Page 5 of The Rest is History
And yet. Henry Tudorcut off her fucking head.
The thought practically stole the air from my lungs. I couldn’t equate the force of the feelings Elodie’s neck aroused in me today with the idea that Henry must have had some sort of similar reaction to Anne Boleyn when she first crossed his royal radar. Nor with the knowledge that, despite all that, he had her butchered. Decapitated. Despite there having been a perfectly acceptable alternative of divorce. Despite the fact that her trial was a farce.
Her power over him was so great that he needed her dead to be rid of it.
The man was a fucking monster.
Obviously, by now you will think I am a total loon. A psycho, even.
I’m not.
I’m a guy who admittedly spends too much of his time caught up in the intrigues of half a millennium ago. Who sometimes feels like he’s empathetic towards those flawed humans of yesteryear but utterly intolerant of their equivalents today.
And I’m a man who had a reaction to a woman. A reaction I’ve never had to anyone else, before or since (don’t tell my ex-wife that).
But I’m not deluded.
Just like I’m not deluded as to why the merest mention of Elodie Peach’s first name makes me think of music. It’s basic word association; I am aware of that.Elodiesounds likemelody. I’m far more basic than I’d like to admit.
Nor why her surname gives me an uncomfortably clear visual of biting down on the gorgeous curve of her bare, smooth ass cheek.
I won’t insult your intelligence by spelling that one out for you.
And, seeing as I’ve already exposed myself to your ridicule, I’ll throw myself the whole way under the bus and admit that it’s not solely her surname that’s to blame for that particular fantasy.
Her toned, peachy ass takes most of the blame by itself. That and its relationship with the small of her back. The idea that some guy may get to put his hand possessively on that dip, that precious space, when he’s out in public with her, makes me go fucking feral.
And the idea that someone may get to put his face to her slim, white neck? Inhale that soft skin? Press his lips to it? Lick his way down her spinal column, when he has her in private?
Thatis not a thought I can allow myself to entertain. At all. When I’m in the shower, fucking my fist, it’s only me and her.
I have no idea if there’s a guy in her life beyond the fact that she goes byMissand that her left hand is bare. Because despite everything I’ve just admitted to you, or, rather,becauseof it, I’ve been scrupulous about building precisely no relationship with her.
There’s no middle ground.
The options are binary. Outward frosty indifference, or kneeling in front of her, thrusting my face between those long legs of hers and begging her to spend the rest of her life with me.
Spoiler alert: the first option is what I’ve chosen, these past two terms since she started. The second option not being an option at all.
Because I’m damaged goods. And Elodie Peach deserves perfection.
A cosy, friendly working relationship, though?
Not an option either.
I can’t do it. I’m socially inept at the best of times (I have no fucking clue why I’ve chosen this profession) and I’m incapable of buddying up to her, of gossiping with her and Zara, the third leg of the History department, on a Monday morning. Of chummily exchanging news and teasing her about her dates. Enquiring about her mysterious family issue, which, after that first, terse interview, I’ve never heard her raise. I did hear her tell Zara the other day that she needs more cash. I don’t know if the two are related.
It’s not just that I’m physically incapable of that kind of small talk at the best of times. It’s that I can’t allow myself any knowledge of her. I’m a fortress, and Elodie Peach’s extensive charm is the sworn enemy. The daily threat.
It’s enough that I have to look at the woman.
It’s enough that I have to hear pupils and colleagues alike sing her praises.
It’s enough that I’m required to keep a close enough eye on her teaching practices (far more perky and informal than mine, though I’m sure you guessed that) to know she’s killing this substitute teaching gig.
I say it’s enough, but it’s too much. My starving heart clings to every nugget. The picture it builds of her grows more and more vivid. More beautiful. More nuanced. And I can’t do a fucking thing about it, except to firm up my fortress against additional, gratuitous information.
And I say it’s a fortress, but it’s a bloody Jenga tower.
