Writing Exercise: Dominique

      She sat reclined in the crook of an overstuffed, high-brow couch. Her ability to look so reposed on such a piece of furniture is what made her the center of any room and look organic in the posh surroundings.

      “Dominique,” he cried breathlessly from the ante-room, the door slamming unnecessarily behind him. She sat unmoving, leafing through the pages of the women’s magazine sitting in her lap previously unnoticed. He would find her; he would come to her. He was always the one to come to her, never the other way around.

      “Dominique,” he cried again as he appeared in the archway to the drawing room, still wearing his overcoat and crushing the felt hat in his over-wrought hands. He crossed the space of the room and dropped to the floor before her, trying to set himself in her eye line. She kept her eyes on the unread page for several moments until she felt his tension crest. Slowly looking up, her eyelashes rolled back to reveal her cool stare.

      “Dominique, my love,” he croaked out from his throat that sounded dry and to harsh. “I’ve done it. I’ve done it!” His face was held in an awkward kind of limbo. Asking for permission to be happy, on the verge of begging. She enjoyed it; she actually lived for it.

      “Done what my dear?” she asked sweetly, watching his face fall.

      “Sold my plan. I’ve been working on it for months. It’s all I talk about,” letting his voice trail off, hurt stamped on his face.

      “Good for you,” she replied in a saccharine voice as her eyes traveled back to the glossy pages. He remained kneeling for almost a full minuet before he got up. His hat forgotten on the carpet and shoulders slumped, he padded out. Only then did she allow a small smirk to creep over her thin lips.

      Castro met Dominique met nearly six years ago upon the broad planks of his family pier that jutted out into the bay. The white linen dress she wore that day hung on her delicate, thin frame like it was wearing her. Her nearly black hair danced on the wind that blew across the water. Despite her blue collar upbringing, her high cheek bones, almond eyes, and flawless skin gave her an unmistakable aristocratic air. That day he did not notice her hard won vocabulary, the practiced lilt to her voice, or how she seemed to settle into a role that was never suppose to be hers. During that particular New England afternoon and eventually evening, all Castro saw was a woman who could be his first girlfriend in all of his twenty-two years.

      In love with the idea of love, it was only four months before the Saeger Estate was transformed into a wedding fit to induct Dominique into society. Castro looked down into her radiating face, while the high elms of the south lawn swayed in the background. Most weddings are a day of firsts; Castro and Dominique’s wedding was a day of lasts. It was the last time Dominique had any need for her family, the last time she would allow him to be happy without a concerted effort to ruin it, and that last day Dominique would consider herself ordinary. Castro was a necessary evil, like a ticket to ride a train. Once she was aboard, she had not further use for the ticket other than it needed to be around to prove that she really did belong.

      The plan that Castro spoke of was his baby. The only baby he would ever have as long as he was faithfully married to Dominique. Eighteen months in conception, his plan was one for a major medical metropolis to be built on an undeveloped tract of land that would net them unneeded millions. His work desk, which sat in a large downtown firm, was covered with soil samples, blueprints that he had to learn to read, and mountains of governmental forms. His uptown desk that sat in a three-floored space that was nestled atop an emerald green urban high-rise that he and Dominique shared, faired no better. For once in his life, he felt some kind of value in himself. No longer the round –faced dough boy hiding behind the buffet table at debutant balls, he finally felt like he had found something he could earn. He finally felt like he could have something that wasn’t handed to him.

      Months of late nights, missed dinners, and lost weekends were of no concern to Dominique. His work concerned her even less than the actual man did. Every moment he spent on the project was a moment that she did not have to deal with him and his inane needs and concerns. It could have been this project, a mistress, or a drinking problem, and her feelings would have been the same.

      He stood in his closet, placing his large faced watch in an empty slot of the velvet lined valet. He looked down at the watches, brothers lined up in a row. What would it have been like to have a brother, he mused to himself. The thing was that he did have a brother, Cooper. He was a sad sickly child who lived to be only seven before he was laid to rest in the atrium of the Saeger Estate. His mother would not allow him to be buried 30 miles away in the family plot next to the town’s only Lutheran church. She could not bear to be so far from him. Castro was born 11 months later to fill the gaping hole in his mother’s heart. Once born, she looked upon the healthy glow to his cheeks, and realized that Castro would never be Cooper. Passed into the wet nurse’s arms, that is where he stayed as his mother became a cold imitation of her former self. He was seven himself when we watched his mother and brother finally be reunited, the only two member of the family to never leave Saeger Estate.

      Suddenly Castro felt a combination of things he had never felt before. First he was fairly certain he was feeling self-pity. It was a feeling he had when he saw a nag get whipped, but for the first time that feeling was for his own situation. Surrounded by the trappings of his privileged birth, he wondered how he could ever feel pity for himself. And then, there was anger. He was angry because he came to realize that he hated her. He wished they hated each other, but she did not even have enough passion towards him to hate him. Her cruelty towards him was a past time; it was a hobby of shear self-indulgence. She knew his level of devotion and she liked to see how far that devotion would go. The last unidentified feeling was confidence because for the first time in his life he was sure of what he wanted to do.

      A calm fell upon his as he methodically removed his tie and hung it in its prescribed spot. He left the top two buttons near his neck undone; he would clearly recall that later. He replaced the shoes he had already removed and tied each shoe with a double knot. He slowly rolled up his sleeves to his long sleeved button down, his embroidered initials disappearing as the cuff enveloped them. He pulled the bottom of shirt free from his pants and let it hang wrinkled and free to give himself more freedom of movement.

      When he finished his prep, he counted each step down his flights of stairs until his heel made a loud clack upon the rose aurora marble that Dominique had insisted on. He retraced the same steps he took no more than 12 minutes before, back into the drawing room, but as a man who had never walked the floors of this space. He was changed, he was different, and looking back upon that night he was for the span of half an hour not a Saeger.

      As the wall fell back to reveal her, he saw her standing at a cherry console table, pouring amber liquid into a thick cut crystal tumbler. He noticed the curve of her hip that he was not allowed to touch. He felt like a lecher looking at his own wife. Lascivious thoughts vied for his attention, but his focus could not be broken.

      He noticed her back straighten slightly as she became aware of his presence, but she gave no other acknowledgment. She continued to pour until the glass was so full that it appeared it would slosh over if moved. She slowly screwed the lid back on the bottle before setting it down delicately. She waited a beat, and then pivoted on the spot like she was performing on stage. Now facing him she settled one hand upon her narrow waist and tented the fingers of her other hand on the polished table surface. The drink sat forgotten.

      “Did you have more news to thrill me with?” she asked tartly, all pretense of warmth between them was gone. Castro opened his mouth to speak, to tell her everything. He wanted her to know of the frustration he felt, he wanted her to know that this is not what he wanted his life to be, he wanted her to know how he desired her and even more so wanted her to desire him. As all of the things he wanted her to know tried to tumble out of his mouth, she took his silence for weakness.

      “You are such a conversationalist,” she said in a voice saturated with sarcasm. “It is no wonder I rush home every night.” His mouth moved up and down in an attempt to make the words flow. She let out a snort of derision. She started to turn back towards the table and her overfilled beverage. It was only a matter of moment before he closed the distant between them. His large, pudgy finger wrapped around each of her shoulders and he wheeled her back around to face him. The first thing he thought was how smooth her skin felt; how he longed to lay in a shared bed and run his fingertips the length of her silky arm.

      All of the playful cruelty in her eyes evaporated as she spat, “You don’t get to touch me. Ever.”

      “No,” he thought, “she was his wife”. His longing ignited his anger. It lit like dry tinder and consumed him. Each of his fingers pressed into her flesh further and further until he could feel the bird-like bone beneath. She snapped her body around in an attempt to free herself. This only fed his fire more.

      Her jerk pushed them both into the console table. It rocked and sloshed her drink. The liquid raced to the edge of the table and wicked unto the delicate lavender silk of Dominique’s dress. The sudden wetness momentarily caught her attention and she turned her head to investigate. As she did so, her elegant neck elongated and made a curve he longed to know. Releasing his left hand from her arm, he moved it up to the creamy skin of her neck. He rolled his finger back and they landed in the soft hairs at the nape of her neck, while his thumb made an arch as it traced her carotid artery.

      “Let go,” she hissed between gritted teeth. She attempted to move her face so he could see the fire in her eyes. When he felt the sinews beneath his hand begin to move, his anger was back in a flash. He did not want that beautiful line to disappear, and reflexively his hand tightened. He could feel her pulse increase beneath his thumb. The increased pressure tipped her into an instinctual panic. The previous attempt to free her self had been controlled and meant to assert her superiority over him, and he knew it. The change in the quality of her movement made him feel powerful; she wanted something from him. Intoxicated with the power, he moved his other hand to up. Now with both hands on her neck he could feel all the delicate structures in her neck.

      “What are you going to do? Do you think this changes anything?” she rasped out. He could feel her words vibrate beneath his hands. Thoughts raced through his head. Why was she this way? Her fingernails now bit into the flesh of his wrist. Why can’t she love me? Her face was turning crimson. Why doesn’t anyone love me? A tiny foot kicked at him but missed the mark.

      He marveled how it felt so much like squishing a peach. He could almost feel the warmth on his face of the sun filtered through the leaves of the peach tree planted next to his mother and brother back on at Saeger Estate. There was a crash as a floor lamp fell. He loved peaches, their smell, the soft fuzz that covered the surface, the way it curved in near the stem. A sickly gurgle reached his ears. He used to love to take the fruit in his fist and feel the delicate flesh crumple beneath his power, to squish out between his fingers. A crunch happened beneath his hand but did not register. When he would open his fist, he would separate the pit from the flesh and push it into the dirt that made up the graves.

      A drop hit is wrist. He felt like he was coming out of a fog. Looking down at his wrist and then up at her face he realized it was a tear. It had run down her cheek, to the tip of her chin and landed on him. In that one moment he saw something that he had never expected; her face was slackening, her eyes were pleading, and she was vulnerable.

      He slackened his grip and she fell in a crumpled heap on the floor. A gasp ripped across her body. Her hands moved to her own neck, cupping the injured flesh. Each breath she pulled in was loud and harsh sounding. He stood over her, watching her recover.

      Finally, she looked up at him. His expression unchanged, he continued to look down at her. She smoothed strays hair back off her sweaty face that had fallen out of her neatly coifed bun. She replaced a shoe that had fallen off. She brought her gaze to meet his. After a moment he nodded and not breaking eye contact, she shakily rose to her feet. She put out a hand to stable herself on the back of the couch.

      It took a few moments for her to find her balance. She took what little strength she had and straighten her back. Dropping her eyes away from his face, she shook her head up and down.

      Dominique proceeded to leave the room. As she passed Castro he turned his body so he could watch her leave. His eye never left her. She threw a hand out and steadied herself on the jamb of the archway as she passed under it.

      Still watching, he slipped his hands into his deep pockets of the single pleated slacks that he had worn for the first time, and last time that day. His right hand met the cool metal of a small, nickel plated, snubbed nosed pistol. He had stowed there before leaving his closet, crossing through his bedroom, moving across his living area, and descending from his floor.

      Her heel made contact with the polished marble and the clack brought his attention sharply on her so that he was studying her instead of just watching. He saw that wet spot that marred the beauty of her dress. He noticed the beads of sweat that had formed on the back of her arms. He took note of her stilted gait.

      He was sure that things would be different now. For the first time since they had received the space as a wedding gift from the matriarch of the Saeger family, he felt like the man of the house. He now was sure he was the leader of his own destiny. He could taste respect. He was never respected; not at his job, not in his home, not by the servants, or even by the bank manager that safeguarded their Herod’s fortune.

      Still tracing her hand along the wall, she paused as she rested her palm upon the rounded end of his banister. Her pause caused a surge of hope in Castro’s chest. His ego roared with pleasure. For a brief moment, he had allowed himself to think she had planned to ascend onto his floor, to cross his living space, and enter his room. He had allowed himself to believe that with his newly won respect, came the gift she had denied him from their first meeting on that pier so long ago. He could hear the gulls in his ears and taste the salt on his tongue.

      As he retreated to the movie in his mind, Dominique proceeded on her trek. She now had the strength after that short respite to move toward her own stairs. The first two clicks of her heels went unnoticed as he enjoyed the scene behind his eyes. The third was met with disbelief in Castro’s heart. And the fourth, the fourth sent a blaze through his veins. In a single swing of the pendulum that sat inside the body of the grandfather clock on the other side of the entry way, all the anger was back.

      Nothing had changed, nothing was different. He did not teach her anything. She did not know anything new when she rose up off the carpet. Allowing himself for a few sweet moments to believe he was privy to all he wanted and desired now plunged him deeper into despair than he was when he slipped the pistol into his pocket.

      She never loved him, and she never would. She did not respect him, and she never would. She had never been his, and she never would. For all the things she denied him, for all the things she would never be, for all the things she would never give him; for all those things he brought the small firearm into the light.

      Guns have always been instruments of destruction. He realized with six inches of metal he could destroy her willfulness, with one pull of the trigger he could destroy her superior attitude, and with one deadly projectile he would destroy her inability to love him.

      Why could she not love me, was the though he echoed in his mind as he brought six inches of metal to his eye line. Why could she not love me broke his heart as he pulled the trigger. Why could she not love me ripped from his chest as the deadly projectile found a home through the hair on the back of her neck, through her carotid artery, out through her wind pipe, and into the dry wall covered in a gold leaf design. Why could she not love me, echoed in his head.

      By the time Castro reoriented to reality, Dominique was laying still on that rose aurora marble. The tacky pool of blood had stopped growing outward. The last arterial spray had already painted the baseboard and lower half of the wall the separated the two sets of stairs. Her mouth had stopped opening and closing like a guppy out of water. Her eyes had stopped seeing and were now glassed over but still staring in disbelief.

      It would be ten hours before they found Castro and what remained of Dominique. Officers discovered him laying belly down, inches away from the edge of the ruddy pool, looking into Dominique’s face. He, himself, was near death from hypothermia caused by the hours on the cold, frigid marble radiating up at him.

      He did not resist arrest, only contorted his body so that he could maintain eye contact, and then just simply see her as long as possible. Through out his interrogation, arraignment, trial, and eventual incarceration he would only repeat two things. “I wanted her so much” and “Why could she not love me?”