Читать книгу Enchanted Dreams: Erotic Tales Of The Supernatural - Nancy Madore - Страница 7

For the most part, they’re like you’d expect. Or at least I found this to be so. I followed one of them for weeks and, although I was often shocked, I was hardly ever genuinely surprised.

Vincent was friendly, agreeable and bright. I always observed him from a safe distance, it’s true, but his magnetism could be felt from far off. And you could see it, too, from watching those around him. They were always perfectly at ease and utterly charmed. Men and women alike found him irresistible. He had a healthy glow in his cheeks that belied any pernicious habits, dietary or otherwise. He might have been taken for a vegetarian.

I started following Vincent the very first night I discovered him. Before I was even fully conscious of it, parts of me were already tracking him from across the room.

Over the years, I had become quite a recluse. Not that I was ever the sort of person to win a popularity contest, but lately I had become more withdrawn. It wasn’t by choice, really, but more from a lack of social skills—in this field I had potential that never really got developed. I was too shy. And I was never any good at casual conversation. The trendy topics always seemed inane to me, and I could never think of anything to say when they came up. And even on those rare occasions when I did manage to think of something clever to contribute, I could never get it out successfully. My timing was usually off, so that my comments came too early or, more often, too late. Either that or I would suddenly become so timid, speaking so self-consciously and with so much anxiety, that the whole point would become lost in the utter awkwardness of my manner. In those moments, it was actually a relief to have my voice drowned out by someone louder and more confident. Eventually, I gave up. And my quietness, which might have made a more attractive woman appear demure or mysterious, rendered me all but invisible. I blended into the woodwork as inconspicuously as any ordinary knot or other imperfection. But although I am painfully shy and awkward around people, I still enjoy being around them. My need for human companionship is so strong that it doesn’t even matter if no one notices me. I’m usually content to simply watch those around me.

This, and other more recent developments, had created a great restlessness in me by the time I found Vincent. I still remember the moment I first saw him with a vividness that has more clarity than the actual event, which took place in a kind of haze of orange lighting distorted by wispy vapors of cigarette smoke. I was sitting in a dim corner of a crowded bar. It was a noisy, run-down little hole-in-the-wall with low ceilings and outdated acoustics. On that particular evening, I was glad for the noise. Every now and then a waitress would stop and say something, which always surprised me because I had come to believe that I really was becoming invisible. I was halfheartedly sipping at a lukewarm hot toddy. The jukebox, which carried a wide variety of pop songs from every culture, was playing a tune that caught my attention. With each chorus refrain, it kept repeating the same unsettling idiom over and over again, and I felt my face grow warm with mortification as I waited fretfully for it to end. The strong, male voice, with its rich Southern twang, crooned out—rather insensitively, I thought—the words, Lonely women make good lovers.

As I listened to the song I couldn’t help wondering how this popular country-music star, who no doubt had his choice of beautiful women, happened to know this. It was true, of course, which was why the song caused me so much discomfort. I knew firsthand how rare and extraordinary a thing a lover is to a lonely woman. All of her pent-up fantasies and cravings only grow stronger with the long periods of privation, building an enthusiasm in her that is difficult to contain. Naturally she’s eager, as the country singer so aptly pointed out. She cannot help but feel appreciative. She is able to feast sumptuously on trifles scarcely capable of tempting more fortunate women. At least that was something, then. How could a woman who receives more than her fair share of attention comprehend the pleasure of, say, simply being noticed? Can the mere thought of a lover’s touch cause her to tremble when there are men reaching for her at every opportunity? I have seen women turn away from a lover’s caress in contempt, and it is the men, in those cases, who know of the pleasure I speak.

The men in the bar that night, however, did not appear the least bit interested in the country singer’s advice. As always, they clustered deferentially around the most desirable women. I recognized their yearning enough to sympathize. But the women were distracted, although they laughed and flirted mechanically. One man in particular had fully captured their attention. He had captured mine as well. The influence of his charm was inescapable. I had been watching him with interest throughout the night.

There wasn’t any one thing that was especially unique or exceptional in Vincent’s appearance or personality. He blended in with other men brilliantly, and even had a peculiar ambiguity about him that caused you to wonder, after the fact, what it was that impressed you so much. In his manner—and I came to know it well in the weeks that followed—there was something completely and utterly charming. As well, I found his character to be extremely well-rounded. He was in every way confident, yet often humble. He was kind but not susceptible. He was amusing but never foolish. Of his attributes I could go on and on. The closest thing to a flaw that I was ever able to detect in him was his penchant for shallow relationships. He had an untiring aptitude for developing new acquaintances, but he never allowed anyone to come close to seeing the full spectrum of his personality. I understood the necessity of this, mind you, but I wondered that he never seemed dissatisfied with these fleeting connections, realizing, as he must have, how easily someone like him could have developed a closer bond. That he could capture a woman’s heart was certain. If he were ever known, he would most certainly be loved. Isn’t that what every living thing desires?

From among the beauties that were eyeing Vincent that night, he selected a rather—I felt—shallow and insipid woman. She had little to offer of either charm or substance. Even worse, there was a meanness about her that should have offended a man like Vincent. She was rude to those around her and even cruel to the waitstaff. I didn’t know Vincent at the time, of course, but even so, she seemed so opposite to him that I wondered how he could tolerate her.

This was what triggered my curiosity, and it held my interest throughout the night. Watching Vincent interact with the woman, I became more and more convinced that he felt little more than antipathy, if not outright dislike, for her. He was, of course, charming and courteous—Vincent would never be needlessly cruel—but his aversion was evident. I could see it in his expression and detect it in the ironic tone of his remarks.

When they finally left the bar, together, I found myself following at a leisurely pace. I had no particular plan, nor was I working very hard to keep them in my sight. I was not in the habit of following people. I just kind of hovered in the distance, drawn as if by some kind of invisible force. I think I sensed that something peculiar was about to happen. The two of them being together seemed to foretell it.

It was remarkably easy. The woman happened to live in a nearby apartment and, it being a balmy night in the densely populated city, it was not surprising that they walked. Many times since that night I’ve hailed cabs and actually uttered the words, “Follow that car,” which illustrates the strength of the force that drew me to Vincent. But there were usually other people scattered about, livening up the dark streets. Just like at the bars, I blended in seamlessly on city streets, with hardly ever a soul noticing me.

I wish I could tell you something novel and exceptional about the way it happened, or to perhaps add some small nuance to the legends and folklore. But it is novel and exceptional to actually watch it happening in real life, right before your eyes! I can assure you that the event was abundantly exceptional and even shocking as it is. I suppose people will always need to embellish an event, no matter how extraordinary it is. To the folklore I have nothing to add. The most remarkable thing, from my point of view as I peered in through a small opening in a curtain, was the ease with which it was carried out.