felt a light breeze on my skin. A frown formed on my face. The house's heat isolation was shabby, for the lack of better word, at best and if we didn't want to have another cold, cold winter we would have to change it. Michael's been talking about it for a while now, but I never paid enough attention to his words... Not till now.

Funny, how sometimes we can listen to the words other people say, without truly hearing them. Even when those "people" are our significant other.

The kitchen was dark as a pit, so I switched the lights on... And marvelled at Bast's work of "fine art" on the carpet. My lips pursed. I was starting to think that our cat lacked some basic education in the field of good behaviour. Either that, or these days she was feeling neglected and was looking for ways to get our attention. A small sigh escaped my lips. If that was her goal, she was doing a lousy job at it. Sure, she was getting the attention of a certain carpet cleaning London company, but beyond that... Goodness gracious, if having Bast was even remotely close to having children, then we were in for a lot of problems! Or, more specifically, I was, as I'm the one who's going to be staying home with them. Michael has his job as an excuse to keep a safe distance. My frown deepened. Maybe it was time I look for a job myself.

Here's something to ponder about, while making a call to our domestic cleaning company and waiting for them to come and work some "magical", if I do say so myself, carpet cleaning.

The storm was still raging, when Michael came down the stairs to join me in the kitchen. He was dressed in black from head to foot, his fair complexion bright in contrast with his clothes' color. It made his silky blond hair seem somewhat lighter and his green eyes even more amazing, then they usually are. When he smiled and came to wrap his arms around me, I leaned my back on his chest and snuggled in as close as I could, so that I could soak in the heat of his body. He leaned down and whispered silent words in my ear...

Bast jumped on the counter and hissed, as though she'd seen a mouse or something, startling both of us. Michael swore and scolded at the cat, and I pushed away from him to pour coffee in our mugs. It was hot and raising steam, and smelled like heaven. I sipped it carefully, while Michael rummaged through the fridge, taking things out to cook an omelette. He asked if he should make it big enough, so that we could share. I smiled and said yes. Bast hissed again.

The phone rang, just as thunder exploded overhead. I looked at the cloak, it was 7:15 am, and blinked. Who could call at this time of day? Me and Michael exchanged a glance and he shrugged those broad shoulders of his. The phone rang again. I sighed and picked it up... Only to hear Miss Picksby's voice at the other end of the receiver. She started bubbling something about storms, rain, thunder and lightning, and rooftops...

The only part I actually got was her statement, that "there is nothing worse then having a rooftop over your head when outside it's pouring cats and dogs, as the rain always finds cracks in the rooftop to sneak in through and dribble all over your head". Yes, I know. It really doesn't make a lot of sense. But Miss Picksby isn't known for her "sense" or "timing".

And she definitely, definitely didn't know when it is apt to call other people's home number. It certainly isn't 7 in the morning.

But I guess you can't pick your neighbours...

If only we could. If only.

The Unfortunate Event of "Mr. Hyde" Meeting His Match... or a Walk to the Bakery Gone South!

Rivers of mist glided down the empty London streets, as I opened the bedroom window to let in the fresh early morning air. Michael was still sound asleep, blanket covering him up to his chin. Curls of blond hair spread over the pillow to frame a face that was handsome in a very masculine way, with high cheekbones, a Roman nose and a stubble of beard, that made him look a couple of years older than his 27. The edges of his lips were slightly curled, as if he was having a beautiful dream, that made him smile inside and look so... innocent. I ran my hands through my long auburn hair, to take it out of my eyes, and thought about my husband and all the times when I'd woken up to the feel of his lips covering mine, him kissing my temple as gently, as a butterfly lends on a flower. I mused upon sliding back into bed, to rest my head in the curve of Michael's neck, and maybe giving him a few kisses and tickles to wake him up, but decided it was only fair to let him sleep in late, as he had a day off work. So I wrapped myself in a soft red dressing-gown, with some oriental motives in gold and silver, and quietly, on tip-toe, slipped out of the room. I heard Michael stir in his sleep, but he did not open those green, green eyes of his, so I closed the door behind me and went down the stairs, to the kitchen.

Bast, our cat, was already up and walking around, pondering over what mischief to do, but came to me the moment she heard my footsteps. I picked her up in my arms, ran my fingers through her silky fur and smiled, as she purred in delight, then put on the coffee machine and the kettle. Bast made small noises of protest, when I put her down on the floor, but then ran off to that postponed mischief, which was probably going to result in my having to spent half the afternoon elbow deep in domestic cleaning, or which was worse - in yet another carpet cleaning "adventure". I sighed and shrugged, then proceeded with making coffee and boiling water for a pot of tea. I was thinking about some "English Breakfast" tea, with sweet honey and sugar cubes, and a warm breakfast... That I was in no way preparing myself! Ordering sounded pretty tempting, but I decided against it and, after a fast shower and applying some light make-up, so that I don't scare the neighbours, I slipped out of the front door and headed for the nearby Bakery to buy some fresh muffins, bread and croissants. 

Mist covered the streets and the few cars that passed me by had their head-lights on. An old man in a worn out coat was walking his dog, a small Westie that looked like this was its first time out and it was still seeing the world through the innocent eyes of a child. That made me smile, so I said "Good Morning" to the man, as we walked past each other. He nodded in return, looking puzzled by the fact that I'd been kind so early in the morning. If my Mum was here, she'd have said that people "have forgotten their manners",  but as I was alone, I kept the comment to myself. No point in looking weird by talking to myself in the middle of the side-walk, right?

"Mrs. Shaw's Bakery & Tea" was not far from where we lived. It's 5 minutes away, if you fall into a stride, and less then 10 if you choose to walk slowly. I did the second, taking in the silence, the lightening sky and the cool touch of the mist. Leaves had fallen off the branches, covering the ground with a beautiful carpet, that brought a little smile to my lips. There were almost no people around. I felt as though I was alone... And wished that Michael was here with me to share this moment. How did the song go? "Making memories of us..."? That's exactly what I wanted to do right now...

A silhouette in a long black coat, wearing an old-fashioned hat, came out of the mist and headed straight towards me. I couldn't see his face, but something in his posture, his shoulders, the way he carried himself filled me with dread and made me think of Robert Louis Stevenson's "Strange Case of Dr.Jekyll & Mr.Hyde". Especially of Mr. Hyde. Shivers ran down my spine and for a moment there I wasn't sure what to do... Screaming just for the sake of reacting? If the man wasn't dangerous, just creepy-looking, I would feel very silly afterwards. On the other hand, if he was just what he appeared to be...

Time slowed down and so did my steps. He started walking faster. The distance between us faded faster and faster, my heart beating like some frantic cloak, about to explode any moment. I reached for my phone, thinking of calling Michael...

...then Miss Picksby came out of a side-street, big groceries-bag in one hand and a dangerously looking umbrella in the other. She fixed her gaze on me, made a face that was half-dislike, half-delight, and rushed me like a predator. The man in the coat did not slow down his pace, so he bumped right into Miss Picksby.

And then all Hell broke loose. 

She turned on him and lifted her umbrella, determination in her eyes. The man, not so dangerously looking any more, opened his mouth to apologise, or say something, anything in his defence, but it was too late. Her Fury had already been unleashed.

Smack, went her umbrella. Smack. Smack, smack, smack.

In less then a minute, I was already feeling sorry for the poor guy. I mean, he may be creepy, but even he doesn't deserve such treatment! But cross Miss Picksby... And that's what happens!

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned... Sort of.

By the time my phone rang and the display showed it was Michael, Miss Picksby had already chased the poor beaten-up guy away and was taking pride in saving me from "that pervert". I was wondering why no one came to save him from her?

How scary can an old lady with an umbrella seem to the casual bystander?

A lot.