Pulchra Proditione

O.K. Mantz

Auspiciously, I slide the soft, matted book underneath my topcoat, slyly, perfectly sleighting my body and shifting my hands to allow the pages to suddenly and inconspicuously vanish. The cover shone a patchy pewter hue, the centre adorned with a grossly arterial heart, profusely dripping with crimson honey. Above the image lies the title, penned in Latin, reading: Pulchra Proditione. Removing myself from the shelf, I gracefully step toward the door— unseen, unnoticed— a shadow stalking the rows of dusty covers with a sense of power matching God’s. My footsteps fly muffled across the carpet, the soles leaving faint imprints that are whisked away by the wind of my departure. Upon reaching the exit, I, quite naturally, press the handle downward and push outside, stepping into the arid August air. Brilliantly streaming rays of a white light upon the scintillating lot rush into my eyes, forcing me to squint; licking, bright orange flames become visible on the surface of the sun, even across the almost infinite distance between itself and its onlooker.

Out of my peripheral vision I suddenly notice a fair woman, dressed in foreign taste and eccentric style: a mustard yellow skirt with a camellia floral pattern hovers just above black velvet knee-high boots and tucked beneath a petite ashen coat. Long cherry gloves hide her spindly fingers, as a dark, thin scarf conceals her throat. And resting upon her right shoulder, held in place with her right hand, a dainty pink umbrella twirls behind her back. Perfectly scarlet lips appear at the end of a faultlessly cut jaw and high cheekbones; her eyes glisten green, and her dark hair shines glossy and neat. A sudden terror seizes me and I gasp inaudibly:

“She knows!”

“There he is!” I hear an elderly man shout. Startled, I turn round and begin to struggle as two police officers grasp my wrists and painfully twist my arms behind my back.

“Wha—” I begin, but am cut off as I spy the owner of the bookstore, the elderly man, come running up behind the officers. Struggling, I glance over toward the woman— but she is nowhere to be found! Only an empty, fading atmosphere remains behind.

“He’s the one who stole the only copy of the Pulchra Proditione!”

Brutishly they fling my coat open, squeeze my appendages awkwardly, and run their fingers across every space on my person. Quite violated, I remain there, silent, blushing, and scowling as they search— until each of them steps backward in turn, empty-handed and sighing. Confusion wells up within the prison of my mind, a distinct puzzlement rattles the rusted bars, while my physiognomy appears aggravated and annoyed.

“I’m sorry sir … ” the first, more burly officer mutters. Shaking my head and trodding the dust off my shoes, I push past them and briskly stroll away. Intently I stare at the shifting pavement beneath my feet while simultaneously, yet unostentatiously, touching my coat pockets in a bewildering hope that the book would mysteriously reappear and I might triumphantly exit the scene. But my pockets remain bare. Then my body slams into another and I am taken aback, apologizing in a frenzy before gazing upon the woman I had generously espied earlier. Begging my pardon again, she winks, and a smirk trickles onto her lips.

“Your coat seems … empty,” she whispers leaning into my aura. From behind her back, the woman retracts the Pulchra Proditione, holding the cover out to me. My pupils dilate, my white globes bulge from their sockets, and I stand and marvel, her beauty utterly consuming me, her cunning penetrating deep into my skin, and her finesse, as well as her artistry, goring my heart. Overwhelmed, I cannot help but stand speechless, my jaw gingerly dropping to have my mouth suspended directly before her. An aching sensation threatening to kill me with a heart attack comes swiftly upon me: in a flash I recognize with my mind’s eye a dark city devastated by some fantastic evil. Yet just as the sun bursts into flames and the moon is consumed by the fire, a bright figure steps into the panorama and the world is forced to its knees as the city is incredibly rebuilt. I sense, as clearly as inexplicably, that my life would be nothing without her, that a future of death and despair awaits me if our skins could not touch and I rest eternally in her embrace. Pink flowers adorn the windows to my soul and a burning uproar seeps through every pore. There is no purpose, no aim, no joy, nor any feeling in all of existence apart from this woman; and at that precise moment, I whisper a silent oath that if I should not spend the rest of my age in her company as the sole recipient of her affection, my life must end this very day by my own hands.

“I … ” my lips utter. “I love you.” Sheepishly, I lift my chin and stare desperately into her eyes, searching for a sign that would still the raging in my soul and feed my starving love. She parts her mouth for a moment, but hesitates, pauses for the briefest moment, forcing my body to tremble profusely.

“And I you,” she answers and I am enveloped in warmth, love, ebullience so great that I lean in and thrust my arms around her. The embrace rattles my bones and every stake that was driven into my cross is wrenched out and tossed away, drowned by the sea of devoted passion. Her eyes glisten, her face vibrantly scintillates, and I am nearly blinded by her grace: her gentleness lifts me up and suspends me amidst clouds. And then she leans in, bold and willful, feverishly thirsting for my essence, zealously allowing her fingers to roam. Her hips move closer and she bends her knee, pushing her thigh onto mine. Our lips touch, our visages press firmly together as every sense vanishes besides the brush of our mouths. My own are swallowed by hers, and hers in mine, when our figures intricately intertwine and fall into each other. I feel her skin against my skin, sense her heart beating faster as my lips travel from hers across her cheek and over her jaw-line, gently yet firmly grazing down her neck while she breathes into my ear. Trapped in a pool of desire— a rushing fountain of sensuality— we linger— unwilling, unable to retract our hold of each other, fiercely gripping and leaning in, the glass to the soul shut, but laying bare every secret and enigma of ourselves.

But then she suddenly pulls away and I feel the book snatched from my hands, a gleam of hatred and wickedness manifesting itself in her aura. Taking another step backward, she tantalizingly lowers her chin and pushes out her bosom, fully aware of the lust swelling within me. My heart melts as the realization of her intentions becomes clear and my ardour becomes almost stiflingly acute as my desire for her grows. She pulls away and my heart travels with her, my soul forlorn and hopelessly in love. The woman shakes her head, smirking with such potent vileness, and utters these fatal words before evanescing and leaving me stranded, broken, and alone.

“But all love fades as swiftly as it comes.”