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Steampunk noodling
You are my angel, he told her.
He said it as they danced together under the watchful eyes of her duenna, the soft warm air wrapping them in jasmine, roses and music.
He said it at their wedding as she sagged against him, tired from the long day but finally his happy bride.
He said it as he stroked the rising mound of her belly, both of them awed by the movements of the tiny life inside.
He said it after they carried her home from the edge of one of the Chinese race riots, bleeding so much from the tiny bullet hole that killed their unborn son and left a lead slug lodged in her spine.
He said it as he forever tinkered with her wheeled chair, improving the gear ratio, making the steam box and fire box safer, trying to give her back some semblance of the grace of a jasmine-scented night when they were both a world younger.
He said it as she lay stretched on his work table, biting into the leather strap between her teeth. The fur-lined cuffs on her waist and wrists were lovelingly crafted, leaving no mark on her tender skin as they held her motionless. She did her best not to scream as he worked, muttering about joint strength, angles of incidence and the quality of gold. Feathers pressed against her tear-stained face.
He said it as she stood before him, fury in her eyes. One wing swept a priceless antique Chinese ginger jar from a table, shattering it, the broken shards revealing it as a fake.
Why? he asked her as he knelt on the Persian rug of the hallway. Why?
The blood ran down her arm to drip from her elbow, discoloring the red wool on the floor. There are many types of angels, she told him.
copyright Marna Martin, 2010
He said it as they danced together under the watchful eyes of her duenna, the soft warm air wrapping them in jasmine, roses and music.
He said it at their wedding as she sagged against him, tired from the long day but finally his happy bride.
He said it as he stroked the rising mound of her belly, both of them awed by the movements of the tiny life inside.
He said it after they carried her home from the edge of one of the Chinese race riots, bleeding so much from the tiny bullet hole that killed their unborn son and left a lead slug lodged in her spine.
He said it as he forever tinkered with her wheeled chair, improving the gear ratio, making the steam box and fire box safer, trying to give her back some semblance of the grace of a jasmine-scented night when they were both a world younger.
He said it as she lay stretched on his work table, biting into the leather strap between her teeth. The fur-lined cuffs on her waist and wrists were lovelingly crafted, leaving no mark on her tender skin as they held her motionless. She did her best not to scream as he worked, muttering about joint strength, angles of incidence and the quality of gold. Feathers pressed against her tear-stained face.
He said it as she stood before him, fury in her eyes. One wing swept a priceless antique Chinese ginger jar from a table, shattering it, the broken shards revealing it as a fake.
Why? he asked her as he knelt on the Persian rug of the hallway. Why?
The blood ran down her arm to drip from her elbow, discoloring the red wool on the floor. There are many types of angels, she told him.
copyright Marna Martin, 2010