A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland had finally returned to Kalispell last night after his long bloody journey.
It had been a strange quest of revenge, to help one revolutionary kill another revolutionary traitor. Both of them were enemies to England, and Roland was still processing the complex emotions surrounding the events of the dark week he'd shared with that half-mad Irishwoman. In the end, he'd simplified it to a single fact: An assassin had tried to murder a woman in the streets, right in front of his gun shop.
That was his part in it. The thing he could not abide. The reason he'd ridden all across the country to engage in a murder spree.
Now he was back, and it felt like the sleepy town of Kalispell had gone on without him, never noticing his absence. That was deceptive, of course. Events didn't stop occurring when you were no longer staring at them. The looming Range War was incrementing towards violence in secret steps. The difficulties of the townsfolk carried on. Their tiny daily triumphs were still celebrated.
But there was one thing that had indeed been stopped short by his departure.
Something he intended to remedy.
There were complicated relationships and romances that needed to be sorted.
And so, he found himself at Kalispell's premier barber shop, a wrapped soft package tied with a ribbon under one arm.
He stepped inside, and flipped the 'Out to Lunch' sign on the door to deter any new entrants.
Then he turned to regard the proprietress whom he hadn't seen since their intense meeting at his gun shop weeks prior. She'd run out on him after they'd been interrupted at the conclusion of their encounter. He could only imagine what had been in her mind since then. She'd probably been precariously on a razor's edge, wondering what it all meant. Then wondering what had become of Roland when he'd left town.
It was time to put peace to that.
It was time to decide where they stood.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
He stepped inside, and flipped the 'Out to Lunch' sign on the door to deter any new entrants.
Zenobia, within, turned and saw him. She looked impassive as she pushed past him without a word of greeting, locked the door and pulled down the blinds. She then returned to the table where she kept all her scissors and combs and pomades and turned back to him with an open straight blade in her hand.
"Shave, Sir?" she asked in a rather menacing tone in her voice.
"Sit down, Mister Smith, please. This one is 'on the house'" she commanded, Without waiting for a reply she turned and, putting down the razor, picked up a shaving cup in which she began to lather up a good thick foam. She turned again.
"I had heard from common rumour that after our, 'unfortunate misunderstanding', you left town in the company of a young woman. Dark hair, sharp features. It seems you have a type, Mister Smith" she was whipping up his shaving cream with a fury "You may wish to know that I had an 'unfortunate misunderstanding' with a man once before. He also left town soon afterwards. I vowed that if any man ever did that to me again, Mister Smith, I would slit his throat from ear to ear." she went on impassively.
She approached him with the shaving brush and foaming cup.
"Sit still, Mister Smith, don't fidget."
@[Cuban_Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland hesitated as she offered him a shave, that razor held at the ready.
That there is an angry woman, Roland thought. But he still went to sit in the barber's chair.
"Maybe a bit on the cheeks," he said, being the sort to enjoy some hair on his upper lip and chin.
"I had heard from common rumour that after our, 'unfortunate misunderstanding', you left town in the company of a young woman. Dark hair, sharp features. It seems you have a type, Mister Smith."
"Hmm," Roland said, "I consider our encounter neither unfortunate nor misunderstood. Quite the contrary, I think we had a vigorous and enjoyable mutual understanding."
Considering the rest, he added, "You may be right that I have a type, though." He did not add that the type was likely best termed 'women in need.'
"You may wish to know that I had an 'unfortunate misunderstanding' with a man once before. He also left town soon afterwards. I vowed that if any man ever did that to me again, Mister Smith, I would slit his throat from ear to ear."
Her voice was eerily calm. The sort of calm that promised blood. But her hands were vigorous enough with frothing up the shaving cream so as to hint as what she might be capable of when the levy broke.
"My leaving was not to do with you, or any understanding of ours," he promised, "an assassin shot at someone on my doorstep, and I took offense. That's the short of it."
"Sit still, Mister Smith, don't fidget."
Roland might have fidgeted a little. "I came here to find out what you'd like to make of us, Zenobia. Not to fight about it, nor to worry over razor blades.
I came to find out if you still had that heat in you. And that sweet dew on the petals of your rose.
And if so, what you might want it to mean, or to become... if anything at all."
He watched her hand, then the razor where she'd placed it, and finally he looked into her eyes.
"I thought you might like it if someone actually tried to hear what you wanted for a change."
Roland had an image in his mind of who Zenobia Matthews was. And in his mind, she was a woman who had been shown far too little consideration, far too many times. No one was born like this. She was the product of a hard, abrasive life.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
Roland might have fidgeted a little. "I came here to find out what you'd like to make of us, Zenobia. Not to fight about it, nor to worry over razor blades."
"I'm not worried over razor blades, are you?" she asked, slathering the foam over the areas of his face that he habitually did not leave hirsute. "And it is 'Miss Matthews' to you, Mister Smith. I do not believe I gave you leave to call me by my Christian name." she added, primly. This to the man who had had her roughly over his shop counter a fortnight ago!
"I came to find out if you still had that heat in you. And that sweet dew on the petals of your rose. And if so, what you might want it to mean, or to become... if anything at all."
She walked over and picked up the razor again and pulled a leather strop tight from its hook on the wall. She started to sharpen the already lethally sharp blade on the strop, whipping it rhythmically back and forth with a slapping noise while she looked at him, a mirthless deadpan look on her pretty but stern face.
"If you are referring to to that 'sweet dew' that you yourself deposited upon my, as you term it 'rose' I am afraid that it has slowly dried up over a period of weeks. Some blossoms must be regularly watered, Mister Smith." She came over and dropped a towel on his lap, and, close and near began to shave him: slowly, lovingly. When foam built up on the blade, she lowered it to the towel covering his crotch and wiped it clean on there with a slow slicing motion on the flat of the blade. He soon had a little heap of white cream on the towel in his lap.
She stroked his hair back as she shaved him, her breath was hot and on him, her hands were softer and gentler than either her words or her basilisk stare.
He watched her hand, then the razor where she'd placed it, and finally he looked into her eyes.
"I thought you might like it if someone actually tried to hear what you wanted for a change."
"What I want to know, Mr Smith." she said, standing up straight, having finished giving him a good, clean, close shave. "Is to know what is in that package you have been so nervously toying with?" She wiped the blade off properly and placed it back on the table.
@[Cuban_Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"I'm not worried over razor blades, are you?"
Roland swallowed, "Perhaps a bit, if I'm being honest..."
"And it is 'Miss Matthews' to you, Mister Smith. I do not believe I gave you leave to call me by my Christian name."
"Dear Zenobia, at the risk of my neck, I believe we've moved well past the bounds of anything Christian," Roland said, "unless you count the song of Solomon."
The unifying factor of boarding schools in London was their severe Christian bent. Yet no boy forced to live with the Bible for breakfast, lunch, and dinner failed to find the veritably pornographic chapter ensconced within:
'Let my beloved come into his garden, and taste its choice fruits...' It was a wonder the pages weren't sticky.
"...I am afraid that it has slowly dried up over a period of weeks. Some blossoms must be regularly watered, Mister Smith..."
Roland shook his head slowly, as much as her attentions would allow, "Oh no, Zenobia. You have been revealed to me. A flower with fresh dew every morning, pooled for the probing of an attentive bee. I well remember your ready nectar, ripe and sweet and wet and waiting. If I slipped a finger even now to test your petals, I think I'll find anything but dry and wilted blossoms."
"What I want to know, Mr Smith, Is what is in that package you have been so nervously toying with?"
It seemed to Roland that she'd been the one toying with his package, but he decided not to say so. He un-tucked the wrapped and ribboned 'gift' he'd brought, and held it out to her as he sat up straighter.
"Something you left with me. As much as I've enjoyed having it, I thought you might need it, unless you've started to go without. A slipped finger would tell me that, too, I suppose."
He patted his lap. "If you'll sit with me, all will be revealed on that score.
But in truth, Zenobia, I came here for more than the thrill of your ministrations.
This country of yours has proved perilous and wild, with an endless parade of possibilities and dangers. I've seen blood and I've seen beauty, felt kindness and cruelty, life and death, pleasure and pain. I never seem to know which is around the corner, waiting to ambush me or invite me to make my own ambush.
It is a heady chaos, but perhaps I crave some security of certainty to make my sanctuary within. I'd set aside this uncertainty, at least: I'd know the mind of one Zenobia Matthews. Christian, un-Christian, and everything between."
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"Dear Zenobia, at the risk of my neck, I believe we've moved well past the bounds of anything Christian," Roland said, "unless you count the song of Solomon. Let my beloved come into his garden, and taste its choice fruits...' It was a wonder the pages weren't sticky."
"Don't try and sweet talk me with canticles, Mr Smith" she warned. He tried more of his usual poetical and metaphorical blandishments, but she resisted his honeyed words.
"What I want to know, Mr Smith, Is what is in that package you have been so nervously toying with?"
"Something you left with me. As much as I've enjoyed having it, I thought you might need it, unless you've started to go without. A slipped finger would tell me that, too, I suppose."
She took the proffered package and pulled at the ribbon. The neatly folded and, frankly, slightly stained under-drawers unfurled like a flag on the 4th of July. Her cheeks coloured. "I wouldn't want you to have to exercise yourself on that score, Sir, let me inform you of that myself." she said crossly, swinging the rotating chair sideways so she could stand directly in front of his recumbent form.
"Thanks to your tardiness in returning to me the source of my modesty, you will be pleased to hear that I have been reduced, these last nineteen days, to the humiliating and inconvenient expedient of going about my everyday business attired thusly..." she reached down and grabbed the hem of her dress and petticoats at the front and slowly raised them. Roland, despite his earlier statement, was probably surprised not so much at what he saw there as what he didn't see.
"Yes, Mister Smith, every gust of wind, every attempt to climb an open staircase, every lifting of my skirts to skip over a puddle has exposed me to the risk of the scorn and derision of the whole town. I, who was once praised as a paragon of virtue in this town, now forced to wear your breezy brand, your pantalette-less mark of shame." she gushed, laying it on perhaps a little thick: after all, her dress went down to her ankles and weighed a ton. Also, she had spare pairs at home, surely? But she had enjoyed the thrill of going bloomer-less for two weeks and telling herself it was because he lovingly slept with her missing pair under his pillow on the trail.
"Why, Mr Smith, why after roughly taking me in your store, in front of the biggest gossip in town, no less, did you demean me further by withholding from me my... my precious necessities?!"
He patted his lap. "If you'll sit with me, all will be revealed on that score."
She walked over, still holding up her skirts and letting the cool air get to her warmer parts and wordlessly cocked a black woolen stockinged leg over, so she was straddling his bony knees..
"But in truth, Zenobia, I came here for more than the thrill of your ministrations."
She undid his belt.
"This country of yours has proved perilous and wild, with an endless parade of possibilities and dangers."
She undid his top trouser button.
"I've seen blood and I've seen beauty, felt kindness and cruelty, life and death, pleasure and pain."
She undid his second trouser button.
"I never seem to know which is around the corner, waiting to ambush me or invite me to make my own ambush."
She undid his third trouser button and released his manhood.
"It is a heady chaos, but perhaps I crave some security of certainty to make my sanctuary within. I'd set aside this uncertainty, at least"
For a change, she undid the buttons on the front of her dress and put his big powerful hands on her chemise-covered breasts.
"I'd know the mind of one Zenobia Matthews. Christian, un-Christian, and everything between."
"Oh, shut up Roland!" she growled and with a grunt lowered herself onto him.
The Archer Company of Saint Louis, Mo. would have been immensely proud of how their patented, leather upholstered, cast iron Excelsior series barber's chair stood up the the immense stresses and strains it was tested under over the next thirty minutes.
@[Cuban_Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
As it turned out, Roland would first become intimately familiar with 'everything between.'
Zenobia was much more the wanton than he might ever have suspected. One might almost get the sensation that the fairer sex craved the passions of human connection as much as he did. A novel and revolutionary consideration.
And he did crave it. Relished in it. It was a nearly religious ecstasy that surpassed anything he'd been exposed to by the Church.
The rise and fall, the warm embrace. The hot delight of her sacred place. The curves and rises of her form, the fabrics which both concealed and adorned. Now pulled aside and apart, a quickening ride and clenching start. The spurt of joy and final cries, that moment when all reason dies. The flushing flesh and parted lips, as thighs rode upon thrashing hips.
No sermon or temple could match it. This was where Roland prayed.
And beaded with sweat, his essence emptied deep into Zenobia, he laid back in the chair and smiled softly.
"I'm surprised this shop isn't more popular," he dared to jest with whispered, breathy words.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
It could not be an accident, it had to be some cosmic alignment: that they could reach their peak at exactly the same time twice in a row. What were the odds? She felt it. It was warm.
And beaded with sweat, his essence emptied deep into Zenobia, he laid back in the chair and smiled softly.
"I'm surprised this shop isn't more popular," he dared to jest with whispered, breathy words.
She buried her face in his chest "It isn't funny, you bastard." she whispered. She reached up her fingers and ran them over his face, the wiry bristles of his beard, the smooth places she had shaved, then his hair, running between her fingers forever and ever. She had not had a chance to know this before; the afterglow. It was a shock. She thought she would want to run away. She thought she would want to brush what they had done under the carpet... and forget it. But no: though she was physically satisfied, she wanted to relive it again and again in her head.
She sat up, still sitting on his slushily diminishing manhood.
She didn't understand how they could be so physically compatible, have such an animal attraction to one another when they didn't even know each other. Roland clearly wanted to rectify that, but somehow she thought it might be almost irrelevant.
She looked down into his face. She hadn't really even looked at it properly before. How odd.
No.
This happiness could not exist in her world. Or rather: in her Father's world.
The spectre of him rose up now before her.
She suddenly clambered off her erstwhile lover, and walked over to the scissors table, picking up a small shaving towel, bringing it back over and attending to him before cleaning herself up. "I must remember not to use that on someone's face tomorrow." she said, deadpan. She buttoned him up. She walked to where the discarded drawers were sat and reached behind them... and pulled out another pair: the ones she had been wearing all day.
"You didn't really think I'd been half naked for the last two weeks in homage to your absent prick did you? I saw you walking across through the window." she informed him as she pulled them on, shortly before glancing at the big clock on the wall of the shop. "You'd better go; my father will be here soon for the takings. He mustn't see you. Please go out the back way."
She looked at him coldly, as had been her wont before.
"I don't think you should come again. This... this isn't right. It will only cause us trouble. I'm sorry, it's my fault. Goodbye Roland."
It was then she knew that she was in love with him.
@[Cuban_Writer]