Sweet Angela
Colin Woodward

He watched the woman with tired and wrinkled eyes. Her every curve, her every move, loving the motion as if it was his first time. She walked swiftly yet with grace, gliding between dark and empty bar room tables. Then she would stop as if to pick up discarded bottles and glasses. Yet there was nothing there, just empty white sheet covered tables. She lifted her arm up to the light and squinted, checking to see if whatever she held was empty. Then with a polite nod of her head, or a smile, she would move on. The lady was young, blindingly attractive, and dressed in a fashion that had long since been forgotten. Her light brown hair bounced gently on her half naked shoulders as she waltzed to and throu. The old man smiled, a twinkle forming in his once lonely eyes. He remembered those shoulders more intimately than any other man, he could remember the sweet distracting smell of her hair, the way he could press his face against it and hear her gently sigh. With fumbling fingers he grabbed a half filled bottle of Jack Daniels and slowly poured it into a finger smeared glass. The sound of the liquid broke the silence of the room. For the only other noise was a huge ornate Grandfather clock, its pendulum slicing away the time. The lady came closer, she smiled as she approached his table. However she was not looking at him, the woman seemed to look through him, and into some distant horizon. She had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Many a time he had whispered to her about them. How they had been the reflection of a warm Caribbean ocean. Blue, deep, and inviting. Too long with those eyes and you could drown in their beauty. But that was long ago, in a time before now. She bent slightly and picked up another imaginary bottle. The old man could not see the bottle and knew he never would. A spasm from his back sent pain shooting around his waist and he shakily reached for the drink. With the gulp of an expert he downed the Whiskey in one and poured himself another. Soon the pain was dampened by the strength of the brew.

To the left of him the clock ticked on. He glanced at its dusty face and saw that it was eleven. One more hour he though and returned his gaze to his desire. She was close to him now, so close that he thought he could touch her. However, the guy didn’t, that wasn’t part of the deal. Still the urge to hold her again had more power than anything a scientist could imagine. More power in that natural feeling than in two colliding planets, and just as explosive. He whispered her name in some dying hope that she would answer and say that she’ll be his.

"Sweet Angela."

The sound was louder than the clock, but she did not respond. Angela moved away from him returning to the bar for her next load. The guy scanned around him at the room. Each table was draped in a white sheet, there were no lights on, and the only illumination was the sun squinting through a boarded up window. Abandoned and soulless the place was an ironic statement on how his life had turned out. He had let Angela go, or did he really ever have her? The guy sighed, the truth hurt him so. As a young and vibrant lad he had not been too confident around the ladies. Shrinking from the fear of dismissal and watching them leave with another man. Now it was all too late. Time for another drink.

Angela returned to a table a few feet from him. He painfully and slowly climbed to his feet, grabbing a large wooden walking stick to support his frame. The guy stepped towards her, and halted behind her figure. She turned and stopped in front, inches away from his face. God, she looked so young. For what seemed like hours they stood face to face, not moving. The man hardly dared to breathe. Then he heard it, the dreaded sound, the tone that he hated. The clock struck twelve. Angela began to trek towards the bar, as she was moving she began to fade. Her body moved in time with the gongs, she became fainter and fainter. He wanted to stop her but knew it was powerless. The clock let its tenth gong go, and she became but a floating shimmer. A strange bizarre light. The eleventh chime sounded, and Angela seemed to resemble her namesake, an Angel returning to its heavenly home. The pendulum swung for the last time, it’s noisy cry reminiscent of an ancient death knell. Angela had gone, vanished from his sight. He was all alone, the clock had taken her once more. The old man swayed slightly as the pain of losing her racked his body. No matter how many times it happened he suffered greatly. He shuffled over to the clock, not with anger or rage, merely with bitterness at being robbed. But he couldn’t stop himself, he didn’t have that much will power. Even if the pain was great, not seeing her would hurt even greater.

"Just once more please", he whispered.

With his heavily lined fingers he turned the solid hands of the oak Grandfather clock back to the hour of ten, and listened to the pendulum start to swing again. He had no idea how it worked, and did not care. The result was all that counted. As the clock boomed side to side, he turned to face the bar room. At first there was nothing, then from a faint dust mote, a light, then an outline began to form. Angela’s finely shaped body returned and just like before she began to work around the bar. Collecting and checking, polishing and scrubbing. The man hobbled back to his chair and slumped into it’s hard surface. His tired eyes were again trained on his love, he began to watch Angela once more. Watching and probably, silently, almost religiously hoping and waiting.

 

Copyright (c) 1999 Colin Woodward
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"