His Obsession by Ava Lore Page B

Perhaps I will haunt you."
    "I'll leave some waffles out for you."
    ––––––––
    "Tell me about your parents," he said one day as I stretched on the deck in the sun, assuming various yoga positions I'd seen once or twice. I don't have time to do yoga back home, and apparently it's harder than it looks. My hamstrings screeched in protest. Malcolm sat by, watching me intently as he attempted to capture my dynamic poses on his canvas in strokes of broad, abstract color before I switched to something new.
    "Jeez. Just go straight for the Freud," I told him. "You're not very subtle."
    "Why would I be subtle?" he replied. "You're on a boat in the middle of the Adriatic. There's nowhere for you to hide."
    "Awfully Bond-villain of you."
    He smiled at that. "I would have made an excellent Bond villain. Or an excellent Bond."
    "I thought you might be Batman the first time I saw you."
    His laugh boomed over the deck. "You had me pegged," he said. "Batman is a damaged megalomaniac in latex and leather." He stroked slash of color over the canvas as I tried to do downward-facing dog. I saw stars. "So anyway," he continued. "Tell me about your parents."
    "What about my parents?" I asked him. "They were parents."
    "Everyone's parents screwed up," he said. "It's a law of modern life. You already know a little something about my parents. How'd your parents do it?"
    From my inverted position it was hard to discern his expression. "I'm not ready to tell you yet."
    He didn't respond and I straightened up. The sun beat down and the wind whistled past my ears as I tried to stand on one leg. The pitch and roll of the deck was wreaking havoc on my balance. Malcolm was quiet for a second.
    "Then tell me about the least objectionable parent," he said at last.
    I fell over. It was the sea, I swear. I gave up trying to yoga and laid down on the deck, staring up at the sky. The sea breeze wormed its way beneath the boxers and fine linen shirt I wore. The sun baked me.
    I sighed. He'd been open with me. "I suppose my mother," I said. "She..." I trailed off. "She didn't know how to exist in this world."
    "What do you mean?"
    "She was kindhearted. Tender. Soft where you need to be hard sometimes. She liked to dance, and she made the most amazing chocolate cake. She always put coffee in the chocolate frosting. It was amazing. But she wasn't very with it. I had to keep the house cleaned up and in order, and I was the one who kept things organized in our home. She was kind, but scattered, so I had to pick up the slack. She liked to cook so I never really learned how... Which I guess explains my waffles..."
    I could tell this wasn't what he wanted to hear about. He wasted no time getting down to the bones of it. "You speak as if she's dead," he said to me."
    I closed my eyes. The sun burned red behind my eyelids. "She is."
    "I'm sorry."
    I shrugged. "It was a long time ago," I said.
    "Does it have anything to do with your scars?"
    The question rocked me, but I refused to show it. "You could say that," I told him.
    He was quiet and the sound of paint slapping on canvas paused. "I've upset you," he said after a few seconds.
    "It takes more than that to upset me," I told him.
    Malcolm sighed. "Yes," he said. "I should have guessed that it does." He resumed painting, and I fell asleep.
    When I awoke, I was warm all over, and my hand was outstretched, as it always was, reaching for the bedside table that was no longer there. Customary flash of panic, and then I remembered where I was. I looked back to where Malcolm was sitting, painting. I hadn't been asleep for long. The light had barely changed, but he was giving me a curious look.
    "You do that in bed, too," he said. "You always reach for something that isn't there. What is it?"
    My gun. My safety. "Nothing," I said.
    "You are not like your mother," he said. "You are hard in many places." He sighed and picked up the canvas before putting his foot through it. "Start over again," he said. "Always, always