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She comes to him. After Christmas break their third year, she comes to him. He isn’t expecting her; she just shows up, out of nowhere, with wide, sparkling, blue eyes.
After the holiday, he feared she would never come to his dorm room again. He was too forward, he thought, when he kissed her on New Year’s. It wasn’t even a real kiss, just on the corner of her mouth, but she had stared at him, puzzled expression blatant on her face. It was no big deal, he attempted to convince himself, it was just a New Year’s kiss. After all, she had kissed his cheek when he gave his Christmas present to her. Granted, it was after everyone went to bed, and she stood in his doorway, holding the small velvet box containing the silver charm bracelet he knew she had been eyeing while they shopped in Kingston. He was too embarrassed to give it to her that morning, so he waited. After dinner, while she was finishing the dishes with her sister, he snuck into her room and placed the carefully wrapped box on her pillow, then dashed back into his own room, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t want to see her face when she opened it, it would have been too much.
But she had knocked on his door, a couple hours later, the house dark, muffled snores of their siblings in the background. He hadn’t written his name, but he knew she would figure it out. Her smile was brilliant, bright. Her eyes a shiny, glittery blue. She hadn’t even changed into her pajamas yet, and neither had he, too anxious to get himself ready for bed. To him, it didn’t matter what she had gotten him; he would cherish it silently, secretly, even if it was something simple.
She didn’t speak, so neither did he. Instead, she reached her arms to wrap around his neck, and pull him into a rare hug. He had started to allow himself the soft embrace of her when they left for university, no parents or step parents to oversee them. He allowed himself the small pleasures of her touch; her hand lingering on his back when he pulled her under his arm, when she tended to his bruised body after a particularly grueling game, when she drank just a little too much, and he had to get her back to her room safely, when he ran lines with her for whatever play she was auditioning for, and the script called for her hand on his cheek, or his breath against her ear.
He returned her hug, his arms automatically moving to her waist, careful not to caress his fingers down her spine. His head lowered to settle in her neck, his eyes closed. Her smile didn’t cease, and he could have sworn he felt wetness on the side of his face when he pulled back, his cheek grazing hers. He couldn’t look at her eyes, so he looked at her mouth. It was worse, he thought, and before he could divert his gaze up to her eyes, she leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his cheek. His eyelids slid shut at the sensation, and he couldn’t breathe. She had let her mouth linger for more than was appropriate for a kiss between step siblings. As he was gathering the courage to tilt his head to meet her lips with his, she left. Her arms fell away, her body slipped out of his grasp, and before he could open his eyes, her door swiftly shut closed.
He didn’t sleep that night.
When the countdown to the new year started, they were at a bar. Friends and strangers surrounded them, but for him, it was just the two of them. Him and her. Everyone else could have been dancing naked with top hats, for all he cared. She had him, one arm around his waist, his around her shoulders, as they watched the live broadcast on one of the bar’s mounted televisions. The seconds had passed slowly, and much too fast at the same time. His heart raced, he was going to do it. After witnessing her giving away kisses to previous boyfriends or lovers at midnight for years, he was going to be the one she deemed worthy enough to share the moment with.
Three.
He looked at her, her grin wide and beautiful.
Two.
Her blue eyes radiant.
One.
He leaned forward as she turned to the television. His lips landed at the right corner of her mouth. She pulled away first, round blue eyes surprised, maybe shocked, he couldn’t tell. But what was clear to him, was that she was not expecting it, and she couldn’t seem to talk to him after. They rode home in silence, and avoided each other until their inevitable drive back to Queen’s. They only spoke in short words and sentences. He was ashamed of himself. He thought he could read her so well, knew her better than anyone else in the world. But he’s been wrong about her before.
It is mid January, when she comes to him. She is unexpected, after what happened.
He freezes in his doorway, hand still gripping the doorknob tight. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. She looks like a contradiction of comfort and distress. He can see the nervousness in her eyes, the tautness of her shoulders, but she’s dressed in comfortable yoga pants, her thin long-sleeved shirt, and under it, the straps of a tight-fitting tank. He knows what that outfit meant; she has an audition.
“I’m auditioning for the new production,” her voice is small. She bites her lip.
“Okay,” he sounds dehydrated.
She looks at her feet, arms clutching three notebooks close to her chest. “Will you run lines with me?”
He steps aside, allowing her to cross the threshold into his room. He is lucky his roommate is out on a date, he thinks.
She walks in slowly, her eyes keep to the floor. He closes the door behind her, and she keeps her back to him. They need to get back to normal, he thinks, he wants to set aside the almost-kiss, and wants to pretend it never happened, as long as she looks at him again.
He moves, cautious, to walk around her, to stand before her. He’s scared, he doesn’t know what to do.
He clears his throat, “Listen, about—”
She cuts him off, “It’s an Oscar Wilde tragedy, originally written in French in 1891. It was banned by Parliament, well, by Lord Chamberlain, because he thought it was illegal to portray biblical characters in such a way.”
He pauses, and lets her speak. It’s best not to interrupt her, sometimes. She doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, he tries to convince himself. He isn’t one for talking about feelings, anyway. She is just saving him the humiliation.
“What’s it about?” He asks, instead.
She finally looks at him, a soft smiling gracing her lips. She looks relieved, that she doesn’t have to acknowledge anything weird between them. He’s just glad she’s looking at him again.
“Salomé. She was the step daughter of the Tetrarch Herod, and daughter of Herodias. She’s a dancer,”she is vague in her answer, but he knows she only does this because he’s not interested in theatre, he’s only humoring her.
“And what part are you auditioning for?”
Her smile is no longer gentle, it’s mischievous. It unsettles him.
“Salomé.”
He’s leaning against the back of his couch, facing her, one arm across his torso, the other holding his script. She is a few feet before him, gracefully moving about, as if she is already on the stage. Her script is in her left hand, her right floating through the air.
“How sweet is the air here! I can breathe here! Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies—”
“Uh…isn’t that a little anti-Semitic?”
“I agree, it’s not appropriate, and I’m not one hundred percent comfortable actually saying these lines, but it’s a part in a play. This is the only production they are doing this semester, and I’m trying to get as much theatre in as possible before I go to law school. I won’t have time to do this after we graduate. Salomé isn’t exactly a nice person. She’s spoiled, she wants men to crawl at her feet, and she’ll do anything to get what she wants. She’s vengeful and greedy. But, this is set in biblical times, and she was a woman who didn’t let men dictate what to do or what to say. She used her feminism to control the men in her life. She was strong, even if she was evil. No one is immune to sin, and no one is wholly without flaws. It just so happens, that her flaws are pretty enormous. Anyway, can we get back to it?”
“Okay. Proceed, Princess.”
Her voice is higher pitched than he is used to. She sounds like she is trying to portray a wily female, someone who knows the art of manipulation.
“You are making me wait upon your pleasure.”
He knows he is not an actor, but he still tries, for her.
“Princess,” he thinks it’s ironic, “our lives belong to you, but we cannot do what you have asked of us. And indeed, it is not of us that you should ask this thing.”
He stands, motionless, as she prowls towards him. He wants to think she’s just a really great actress, with how she is looking at him, like she wants him. He knows it can’t possibly be real. She made it clear to him, she doesn’t want him in that way. She is acting.
“Speak again, Iokanaan. Thy voice is as music to mine ear.”
She’s too close to him. Her breath soaks into his skin, her voice starts to lower. He hates how much he likes it.
“Speak again! Speak again, Iokanaan, and tell me what I must do.”
He breathes deep, “Daughter of Sodom, come not near me!” He wishes his character didn’t say such lines. “But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert, and seek out the Son of Man.” Who in their right mind would deny her?
She steps closer, trails her fingertips over her exposed collarbone.
“Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art, Iokanaan?”
“Get thee behind me! I hear in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel of death. Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here with thy sword? Whom seekest thou in the palace? The day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come.”
Once again, he wonders what could possibly be a reason for any man to deny the woman before him. A small part of him wants to audition with her, to have an excuse to be this close to her.
“Iokanaan!”
“Who speaketh?” He does hate the old fashioned dialogue, though. He tries to move close to her, but she stops him. “No, you’re supposed to be in chains. You’re not allowed to move,” she whispers to him. A section of his mind comes up with additional meaning in her words, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought.
She continues, “I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body is white, like the lilies of the field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judaea, and come down into the valleys. The roses in the gardens of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the gardens of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea. There is nothing in this world so white as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body.”
She has a smirk on her face, his smirk, and she lets her fingers hover over his chest. He doesn’t fully understand the old fashioned vernacular, but he gets the gist of it. She stands close, closer than before, and he wants to tell her, yes, she can touch his body. But he knows it’s just the play, just the script. She would never say this to him otherwise. They way she is looking at him, though, makes him forget for just a moment.
His character, however, has other plans. “Back! Daughter of Babylon! By woman came evil into the world,” he snorts, she lightly slaps him, “speak not to me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God.” He officially hates Iokanaan. He can’t commit himself to portray the disdain his character has for hers. He simply cannot.
He watches as she expertly acts out against Iokanaan’s rejection of her, watches as her face takes a look of disgust. She insults his body, detailing how much her character detests it. It only stings a little bit, after all, it’s just a play. She doesn’t mean the insults she throws at him. But, just as quickly, she’s back to smirking at him, flirtatious glint in her eyes, as she continues.
“It is thy hair I am enamored, Iokanaan. Thy hair is like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black grapes that hang from the vine trees of Edom in the land of the Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like the great cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the lions and to the robbers who would hide them by day. The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not so black as thy hair. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is nothing in the world that is so black as thy hair. Suffer me to touch thy hair.”
Her hand brushes his light auburn hair. It’s not black, he thinks to himself, but it was once very dark after high school. Not that it matters, she’s not speaking to him. Only to his character. He pauses, reading ahead quickly. He doesn’t get to be touched by her, his character does not allow it. He thinks Iokanaan is stupid for not letting her seduce him. If it were him, they would already be naked on his bed.
His voice is low, gravelly. He doesn’t mean to sound like this, but her proximity to him is making him sweat. “Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not,” he hates it, “Profane not the temple of the Lord God.”
Once again, she recoils, insulting him, her disdain dripping at his rejection. She compares his (character’s) hair to serpents, and a crown of thorns. He doesn’t like this play, he decides. It’s stupid.
Without warning, she brings herself a hair’s breadth away from his lips, her words slide against his mouth. He finds it hard to steady his breathing, his eyes half-lidded. His character denies her, he knows this. So why is she so close to him? He stands tall, back straight, as he leans his head down a fraction. His nose nudges hers. She stares back, an intensity he can’t quite define in her gaze.
“It is thy mouth that I desire, Iokanaan.” He swallows, his heart races rapidly as she continues her monologue. Her voice is no longer the arrogant, smug, seductress tone. She whispers to him, and he wonders if this is part of the script. He knows the words are, but where before she was confident, assured, now she is breathless, and he thinks he’s imagining that she is as affected by their closeness as he is. “Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings,” he feels his script fall to the floor. He doesn’t move to pick it up. “and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who inhabit the temples and are fed by the priests,” he hears her script drop. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’s already memorized her lines. Her right hand takes residence on his left shoulder, she grips his shirt. He lets his hands tentatively rest on her hips. She doesn’t stop him, doesn’t remind him that he is supposed to be in chains. “It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings. It is like the vermillion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermillion that the kings take from them. It is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is tinted with vermillion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.”
His hands pull her flush against him. She gasps, a breath against his lips. Her hands both reach to the hair at the back of his neck, tugging lightly. He feels her charm bracelet, cool against his heated skin. He knows he is off-script. She knows it, too, but to his delight, she isn’t stopping him.
He presses his forehead against hers. He knows what he wants to do, he wants to kiss her. But after New Year’s, he’s afraid she will hate him. He takes a deep breath, “Casey,” he warns, “I…” one of his hands leaves her hip to cup her cheek, “I don’t want to be Iokanaan anymore. I want to be Derek.”
She blinks, and bites her lip, “I want to be Casey. Salomé doesn’t get to kiss Iokanaan.” She leans her head back slightly, “Well, she does, but not until Iokanaan is dead.”
He chuckles, “Please don’t kill me, Princess.” He knows he’s saying more than one thing, and he takes his chances at life.
She is ready for him this time. He guides her face to him, and touches his lips to hers.
She doesn’t pull away, and so neither does he.
She comes back to him, a week later.
“I didn’t get the part. They wanted a blonde.” She doesn’t sound as sad as she normally does when she doesn’t make the cut.
“Well, I think you made a perfect seductress.”
They don’t leave his bed for the rest of the night.