"Turn your goddamned head before I do it for ya."

          Sophie's face was like those of the dolls posed upon her mantle: a delicate frame in cherry blossom skin; tufts and feathers of walnut hair falling to a face beset with eyes of flawless copper; eyes which stared with such helpless abandon, they betrayed her. Two fingers came upon her temples and pressed lightly. "Did ya not hear me?" Her head twisted. From her ear to left eye, she was submerged in the ruffles of her pillow.

          The truth was that her eyes terrified him. Of course, there was nothing inherently disturbing about them. They were beautiful. It was the fear of what they had broadcast that gripped at his gullet like a noose. In their gaze, it was not she who choked him so; indeed, it was the awakening of such a self-loathing that his own throat forbade the air passage. He looked upon her eyes as the guilty look upon the judge, and when he pushed her head to the pillow, it was the same as when the guilty turn to hide their faces. He regained his composition shortly after and continued his task.

          Sophie was still and her breath was unusually calm. There was a sock tied in a foible knot upon her lips, but it was unnecessary. She didn't cry; she didn't make a sound. She lay limp and docile, completely separate from her body. In her mind, what was happening was nothing but a nightmare that the dreamcatcher missed. She still fought to contain herself, for whether it be fantasy or not, she was afraid.

          He didn’t take long to begin, nor would he take long to finish. He bore down upon her with his formidable weight, moaning like they did in the movies he’d watch. He was fulfilling himself, and satisfying an urge forsaken by the many prospective partners who did him the injustice of discerning who he really was. Perhaps that’s what lead him to Sophie: one so innocent, she was incapable of judging him as absolutely as others had.

          He tilted his head down, eyeing Sophie’s face once more. She was as his hands left her, still folded into the pillow and staring intently past the side of the bed. Curiously, he followed her eyes toward their mark.

          They were set on the armoire.

          It was a bulky thing, and seemed so out-of-place in a child’s room. It stood well over six feet and spanned laterally another three. The burnished walnut doors and drawers were carved simply yet elegantly, and were distinguished with brass knobs and knockers, respectively. It looked old, though in very fair condition. A few dings and scrapes were scattered amongst the grain.

          Feeling that he had digressed more than enough, he had just begun to turn his head back towards his current agenda when his peripheral picked up a mild peculiarity on the doors of the armoire. In the center of the left cabinet, there could be seen two knots which bore an awful resemblance to a pair of human eyes. They were of the proper shape, like a pair of lemons withered in the sun. The very grain between them fell and widened, and the culminating form vaguely recalled a nose.

          The coincidence was uncanny and not at all lost on him; much in the manner he had grew unnerved by Sophie, these knot-eyes chilled him thoroughly and he again lost his concentration. He tried to continue his motions, to reach his climax, but couldn't resist looking back to the visage. He faltered.

          Sophie lay as still as she always had when he reluctantly pulled away. He retied his belt and zipped his shaggy jeans, looking to the floor for no further judgment. That night, he was thwarted by the knots of a walnut armoire.

          The rain fell lightly upon shuttered windows, casting a pleasing staccato about the walls of the studio apartment. Mickey rested upon his recliner. He'd have been completely oblivious to the world outside if not for the brief intermissions of life the television presented. Nothing out of the average was to be seen of that day, and all throughout the town, it was a time of repose.

          Mickey was helping himself to a jar of pitted black olives when he heard a truck pull up not too far from the closest window. He stuffed another several of the pungent things in his cheeks. Slowly rising from his seat, he wiped the residue on his raggedy jeans and went to peer out the window. An unfamiliar blue hatchback was parked in the driveway. There was no driver to be seen.

          He sat back down, thinking they had come for someone else. Seduced by the television, he again found himself lost in its numbing glow.

          The grate of the buzzer startled him. His figure twitched in his recliner, and once more, he was up and headed to the door. He opened it so the chain of the lock remained taught, and through the crack, he commanded “Who’s there?”

          “An old acquaintance.” It was a young woman’s voice. By her tone of her voice, he thought she could only have just finished high school. “Please let me in.”

          Sensing no danger and curious as to who this woman may be, Mickey undid the lock and swung the door open. He greeted the stranger with a strained smile. “Come in, just mind the carpet.” (A sort of lie, as he had never thought to maintain it until now.) “Can I take your jacket?”

          “Yes; thank you.”

          Mickey was instantly captivated by the stranger’s appearance, foremost by her figure. She was certainly ample, though the loose sweater revealed beneath her dampened trench coat did her no justice. She stood a few inches beneath him, making her about 5’6”. She quickly ran her fingers through her hair to void the rain. It came down and hung past her chest; it was thick and of darkened ebony. Her eyes were like coins of polished copper in the midst of the desert sand that was her skin. Her lips moved airily as she thanked him and handed over her coat.

          Mickey would be ravished in comparison, the homely man he was. He knew this, and the fibers of his confidence rattled with every word she spoke. He regretted this position in the wayfaring of human attraction but accepted it just the same. Like any good host, he offered her a chair at his kitchen table. “It’s not much for comfort, but I suppose it’s better-’en standin’.” They sat at adjacent sides of the table. “Now what makes you wanna come up and visit ol’ Mickey, miss?"

          The stranger explained that he had known her as she was growing up. He had apparently been an old friend of her father‘s, and used to be about their house often. She reminded him of what he used to look like, what he would do with his facial hair and such, as if he required proof of her sincerity. Her voice wavered and nearly stuttered on occasion, yet Mickey didn’t seem to notice. Expressionless, he continued to stare directly into those copper eyes, noting their warmth, and the unspeakable things he’d do to have them to gaze back with admiration.

          She had apparently come from out of state to visit her father. She was a currently a student of an out-of-state university, and only had the chance to see him every few weeks. They no doubt put a good deal of effort into keeping up a healthy relationship, and she was proud of that. He continued to remain in his hometown, confident that he would never be abandoned.

          Her voice intermittently trailed off and silence began to permeate the kitchen. There was a faint sound of the television left on, and the rain outside still trickled down the shutters, but otherwise, there was nothing. Mickey cocked his head in confusion. “Something wrong, miss?”

          She didn’t respond.

          Mickey leaned forward. “Why’d you come visit me of all people, anyway?”

          The smell of olives was still fresh on his tongue; she winced out of her idle stupor. As she looked to the tabletop, her eyes flashed with new emotion. She cleared her throat. “I need to talk to you about something that happened long ago.”

          Mickey withdrew his neck and curiously provoked her explanation.

          “You did something to me that I’ve only recently come to terms with,” she continued. Mickey’s jugular sank into his neck and his tired eyes widened anew in astonishment. “When I was a girl, you...” Her voice trailed off again, though Mickey knew exactly what was to be said. His breath was lost to him.

          “You took my innocence,” she finished. “You raped me.”

          Mickey nearly convulsed in his seat. He couldn’t fathom it; that the girl from so long ago would someday live to accuse him of his transgressions, let alone remember them.

          Sophie sat silently in her chair, though her heart beat like the drum of a kingdom under siege. Tears were scarcely held back by the ceaseless stare convicting and accusing the man who so wronged her. She observed his face twisting as realization battered his psyche.

          Mickey rose drunkenly from his chair and stumbled towards the counter. His belly hit the corner and folded; his chin fell to its cool surface of faux marble. Sophie lifted off her seat and stood facing him. “I need to talk about this, and I‘ve never had the courage to until now. You owe me so fucking much. What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck did you do?” Her voice now boomed with passion. The captive tears freed themselves of the corners of her eyes and cascaded down her flushed cheeks. She took a step towards her broken opponent.

          Just as her foot hit the next vinyl square in the flooring, Sophie made a dire realization. Mickey wasn’t alone in his suffering. As a child will caress their dearest stuffed toy, he fingered his previously-concealed pistol with despair and excitement. He brushed the grip lightly with his fingertips, eyeing the barrel up-and-down.

          She gasped and instinctively shrunk downwards as not to be noticed, to little avail. Mickey turned his focus toward her, though his hands (and weapon) remain positioned on the kitchen counter. He glared. “Is that right?” he mockingly inquired. The flushness of her cheeks fleeted in an instant; she was now a sight beheld of absolute dread.

          With what courage lingered in her throbbing chest, Sophie made a break for the door, ignoring her trench coat along the way. Mickey pounced at her but fell short and stumbled over her chair. Her grasping hands seemed like they would’ve cleaved the hinges in twain, had they not opened so effortlessly; she sprinted down the stairs and to her car situated in the parking lot. She frantically searched herself for the keys, then realizing that they were still in the inner pocket of her trench coat. No matter, she thought (perhaps too optimistically for the occasion), for her father’s house wasn’t a great distance from where she then stood. She took off, the prey of a predator, with the sound of Mickey‘s hefty footsteps trailing her in the distance.

Quahogs

Take me back to the turquoise seas
We'll stray the crimpled strip of sand
Let me taste the salty breeze

Life's common womb up to my knees
My ear to your hip, I'll stand
Take me back to the turquoise seas

Pinched and plucked with expertise
A dollop of life in the palm of your hand
Let me taste the salty breeze

Though they hide, you'll find them with ease
And by day's wane, I'll understand
Take me back to the turquoise seas

Wrap me in terrycloth before I freeze
The effulgence will seem so grand
Let me taste the salty breeze

Though your absence, I'll appease
As my heart will so demand
Take me back to the turquoise seas
Let me taste the salty breeze