The first time the keys of my typewriter clattered on their own only the cat was home to hear them. How anyone had managed to access the typewriter inside my locked apartment on the thirty-fifth floor of a secure building was quite a conundrum. Neither the deadlock, nor the standard lock, had been tampered with and the balcony door remained bolted from the inside.
My soul aches for the touch of your sweet lips once again. Do not abandon me in this bewitched state. I beseech you my love, reply. I cannot bear another day of this separation from your caresses and affections.
Such sweet, poignant words, but who had written them? The mystery remained for several days.
This time, I’m standing in the kitchen enjoying my first coffee of the morning. I freeze when I hear the unmistakable clacking of the keys punctuated by a ding, followed by the scrape of the carriage as it returns to the left. The cat chirps and trots into the office with the same expression of joy she uses to greet me when I return home.
Curious, yet vulnerable in my silk slip, I follow her, coffee mug clutched weapon-like in my hand. The room and leather office chair are empty. Of their own volition, keys descend and rise in an uncertain tempo. With each arc of a type arm the ribbon lifts to be struck — black letters form words on white paper.
I despair that you have forsaken me my love. I, who have sacrificed all I had and all I was for you. Your bewitchment is my pain and pleasure, my torture and joy. Oh my Clara…
How does the typist know my name?
…my enchantress. Respond to my words, for I crave to know you still yearn for me, as I hunger for you. I await your return as ardently as ever.
The typewriter stops. The written voice is familiar, an elusive memory. I place the coffee mug over the circular stain of yesterday’s cup and run my hands up the cold metal sides of the Underwood. My fingers find their positions and strike at keys until the question is asked.
This is Clara, who are you?
From her perch on the desk the cat stares at me, green eyes gleaming with long-held secrets. My hands still on the typewriter, I perch on the soft leather of my chair.
Clara! Dare I believe it is truly you? You swore I would feel you, yet I remain adrift in the void of your absence. It is I, your Thomas.
The cat’s eyes glitter and the office walls fade away. The air shimmers and shifts. My lover’s arms slip around me from behind, pulling me back. The stone walls of my tower harden and focus. His lips trace a familiar line across the nape of my neck, then Thomas slides his hand between my thighs. The only place where his magic transcends mine. I am home.
My familiar purrs in feline satisfaction.
Copyright 2016, Jacqui Greaves. All rights reserved.
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