A Parlor Game
written by: Mark Kuglin
@cr8fiction
It was fun at first. A playful game of Truth or Dare. Over time it evolved. Truth was cast aside by one participant and her dares, each a tad more provocative than its predecessor, pushed and tested boundaries. The latter left Max–a stuffy, no-nonsense, fifty-seven-year-old English literature professor– feeling conflicted. He would have preferred to stop but did not want to risk offending his hostess.
In an effort to regain his composure and to quell things a bit, Max stood and slowly removed his blue blazer and red bow tie. While he did, he studied Irene– his longtime librarian friend and sole game opponent.
Irene’s flaming red hair, which was always up in a tight bun, hung free and cascaded on her typically covered shoulders. Her emerald green eyes, normally hidden behind black plastic framed glasses, were unencumbered. And in place of her customary conservative dress, she wore a fashionable form fitting lime green evening gown.
“Is something wrong?” Irene asked. Her voice tinged with more playfulness than genuine concern.
“No…No,” Max stammered in reply. “I’m a bit confused.”
“About what?” Irene queried. Her voice laden with faux innocence.
“Please don’t take this…,” Max started to say– before being gestured, with a placating shush and a wave of her hand, back down to his seat on the sofa.
“Whatever it is, just say it,” Irene coaxed. “I won’t be offended.”
“I’m a bit lost here,” Max said. “Every other time I’ve visited, we’ve discussed classic books or a new author or two.” Max then added–after a brief pause, “Although you look amazing, I’m confused by your drastic transformation.
“Why is everything so troubling?” Irene interjected then added–in an unmistakable alluring tone. “You’re a cherished friend and I wanted to make tonight unforgettable.”
***
For Max, the next half hour passed in what seemed like days. He was spent. Tired and drained of emotion, Max closed his eyes and went silent. When he reopened them a minute later, Irene playfully asked, “Shall we continue?”
“No…No…,” Max weakly replied. “I can’t take any more of this.”
“Why?” Irene teased again. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
Max ignored Irene’s jibe and made a horrible attempt at feigning calmness.
“Relax, we can stop,” Irene said with a laugh. She then abruptly changed the topic and asked in a tone more like her usual self, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Max studied Irene, for a moment, before responding. Satisfied she’d made her way fully back to her normal self, Max said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Yes, tea would be nice…But I can only stay for one cup. I have a stack of papers to grade.”
“That would be lovely,” Irene cooed. “Please excuse me, it will only take a few minutes.”
***
While Irene busied herself in the kitchen, Max paced and looked about the room. Along one wall, he noticed a ten foot long bookcase– loaded floor to ceiling with identical, two inch wide, leather bound volumes– he couldn’t recall having seen before. Taking one down, he opened it and found that all of the pages were blank. Trying another brought the same result. He was examining a third blank volume when he heard Irene returning and had to scamper back to his place on the sofa.
Irene reentered the parlor with a tea service tray in her hands, a sterling silver set laden with the typical assortment of items and two empty brandy snifters.
“What are the snifters for?” Max asked.
“Oh, I saw them in the kitchen and remembered I wanted to bring them out here,” Irene explained. “I broke their mates and decided to use these two as a decorative pieces.”
Satisfied with her answer, Max sat back and took a sip of his tea. At first, he couldn’t place the flavor. Within a few seconds, it didn’t matter. His heart began to pound and he started to sweat profusely.
“You bitch,” Max bellowed. “What did you give me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Irene shot back. Her tone filled with venom. “You’ll be gone soon enough.”
Irene’s duplicity enraged Max. He tried to stand but realized he couldn’t. Panic overtook him when he looked down at his uncooperative legs and feet and watched them melt into a translucent liquid, which started flowing towards the snifters.
Within seconds, it was over. Max was gone.
Feeling both sated and deliriously happy, Irene paused for a moment to admire the now full snifters then got up and approached the bookcase Max had noticed earlier. After taking down a volume, she returned to the sofa and opened it in her lap. Leaning over, she dipped a long manicured nail into one of the snifters, placed it on the page and used her fingernail as a quill.
Dear Diary, Will they ever learn?….
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