Capricorn Moon

‘The moon rotates on its own axis a hundred times slower than the earth.’

‘Really,’  she says. 

She seems interested, but logic tells the selenologist that he has insufficient experience with women to correctly determine her level of engagement. He continues because he’s afraid of silence. ‘The dark spots are craters filled with basalt which is a very dense material.’

She picks up the salt shaker and jiggles it. ‘Is basalt like table salt?’

Hoping the smile he squeezes out does not reek of condescension, he answers, ‘Basalt is a dark-colored, fine-grained, igneous rock composed mainly of plagioclase and pyroxene minerals.’

With no response, other than a quizzical stare at the salt shaker, to guide his next words, he’s lost for a moment. He resorts to knowledge because he knows that knowledge is interesting, powerful, even intoxicating. Intoxicating? Really? Whatever its effect, he has a plenteous supply, and he knows he must play his strong suit. Before he speaks, she asks a question. She’s hooked. She must be.

‘How big is the moon?’ 

Although he knows the exact figure, he doesn’t want to show off so he says, ‘The moon is roughly 3.8 billion hectares’ He lets the words float in the aromatic air between them. He’s an expert on the moon so he knows what he’s talking about. There’s no question of his superior intellect, nor any doubt that she will yield to its force. But she’s so beautiful he can hardly breathe and he fears his normally irresistible attempts to assert himself via intellectual assault will fail. Shipwrecked by the storm of his emotions. The lighthouse of her eyes pulling him closer rather than warning him away from the rocks. He feels, and it’s like the first time he has felt. What is it exactly? Extraordinary. He wants to be wrong. Why? Will she seize on his vulnerability? Will she be seduced by his weakness. He wants her to.

‘What star sign are you?’

She’s leaning forward across the table but he doesn’t know if it’s because she wants to be closer to him, or because she can’t hear properly over the noise of the busy restaurant. Her blonde hair falls around her face and onto her shoulders in soft fragrant curls. The question she asked is backed by bright green  reptilian eyes which grip him and cause him to tremble. He doesn’t want to talk about pish posh astrology. It’s so unscientific, it’s positively offensive. Yet he’s compelled to answer. Her liquid voice is truth serum. Her sexuality overwhelms him. She radiates seduction.

‘Capricorn.’

The woman bounces in her seat and her head moves around. She’s smiling, tittering. She’s excited by him being a Capricorn. This is so stupid. Insulting, but dammit if beauty was brains she’d make Einstein sound like Britney Spears after a night on the tiles.

‘Okay.’ She takes a melodramatic breath. ‘Let’s see. Moon in Capricorn means you don’t like taking risks so you plan ahead, and you feel safe when you organize things, and try to cover all eventualities.’

Apparently, she’s waiting for the selenologist to respond in awe to her astrological sagacity. He’s amused rather than awestruck, so he holds his tongue.

‘You come across as a bit cold because you aren’t comfortable with your feelings, and especially avoid sharing them with others. You also don’t like others pouring their hearts out to you. It’s just way too messy.’

He realizes, as he watches her elegantly sip her cocktail, that he doesn’t know her name. She asked permission to sit with him, and he consented out of courtesy. Despite feeling the onus was on the woman to initiate conversation due to the fact that she had invaded his space, the selenologist had spoken first. That had surprised him. This astrologer was right when she identified his need to control situations. That was why he started talking to her. He couldn’t stand the awkward and potentially embarrassing quiet. She had seemed perfectly at peace, and he found that disturbing. Remembering the onset of their discourse, he realized he had forgotten the pleasantries: simple greetings, introductions and mandatory small talk concerning the weather. The selenologist had dived straight in to his comfort zone: his area of expertise.

‘Look, Miss…?’

‘Call me Angel.’

He reaches for his glass of whiskey and recklessly empties into his mouth. It burns his throat and he coughs. When he feels confident that he can speak, he can’t bring himself to call her Angel.

‘I…’ he begins but can’t continue.

Undeterred by his sudden dysphasia, Angel leans forward once more and says, ‘Moon Signs help define our emotional development. They express the unconscious side of our personality. It explains why we do what we do.’ 

The selenologist musters his resolve and decides to attempt to regain control. ‘The moon is a satellite which orbits our Earth in twenty seven days, seven hours, forty three minutes and eleven point six seconds.’

‘Moon signs are a very accurate description of what a person is like,’ Angel counters. ‘People born under a Capricorn moon are usually very intelligent, with a deep respect for knowledge, and are adept at using it for their own benefit.’

‘If you could drive a motor vehicle to the moon, although obviously you can’t, it would take one hundred and thirty days of continuous driving.’

‘Authority and knowledge help you to feel more in control. You are afraid of rejection, and rarely at peace with yourself.’

With a stalemate thus established, the selenologist and Angel gaze into each other’s eyes, and are swallowed by the poignancy of the moment. He’s aware of blood rushing to his head and experiences breathlessness, so he looks for any similar signs of discomfort in Angel’s pretty face. He warns himself not to lower his eyes but the warning itself is enough to cause the action. If Angel notices his quick peek at her chest, she manifests no awareness. The war within him is exhausting. There is no sensible reason for him to resist her commanding charm. The pleasure he feels is terrifying and Angel offers nothing to suggest she means him any harm. Quite the contrary. Every word she said about him was true yet her tone is devoid of implied criticism. He could infer it if he wishes, but Angel completely lacks malice. He knows emotional vandalism: God knows how many times he’s been on the receiving end. This beautiful astrologer is the epitome of enigmatic. The selenologist intuits the significance of his next words so he chooses them carefully: editing and revising in his head as Angel persists in holding his gaze. It seems as though she worries that if she releases him, he will fall and shatter on the floor.

Finally, as the suspense threatens to detonate his conflicted mind, Angel averts her eyes and fumbles for her handbag which sits beside her feet. The selenologist slowly releases the breath he has been holding. He suspects every patron in the restaurant hears the hurricane howl as he exhales. Angel rummages in her bag and he watches, wondering.

She’s holding a business card which she places on the table in front of him as she stands. Smoothing down the front of her blouse draws his attention again to her chest but she’s not looking at him anymore. The spell is broken. Free of the enchantment, the selenologist reaches for his glass but he’s forgotten that it’s empty. He clings to it nonetheless. He glances at the business card then at Angel. Although ready to leave, she waits. What’s she waiting for?

‘We should talk again sometime. I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she says. ‘Call me.’

The selenologist watches her leave. He’s dazed. His head spins as he picks up the business card and reads it. He’s drawn to the large font overlaying a photograph of a full moon. It says Capricorn Moon. He orders another whiskey and stares at the card. An unfamiliar rumble inside his heart shakes him and produces a strange sound which he hopes no one else hears. He recognizes the sound now. He’s heard other people refer to it as laughter. 

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 2

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 2

by

D.A.Cairns

The Fight

‘I don’t know what that was Rhys, but I sure hope you got it all out of your system.’

The line at immigration moved forward. Rhys shuffled: feigned a contrite look and shook his head. ‘Sorry baby.’

‘I hope to God you aren’t planning on ruining our holiday like you just ruined everyone’s flight; especially mine.’

‘It’s not like I planned it.’

Rhonda glared at him until he reluctantly met her gaze. ‘It looked exactly like you planned it. Like it was scripted.’

Rhys laughed. ‘Get serious.’

‘Do I like look I’m joking?’

They inched forward again as another visitor had their passport stamped by a serious looking individual in a khaki uniform. ‘I’ll behave myself. I promise. I won’t put a foot wrong for the rest of the trip, and If I do it will be entirely unintentional.’

‘I’ll give you entirely intentional,’ she said before punching his arm.

Rhys had overdone it on the plane. Rhonda had simply ignored him, as had Deep Voice, even when Rhys had lowered his seat right onto the guys lap. The flight attendants remonstrated with him with every drink they brought him, as did every passenger whom he bumped into in his way to and back from the lavatory. During a quieter moment he had decided to try something else. Even though he had no original thoughts on how to force this break up, he managed to delude himself otherwise. Next was the flirt. He searched the adjacent queues on either side of theirs until he found something pleasing to his eye, then stared. Eventually Rhonda noticed his concerted attention and followed his gaze.

‘Don’t stare Rhys,’ she said. ‘It’s rude.’

‘Do you think her breasts are real?’

‘Do you think that’s any of your business or of any interest to me?’

‘I never asked about yours,’ said Rhys suddenly turning back to Rhonda, to her face first then to her chest and quickly back again.

‘I gave you plenty of chances to find out for yourself, dumbo.’

‘I’m going to go and ask her.’

They shuffled forward. ‘Ask her what?’

Rhys offered no reply, and before Rhonda could protest or grab his arm to hold him back, he was in the next line chatting to the woman who may or may not have had breast implants. He started with a smile and a quip; ‘I want to hedge my bets for the fast lane.’ She rewarded him with a smile which revealed she had spent a small fortune at the dentist.

‘Your teeth are amazing,’ he said. She thanked him. ‘I’ve had so much trouble with my teeth. I was thinking about ditching them all and starting again, but I can’t afford it.’

The woman nodded. The line moved again. Rhys waved at Rhonda who had not moved. ‘Your wife? Girlfriend?’

‘Can you keep a secret?’

She frowned an impossibly cute frown. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s our farewell tour.’

The woman’s frown deepened into something less appealing; something suspiciously like dim wittedness. ‘She brought me on this holiday to dump me.’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘Anyway, we were talking about how much your breasts cost.’

Rhys wasn’t sure what he was looking at now, but he didn’t like it. He liked it even less when it hit him in the face. ‘Arsehole!’

As he walked quickly back to join Rhonda he avoided looking at her and also tried not to laugh. Maybe he was losing his mind. His behaviour was further out to sea than he’d ever travelled, but instead of being concerned, he felt pleased; almost delirious. This was fun. Back in the queue, he received a pinch from Rhonda, then turned to smile at the woman behind him.‘She has trouble controlling me,’ he said.

The woman stared at him just long enough for Rhys to receive a mixed signal. Open to interpretation, he opted for the most self-gratifying explanation. He lowered his voice and leaned towards the woman who took a small step backwards. ‘Maybe you could do a better job.’ He winked and cringed.

‘The line is moving,’ she said.

Rhys turned and followed Rhonda who had moved a few paces forward courtesy of a whole family passing through the checkpoint. There were only two people in front of them now. Rhys had always thought he was charming. Always believed he was cool and impressive in a very masculine way. He’d never really tried out his skill though. Previously successes had been accidental. Even meeting Rhonda had been a case of serendipity. With the fireworks going off all around them, he’d never really had to try to win Rhonda’s heart. It seemed she was a ripe mango swaying on the tree. Open to love with all its mystery and adventure. Rhys was more like an overripe banana. Why was he thinking in fruit metaphors? It sounded ludicrous. It matched his sentiment.

Rhonda was very quiet, no doubt upset by his behaviour. A tiny seed of remorse threatened to bud in his heart. He wasn’t really a mean person. Not intentionally, though he was aware he lacked sensitivity. He was, as he had so amply portrayed on the plane, quite intolerant. He was even intolerant of himself sometimes. This moment felt like one of those times. As people do when they are trying to avoid awkwardness, Rhys brush stroked the silence with inane small talk.

‘That was a relatively quick march.’

‘It didn’t take long at all.’

‘Soon we will be out of the airport and in Bali.’

Rhonda finally turned her head and sighed. ‘Where do you think this airport is?’

A few clever quips sprang to mind, but Rhys held his tongue. His strategy, mixed and haphazard as it was, appeared to be having some impact. The decision now was whether to back off, maintain, or escalate. By following every little impulse, each mischievous prompting, he was not only wearing Rhonda down but also having fun. However, it was important to manage the timing.

They walked from the terminal out on to the concourse and were immediately assailed by a gang of hawkers. Rhonda was ready to talk turkey until Rhys reminded her they had pre booked a shuttle to the hotel. After a brief search they located their driver who was holding a handwritten sign with their names on it. While the driver led them to his vehicle, Rhys looked around, admiring the collection of ladies; both local and foreign. Rhonda ignored him, but he only cared a little bit.

At the Bali Dynasty Resort, Rhonda returned to her bubbly self, gushing about the lavish lobby bursting with greenery as it was, interspersed with gleaming marble and brass. Large wooden blade overhead fans moved the air around just enough to take the edge of the humidity. The peaceful and elegant tropical ambience seeped into Rhys’s bones calming the poltergeist within. He would lay off the bad boyfriend routine for a while, if for no other reason than he didn’t want to blow the holiday to hell too soon.

‘How good is this place!’ he said as they followed the porter to the far end of the foyer and into the elevator. Rhonda rewarded his new found positivity by taking hold of his hand and squeezing it. He kissed her cheek. She grabbed his face and forced her lips onto his. He nearly fainted. The discreet porter stepped from the lift when they door opened and quietly asked them to follow him. Rhys had trouble walking straight. ‘How good is this place!’ he said again.

It was normal for a natural wonder to far exceed the muted beauty displayed in photographs. Hotel rooms were a different story. Rhys braced for the disappointment as the porter opened the door. The first thing which always struck him upon entering a new hotel room was how much smaller they were in reality. The air conditioning had been running for some time; providing a perfectly comfortable interior which was tastefully furnished and not overcrowded. The bed was huge. A king which Rhys knew was two doubles cleverly conjugated. Beyond the bed sat a sofa which housed a pull out bed. Rhys had checked that. In case the bed was too small or if he should decide that he simply would not be able to sleep with Rhonda so close. He gulped, wondering how he was going to avoid nature taking its course. Still recovering from the forceful passion of Rhonda’s elevator kiss, Rhys began to seriously doubt his ability to resist. If he surrendered, all would be lost. He would be stuck.

‘Enjoy your stay,’ said the porter quietly before slipping away to allow the door to close softly on Rhys and Rhonda. The former ambled over to the double-glazed sliding doors which opened on to the balcony exposing a panoramic view of the ocean, the latter flopped on the bed and flipped around like a fish out of water. Rhys tried not to think about tsunamis. This was so stupid. He imagined his mates telling him what a dick he was to be trying to avoid what everyman lived for. They’d crap on about silver platters and looking gift horses in the mouth, and with every attempt to damn him with clichés, he’d find himself weakening. A rushing wall of water was on its way.

‘Let’s go for a swim!’ he said, wanting to get out of the room before wondering how on earth seeing Rhonda in her bikini was going to do anything to cool the fire in his loins. A voice in his head told him to get it over and done with. She wants it. You want it. What are you waiting for? What was he waiting for?

‘Sure’ said Rhonda, springing from the bed to land beside her suitcase which she tipped on its belly and ripped its zipper, opening it. She quickly found her bikini: the royal blue one. Rhys loved that colour on her. Loved it. Before he could say anything, she disappeared into the bathroom mercifully choosing to change out of sight. In his heightened testosterone fueled condition his imagination was more than capable of compensating.

When Rhonda emerged from the bathroom looking like a goddess or a sexy queen or something impossibly tanatalising, Rhys averted his eyes, then turned away.

‘Something wrong baby?’ she said. ‘This is your favourite.’ She was moving closer breathing her words. ‘I could take it off if you don’t like it.’ When her breasts pushed into his back, Rhys felt his knees tremble. He was about to turn and take what she was offering, close to letting her feel how much he wanted her, on the verge of exploding. Her hand slid down from his stomach to hit the target. Rhys leapt out of her embrace.

‘Fuck Rhys!’ she said.

He looked at her face, but did not see what he expected.

‘Why?’ she said, her voice crumbling, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Why?’

Rhys had never felt more guilty or stupid, or whatever the hell crazy mix of foolishness this was. Rhonda’s wounded expression quickly gave way to anger. ‘Fuck you!’ She shoved him in the chest, snatched up her towel and tote bag before storming out of the room. Rhys might have called out to her; to apologize, to beg her to stay, to say anything, but he was too busy collapsing on the floor in exhausted impotence. ‘Fuck Rhys!’

The Darkness of Light

The Darkness of Light

by

D.A.Cairns

A sliver of light pierces the blinds and scars her eyelids. She feels as though she has not slept at all, although she must have drifted away into the blissful unconsciousness of slumber at some point. Sleep eludes her despite her craving for it. Even the pills which she obtains as often as she can manage with the increased scrutiny of doctors, only provide temporary relief. The alcohol she washes them down with probably does not help. This miserable cycle is all she knows, and she chose it so she cannot complain.

Not for the first time or the last, she sees James’ face. His kind smile, the happiness which radiates from every pore in his slightly tanned flesh. The smile which loves her, forgives her, and encourages her. The same smile which she has persistently tried to destroy. An oft repeated conversation wallows out from within the recesses of her memory.

‘A measure of politeness is not too much to ask for, is it?’ said James. ‘It’s not that hard to smile and say hello.’

‘I’m not a nice person,’ she replied. ‘I can’t sweet talk. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad because I can’t change. I’m bad okay? That’s it.’

James stepped close to her and placed his hands upon her shoulders.

‘Don’t say another word, or I’m going to leave right now. I have had enough.’ She shrugged out of his grasp, ignoring the hurt in his eyes and focused on her own pain, and comforted herself with the fact that she was bad and she thoroughly deserved the misery to which she now clung. It was the only solid ground in her sorry existence: her anchor.

She turned away from James and busied herself with the dishes which had piled up in the sink. She knew he had only not done them because he was respecting her wishes for peace and quiet in the mornings. Feeling his gaze on her, she said, ‘Leave me alone,‘ she said. ‘I have to clean the house. That’s what I’m here for: to serve you and to fuck you!’

She knows it isn’t true. It wasn’t true when she said it then or any of the countless other times she had said it. James is a decent man: loving, honest and caring. He has only ever tried to help her. Despite his shortcomings, and the frequent and unjustified tongue lashings she has given him, he has remained faithful and gracious. She doesn’t deserve him. He’s too good.

Flinging, the doona off her and across the bed, she rises and enters the bathroom. Every step evokes a memory, every breath a painful reminder of her hopelessness. James is already awake as usual, having risen early for his morning run. The sounds of breakfast making drift down the hall. It is normal everyday noise, but she will tell him to be quiet before she says good morning to him. Once finished showering, she dresses and ties her hair without once looking at herself in the mirror. She only ever sees disaster reflected in the glass: her figure gone, her face aging, her broken heart advertising its desolation through the windows of her tired eyes.

When she reaches the kitchen, James turns to look at her and smiles. ‘Good morning.’

‘You’re too noisy,’ she replies.

James shrugs, and approaches her. ‘Give me a cuddle beautiful.’

In his arms she feels warm. His passion for her burns her skin and eventually she has to break free, hoping she held the pose long enough to satisfy him in his delusion that they are happy and have a future. She goes to close the blinds James has opened as he always does when he wakes. He likes the light while she finds it intrusive. Knowing that no one can see inside their private world, does not stop her from believing that they can.

‘It’s nice outside,’ says James. ‘A nice sunny day, and the air is fresh. It’s a little stuffy in here.’

‘I like my privacy.’

‘You can have privacy without being in the dark all the time, and besides think of the money saved on electricity bills with the lights off instead of on during the day.’

Glaring at him, she attacks his parsimony. ‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Money. Money. Money.’

James appears ready to retort, probably along the lines of how she rails against him for leaving lights on and using the remote controlled garage door to enter the house, instead of using the front door.

‘You’re stingy, and I’m sick of it,’ she says. ‘I like my privacy. It doesn’t matter about the money.’

They have serious money problems because of her profligacy. She buys him things he does not need, and pushes money through poker machines as though the notes grow on trees in their backyard. She does not even like those machines, and does not understand why she wastes money on them. Neither does James, but he no longer says anything. They split their accounts some time ago, because she said she was tired of paying all his bills. She knows they are mutual bills, but she has never been able to bring herself to trust him enough to use the words ‘us’ and ‘ours’. It is a mystery why he stays. She starves him of sex, but is extremely proficient when she does consent. She makes him laugh sometimes, and she buys him nice clothes to wear, even though she knows he doesn’t need them and they can’t afford them. Even if they are struggling, it is important to her to maintain a good show of prosperity. James doesn’t seem to understand.

She remembers another all too familiar conversation, the like of which had been repeated so often, they could easily have played a recording and saved their strength.

‘Our business is our business. Our problems are our problems. That was how I was raised. That is my family. Your family is different. What goes on between us, stays between us. It’s not for your mum or your dad or your sister, or for the neighbours to enjoy thanks to your loud voice. I don’t know how many times I have told you that I like my privacy, and if you can’t respect that then get out of my life.’

James held her gaze. Confident and calm as ever, he said, ‘The neighbours can’t hear anything, and they don’t care anyway. They have their own problems.’

‘Leave me alone, James. I’m tired.’

She is tired all the time due to a lack of sleep, and the exhaustion caused by depression and anxiety, but this is also how she gets out of longer discussions with James. She is not at all interested in his logic or his common sense. Her paranoia fuels her need to reject rationality. She’s been treated so badly by the previous men in her life, that James’ genuine care for her barely registers. He rarely raises his voice or swears at her, and he has never abused her either with his mouth or his hands. It was a mistake inviting him into her life though, and she feels guilty for ruining his, on top of everything else she has done to underpin the deep vein of regret which courses through her bones. She is a lost cause and she knows it. The problem is how to make James see that, and to get him out of her life. It doesn’t help that on occasions, sometimes for a whole day or even a couple of days in a row they have a relationship which is world beating. They have experienced great joy together. The day they received a phone call from the real estate agent to tell them their application for the townhouse they really loved and wanted, had been approved. The time they went to a Big Bash League T20 cricket match and roared and cheered their way through three hours of action which led to an exciting victory for their team. Their trip to Auckland for New Year’s Eve.

However, such times of joy were illusions, masking the truth of their pitiful excuse for a relationship. She is unlovable and growing increasingly annoyed by James’ dogged determination to love her. She’s tried being direct with him, and simply swearing at him until she was blue in the face, but all that did was make him shake his head while tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. The next day he would be all smiles and sweetness again, and she would play along for a little longer. It is cruel. Very cruel, but it is James’ fault. If cannot take a hint of the magnitude of her regular vitriolic tirades, then he can only blame himself for his unhappiness.

‘On the subject of money,’ says James gingerly as though he is afraid of breaking something, or fanning to life the flames of her latent rage.

She rolls her eyes and sighs loudly. ‘Now what?’

James shakes his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘My life is bad enough already, James. All you do is take, take, take. I’ve got nothing, so don’t ask me for anything, alright?’

‘Okay. Don’t worry about it.’

‘I do worry. That’s all I do. My life is shit, and you’re not helping, okay.’

It’s not a question, so she doesn’t wait for his answer, but marches past him down the hall, and throws another familiar little quip towards him as she goes. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’

In bed, where she spends most of her time either on Facebook, or trying to sleep, she wonders why James carries on with this charade. How the hell can she cleave him out of her life? What will it take for him to finally accept the futility of pursuing this relationship? Why won’t he leave her alone? It’s bloody-minded devotion, that’s all. Not real love. He’s using her for sex and money, and so she can cook and clean for him. She makes him look good. Is a ready made ego booster. He’s probably addicted to that, and the overwhelming pulse of his masculinity derived from the multiple orgasms she fakes for him.

The next day, when she wakes up, James has already left for work. He kissed her cheek and told her he loved her before he left while she pretended to be asleep. That’s how it always goes. She readies herself for work, and checks her phone: finding a love note from James in her inbox. Kiss. Hug. Kiss. Hug. She doesn’t bother replying.

Arriving home that evening, she opens the door, and notices James’ shoes are missing from the stand in the hall. The kitchen is spotless and the counter uncluttered. Her stomach constricts. her hand trembles as she reaches for a single sheet of paper lying there. When she finishes reading the farewell note from James which he has worded with typical craftsmanship, she scrunches it up and tosses it in the bin. His final message expresses loving concern for her, and advises her to call him if she misses him, or if she wants him to come back. She misses him already, but as she closes all the blinds, blocking out the summer evening light, she knows she will not call. Then she goes upstairs and settles in the darkness.