The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 24

Venus

David sat cross-legged in the black leather armchair, sharpening a charcoal pencil with a box cutter. She had been feeling a little better, had a little color in her cheeks. Her hair, now back to its original shade of blonde, had thinned dramatically, but for the most part remained in her scalp. She had a sketchbook open on her lap, and brushed the pencil shavings off and onto the carpet below. "Art, love, sit down. Let me sketch your handsome face."

Art, phone to his ear, held out a finger to her, a 'hold on a second' finger. "Yes," he said to the party on the other end. "Yes, John, sounds great. I've got you in my calendar. Perfect. See you then." He clicked off the phone and proceeded to type on it.

"Art," David said again. "Will you let me sketch you?"

"Hmmh," he mumbled, face to the phone, fingers on the screen.

David jumped as Eye of the Tiger played abruptly, the vocals booming unannounced. The music stopped just as abruptly.

"Art Starfire," Art said in a newly manufactured voice he was rehearsing. "Thomas, my man, what's up? Yeah? Yeah? Seven o'clock, you're on." Click. Resume typing.

David sighed, fidgeted in the chair. Recrossed her legs. "What did Thomas have to say?" she asked.

Art continued tapping on the phone.

David tapped her pencil loudly on the sketch pad. "Art!" she finally yelled.

He snapped his head up. "What?"

"I've been talking to you forever."

"What? Really?"

"Yes."

"Oops," he dismissed her. "Business, you know."

"Was that Thomas?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Well?"

"What?"

"What did Thomas want?" she raised her voice in annoyance.

"Oh, we're going out with the guys to this place downtown tonight."

"Brilliant. Do you want company?" she asked.

Art shook his head. "It's kind of a guy's thing."

"I'm kind of a guy."

"Not your kind of thing," he said quickly. "Wings, beer, girls in short skirts."

"I like girls in short skirts."

"I don't think you'd like it. It's really crowded You know how you hate crowds."

Her face fell. She looked at the blank page on her lap. "Yes," she sighed, "I do hate crowds."

"You'll be okay, right?" Art added hastily. "I mean, if you really want to come, I'm sure it would be fine."

"No, no, that's okay," David replied quietly. "You're probably right. I wouldn't like it anyway."

"Sorry," Art said sheepishly. "But, hey, you wanted to draw something anyway, right?"

"Right. Sit down, let me sketch you," she said happily, pencil poised.

Art checked the time. "I can't right now, David. I've got to make some more calls."

"If you just sit there and make the calls," she pointed to the seat across from her.

"I don't have time, but hey, how about you copy this photo? The one from the new subway ads?" He picked up an advertising proof that was on the desk and handed it to David. Reluctantly, she took it between her fingertips She glanced at the glossy layout: Art Starfire: The Art of Humanity. Reserve your seats today! As seen on The Today Show, Good Morning America and Dr. Jeff.

She breathed out heavily and set the paper on the end table near her. "Maybe I'll draw a goblin instead."

"There you go, that's the David I know," Art said cheerfully, then retreated to the bedroom.

***

Art came home smelling of beer and cheap perfume at one a.m. The apartment was black and silent. "David?" he whispered loudly. He stumbled, stubbed his toe on the sofa. He cursed. "David?" he whispered, a little louder. There was no answer, only the steady humming of the refrigerator. He walked on unsteady clown feet to the kitchen, where, against his better judgement, he poured two fingers of gin, swirled it around the glass, then swirled it around his mouth to rid himself of the taste of beer and someone else's cigarettes. He set the empty glass in the sink, and walked into the dark living room, removing his shoes on the way.

From the bedroom doorway, he could see David lying on her side in the bed. She had thrown off the sheets, like perhaps she'd been sweating in her dreams, and lay in her white t-shirt. Art looked at her delicate doll feet, curled under her. His eyes followed the line of her slender calves to her fleshy thighs, the curve of her bottom peeking out from where her t-shirt had bunched up at her waist. Art felt something stir in him, deep in his male DNA. A force that at this time of night, and with his compromised bloodstream, took a hold of his libido.

He removed his shirt, tossing it on the floor, followed by his jeans. He slowly pulled back the sheets on his side of the bed and slid onto the mattress. David's back was to him. As his eyes adjusted to the moonlight, he looked at the pale, tender back of her neck, how it disappeared under the neck of her shirt. He let his eyes lower and focus on her bottom, a double U at the hem of her nightwear. He inched his body closer, how she would often lean up against him for comfort. He could feel her soft breaths animating her body just enough to prove life. He sucked in his breath, and reached out his hand, placing it on her hip, the bone firm under the surface of her supple skin. He moved his hand forward, felt the tender flesh of her inner thigh under his fingers, turning his breath shallow, quick.

A noise escaped from David's parted lips, which Art interpreted as a signal of approval. He reached further with his fingers until they found the elastic on her undergarments. He pulled the elastic away with one finger. David snorted awake.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing!" she erupted, suddenly wide awake, tearing herself away, pulling the sheets around her as a shield. She flipped on the lamp like a magician.

Hit by the light, and by David's voice, Art froze.

David pulled the sheets with her as she scrambled off the bed and stood, her eyes wide and wild. "What the fuck, Art?" she yelled.

Art still sat frozen. He felt something in the pit of his stomach, opened his mouth to apologize, but instead belched out a loud, fly infested cloud of beer and bitches.

David's face was appalled, horrified. "Oh, disgusting!" she cried.

Art swallowed, found his voice. "I am so, so sorry," he slurred. "I don't know what came over me."

"You're bloody shit-faced, that's what came over you," she spat.

"I'm so sorry," Art pleaded, reaching out his arms.

David recoiled like an animal. "Don't touch me!" she hissed. "You sleep this off, and maybe, maybe," she stressed, "I will find a way to forgive you. Eventually." She turned fiercely, still clutching the sheets, and stomped out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Shit," Art mumbled. He passed out shortly thereafter and slept in blackness.