Red-Sweetheart was blissfully ignorant, he thought their love tale was pleasantly unfurling, accompanied by joyous chords of major keys, independently bright, no sense of dissonance. There was no sense of unrectifiable yearning. Little did he know that his Fuchsia-Loveheart was secretly wearying of their love story, wishing she could escape the moment he passed her in the street, where he was off to his general company meeting after their lunchtime spent wining and tiresomely – for Fuchsia-Loveheart, of course – dining.
Why was she so sick and tired of her man, who provided her love, footed the many bills for them, always reached for her metaphorical hand – for their limbs were implied, they were there to lend a helping hand, a willing guide – but together their hearts were meant to beat together, content, and subtly amplified. Fuchsia-Loveheart had had enough of his bland personality, he was boring, he was useless, all did was talk about his company’s dreams. How he wished to expand into other cities, other countries, and continents in fact, he never once asked her if this was the life she wanted for them.
She knew there would much travelling, in and out of town, living out of a shoebox, or luggage case, nowhere to really call home, and this was not something which she aspired for, despite the money which would come rolling in. She knew her bore of a lover would simply listen haphazardly whilst she complained of this in the evenings, as he sipped his gin slowly, then slower again.
How could he be so selfish, thinking of only what would benefit the company, rather than appeasing the company of her, who he had chosen for his life, as his wife? Did he not think he needed to understand that there was more to life than becoming wealthy and famous, everywhere recognised where he was seen? All he seemed interested in was the superficial, it did not matter to her how much attention she was paid, for all she felt that Red-Sweetheart wanted from her was the ability to be seen with her, and essentially have the tabloids spread of them, a happy couple they apparently made. It could not be anything further from the truth, the sensations within made her squirm again and again. However, this ill thinking about Red-Sweetheart was incorrect, it was only part of Fuchsia-Loveheart’s thinking processes, inextricably unfounded upon their relationship’s open pages.
One evening, he came home from work at a quarter to two in the morning, she had been waiting up for him furiously muttering to herself, and now he would receive her verbose manner of speaking.
“How dare you keep me up, ignore my many calls! What were you doing, did you have a great time, which of your receptionist girls did you enthral?” Dumbfounded, he could not belief this method of reverse flattery, where he was being accused of something that had not even occurred recently, let alone this morning or evening. He was a loyal husband, this was something he prized himself on, he would never again cheat on his beautiful wife, his leading lady, his strong, firm hearted woman, and he struggled to pick his dropped jaw from the floor as he proceeded to defend himself.
“But no, my darling, I have brought something for you!” From behind his back, he pulled out a long arrow pointing to the right of the room, toward the exit, the doorway leading to the corridor of the hotel in which they owned and lived, and with a glorious smile, he announced, “This way to Loveville, you will never want to leave!” It was his ridiculous smile and grin that made Fuchsia-Loveheart explode with laughter, how could he think that outside they would enjoy themselves any more or less than the tiring times she experienced with her other? There was no romance left in their marriage, at least not from her perspective, but dutifully, she decided to give permission to his thoughts, to give his option a decent thinking.
“Okay, then, Red,” she said dubiously, and with a flourish of his hand toward the door, then grabbing her metaphorical hand, she allowed herself to be led, out to the corridor, up to the lift, then to the highest floor, the roof, where he had arranged a four course meal, with three waiters, and what appeared to be a closed off enclosure with a four poster bed.
“No way, no how,” Fuchsia-Loveheart said, furiously shaking her head. “There will be no romance of this sort, ever to enter our bed again.” Because she never really trusted him, since that night she caught him kissing that ugly blue hearted being, that thing, as she called it, who allowed and knew that he was cheating on Fuchsia-Loveheart by kissing him. She had a hidden agenda, the blue hued being who hated Fuchsia-Loveheart for being so wealthy due to her marriage, that she had seemingly decided to split them apart, but then, in that moment, a strange sense of jealousy had arisen, and she knew, at least for the sake of her lifestyle, that the marriage would be worth saving.
So now that we are aware of the shallowness of the Fuchsia-Loveheart, should we empathise more with the Red Sweetheart, who was trying to keep his marriage together, not allow it to fall apart? But how can we do so, when he had, for some reason, fallen prey to his lustful thoughts, or the seductive movements of the blue hued being, it seems that in each situation it takes two to tango, and that in both senses, each heart was partially guilty?
However, Fuchsia-Loveheart allowed herself to be wined and dined on that rooftop, it was an activity she knew how to behave within quite well, after all, it occurred basically every weekend and second weeknight, eating out somewhere special was not all that special to her at all. Yet her husband, Red, did the best that he could; he tried to be charming, well versed, complimenting her, everything that a wise man and heart should, but by the end of the evening, Fuchsia-Loveheart was widely yawning, she’d had enough of this forced form of entertaining and there was nothing that she wanted more than to be in that four poster bed sleeping.
She followed the arrow to Loveville, that she did, and would, and into the comforting, high threaded Egyptian count cotton sheets, she buried herself within, knowing that of her husband, now of his presence she could do without. She spread herself sideways along the mattress, to ensure that there was very little room for him, only for her, and snoring in a falsified manner, she made certain that now he would leave. Despondent, he had tried so hard for her tonight, to impress her, wooing her once more by the candle light. He had made not one mention, breathed not one word about his work nor his plans, and still, she didn’t want to lie there with him, even for gentle cuddles, it seemed that for him, she no longer and never would give a damn.
So, he laid upon the ground next to the bed, curling up beneath her feet, at least she was close to him in this manner, and then he began an emotional dream. Where she still loved him, trusted him, wanted him for her own, and then the sadness overwhelmed him, he simply wanted to return to the room that he called home. He crept quietly and carefully away, returning to the room where they usually stayed, and he slept on her side of the bed, breathing in her intoxicating scent that was perfumed everywhere on the area that she always laid.
He knew he could escape this unhappy marriage but he knew that it was also his fault, he should have never allowed that blue hued being to throw her lips upon him, my, what an unsightly trollop she was, a materialistic trout! He knew that she had only wanted him for his money, and he supposed that that was something he was used to, but at least from his wife he received some consistency, he would never ever leave him, from this marriage she would never voluntarily be removed. Besides, she seemed to like him at least on a superficial label, and that was better than having nobody to love, or hold, or talk to, or know just so.
He accepted that this was his life, and together their relationship would sadly, never grow. At least they were famous, or at least well known of in this world, and of their sham marriage, an unsteady family life could be grown.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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