"keith laid there, feeling particularly victorious. the girl in front of him was a suitor of many, and who should be so lucky as to land angie dupont?"
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prequel to dead flowers
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angie, taken by keith. 1967.
Mick was an insufferable flirt. He knew it too, Angie could tell, but he was always like that. He wanted everybody in love with him, whether he bothered to pursue them back or not. It was like a race with him, one Keith didn't even know he was playing; the first groan of pregnancy morning sickness was a mad dash to him, and Mick would lead her by the hand to the bathroom as if Angie wasn't capable herself. At first and for as long as her heart could stand, she'd shoo him away, and wait for Keith, sitting glumly on the bathroom floor and trying not to vomit until he arrived, where he'd wet a towel and press it lovingly to her face, holding her jaw before she vomited.
But her willpower grew weaker each time, just as Mick's determination grew stronger. "Sorry, I was helping Anita." Keith would say, as he rushed into the bathroom to fulfil his duties. The first time he had taken too long and Angie was done with being sick, his excuse had been, "Sorry, I was at the store with Anita. She wanted me to come with her." He continued to apologize profusely, and didn't leave her side at all that day, but the damage was done.
Still, he was nice company; of course he was! He was her Keith, and though she battled her inner feelings, it was easier to blame them on pregnancy hormones than it was to face them. Angie could forget them if she tried, sitting at his feet as she had done many times before, watching the way his guitar bent dutifully over his knee. His dangling necklaces clicked against the old wood, and Angie could see where the ends of his eyelashes began to lighten from where the sun hit them. He was playing her a song, a nice one about a pretty lady. Angie smiled, laid her head against his body, and pretended it was written about her.
Every once and awhile, Keith would look up and smile at Angie, one that pulled at his cheeks and crinkled his eyes. He smiled just like he did when Angie first saw him in 1965.
The Redlands trial in February had done a great deal on him, whether he saw it or not. The newscasters pounding on the door before the cops would've done anybody's head in. Angie, the only one sober, was alive enough to remember the whole scene. With Marianne draped in the rug, somebody naive had answered the door. Some escaped through the window. Keith merely fulfilled his court duties as he did most other things; smooth, calm, without care. He even told the judge he thought Marianne parading around in a rug was normal because he didn't have "petty morals"; as Keith's lawyer clutched his head, Angie grew with a smug sort of pride.
That night, as they struggled to catch their breaths in bed, Keith took Angie into her arms. His fingers were roughly calloused, but they traced her soft skin until she shivered. Angie played with the little curls that gathered at the back of his neck as he sat up, sheets bunching around his naked waist while he switched the record. His hair was one of her greatest joys; afraid of hairdressers, Keith had come to her with bathroom scissors and a towel draped over his shoulders, begging for her to cut. She did, messily but just as Keith wanted, so this was their thing since 1966.
