short story: quiver part three

Henry brings the crystal wine glass to his mouth and closes his eyes. He swallows the wine like water, hoping the bloody syrup will transport him back to the womb for rebirth, but when he opens his eyes all he sees is Alena’s face. He licks his index finger and slowly circles the lip of the glass. A shrill sound fills the room, over the restaurant’s classical music. The sound is so beautiful to Henry. It drowns out all the meaningless, dull voices. All the thoughts of how he will get up in the morning, have a shower, put on his suit, catch the train to work, sit in his office manipulating people, go on dates and have sex with mindless women, sleep but never really rest, and do it all over again every single say. He circles and circles the wine glass, transfixed by its singing.

‘Henry!’ Alena says staring at the menu. ‘Could you stop that irritating noise? We have to order.’

They place their orders and Alena starts again on money, about work, but Henry drifts off and thinks of when he was a child; he smiles remembering how easily his four-year-old-self made friends. Glances under eyelashes turned into smiles and innocent introductions. With a high voice he softly told his new friend how old he was, always remembering to count quarters and halves of course. His new friend would take him by the hand, girl or boy, and pull him into their imagination, living freely within a world of colours and smells and shapes and sizes. Never did they think of how one day they would grow up and their hearts would die.

Henry thinks about how he used to talk to his toys in the bathtub about things that would never have made sense to an observer but made the most sense to him. Grunts and squeals were music to him as he played in the water that always turned a bit yellow by the time it got cold, and he never worried about the moisture in his skin or whether or not he should shave his genital area.

His mother’s soft chest was the safest place to be. He remembers her heartbeat, and the way her voice sounded when he pressed his ear against her. He wishes he could still feel that warmth.

A child’s scream snaps Henry back to the present. Alena turns around to the wild child, flinging his arms in a tantrum.

‘That mother needs to control her son’, Alena snaps, shrivelling her face into a hideous expression.

Blood runs to the cheeks of the crying boy’s mother as the restaurant’s guests snicker. Henry smiles kindly as she tries to calm her unruly son.

Henry looks into Alena’s eyes. Black ice plagues his body. He dreams of the feeling of the sun gleaming through the bedroom window, warming his skin as it rises, pulling him to consciousness. His tired muscles give way, and Henry falls to the floor. He looks to the sparkling, white restaurant ceiling, closes his eyes, and opens his mouth wide. A cry escapes his lips. Henry’s arms flail and his body writhes on the ground. He cries for his loneliness and the hatred he feels for this city, this avaricious, monotonous life. Narrowed eyes stare at the adult man screaming on the floor. Henry pulls himself up, and yells into Alena’s mortified face.

‘I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU! Don’t you understand? I will never touch your skin with tenderness, or sleep happily next to you. It is people like you that make me quiver! You are everything I despise!’ Henry turns and runs through the still restaurant and out into the cold.

‘—Henry, more wine?’

Henry’s eyes blink away from his trance. Red wine trickles into his empty glass.