Apology: in honor of the Gothic Romance

That afternoon they had gone for a wild ride on the worn and splintery sled of his boyhood, and came as close to flying as a human body could, and when they alit again, he laughed unexpectedly, hardly recognizing the sound, for he was never one to laugh. He knew right away that she would like him a little too much for it.

He would send her away very soon.

And yes, he told himself honestly, remembering it now, he missed the physical closeness, the unrefined howling thrill of feeling, the delicious smell of it, the gripping flesh, unbinding of muscles and sinew and surge of blood and the biting, sucking, swallowing raw lust…she looked sideways at him, in the darkening room, and gave him a very odd apology; what had she to apologize for?

He didn’t answer, but disengaged himself and went to close and latch the window, for it had blown open in the storm. He stood for a long time looking with dispassion at the white fields behind the house, all the way down to the little river, winding its way through whiteness. The snow made the village into something very nearly beautiful, he thought. It did not happen often that loveliness visited here.








P.s. I've been lately enjoying a variety of Gothic tales, with rotten overly controlled and dark heroes, hence this bit of folly


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