Excerpt: Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love when she met Anne Rice
I wish Daymian would kiss me.
Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with, Daymian is many years younger than I am, and, like most young vampire, they are non-commitant and have weak blood. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for me, given that I am a five century old vampire, who has just come through a loss of every mortal friends and families around me and a devastating, interminable death of the love of my life (who,a vampire like myself in this case), followed immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about three hundred years old. Purely as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely, unsullied Daymian. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a man starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into his bed. This is why I have been alone for many years now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year in celibacy.
To which the savvy observer might inquire: 'Then why did you come?'
To which I can only reply—especially when looking across the table at handsome Daymian— 'Excellent question.'
Daymien is of my kind, and the vampiric clan is diminishing rapidly. That sounds like an innuendo, but unfortunately it's not. All it really means is that we meet a few evenings a week here to practice each other's powers and abilities. I teach him the way of our kind, in multitude of languages, and I am patient with him; then we speak in English, and learnt the ways of man. I discovered Daymian a few weeks after I'd arrived, thanks to my highetened sense of smell, across the street from that fountain with the sculpture of that sexy merman blowing into his conch shell. He (Daymian, that is—not the merman) had just fed from a drunk and was obviously not powerful enough to conceal his scent from me; for he lacks practice. Right beside his appeal was his facial features, with the same depth, word-for-word almost identical in every way, right down to the lip, to the no deceased love of my life. The only difference was the hair style.
Using my keen intuitive powers, I telepathed him, asking in inquisitively, "Are you perhaps of the Blood?"
It was Daymian who replied this very provocative message: "Even better."
Yes—much better. Tall, dark and handsome identical twenty-five-year-old young vampire, as it turned out, with those giant brown liquid-center eyes that just unstitch me. After we exchange words, I began to wonder if perhaps I should adjust my rule somewhat about remaining celibate this year. For instance, perhaps I could remain totally celibate except for keeping a handsome twenty-five-year-old as lover. Who was also slightly reminiscent of a friend of mine whom I had once love, and still do till today, but nonetheless ... I was already composing my letter to Penthouse:
In the flickering, candlelit shadows of the Roman café, it was impossible to tell whose hands were caress—
But, no.
No and no.
I chopped the fantasy off in mid-word. This was not my moment to be seeking romance and (as day follows night) to further complicate my already knotty life. This was my moment to look for the kind of healing and peace that can only come from solitude.
Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with, Daymian is many years younger than I am, and, like most young vampire, they are non-commitant and have weak blood. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for me, given that I am a five century old vampire, who has just come through a loss of every mortal friends and families around me and a devastating, interminable death of the love of my life (who,a vampire like myself in this case), followed immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about three hundred years old. Purely as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely, unsullied Daymian. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a man starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into his bed. This is why I have been alone for many years now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year in celibacy.
To which the savvy observer might inquire: 'Then why did you come?'
To which I can only reply—especially when looking across the table at handsome Daymian— 'Excellent question.'
Daymien is of my kind, and the vampiric clan is diminishing rapidly. That sounds like an innuendo, but unfortunately it's not. All it really means is that we meet a few evenings a week here to practice each other's powers and abilities. I teach him the way of our kind, in multitude of languages, and I am patient with him; then we speak in English, and learnt the ways of man. I discovered Daymian a few weeks after I'd arrived, thanks to my highetened sense of smell, across the street from that fountain with the sculpture of that sexy merman blowing into his conch shell. He (Daymian, that is—not the merman) had just fed from a drunk and was obviously not powerful enough to conceal his scent from me; for he lacks practice. Right beside his appeal was his facial features, with the same depth, word-for-word almost identical in every way, right down to the lip, to the no deceased love of my life. The only difference was the hair style.
Using my keen intuitive powers, I telepathed him, asking in inquisitively, "Are you perhaps of the Blood?"
It was Daymian who replied this very provocative message: "Even better."
Yes—much better. Tall, dark and handsome identical twenty-five-year-old young vampire, as it turned out, with those giant brown liquid-center eyes that just unstitch me. After we exchange words, I began to wonder if perhaps I should adjust my rule somewhat about remaining celibate this year. For instance, perhaps I could remain totally celibate except for keeping a handsome twenty-five-year-old as lover. Who was also slightly reminiscent of a friend of mine whom I had once love, and still do till today, but nonetheless ... I was already composing my letter to Penthouse:
In the flickering, candlelit shadows of the Roman café, it was impossible to tell whose hands were caress—
But, no.
No and no.
I chopped the fantasy off in mid-word. This was not my moment to be seeking romance and (as day follows night) to further complicate my already knotty life. This was my moment to look for the kind of healing and peace that can only come from solitude.
posted by spring-file007 at 5:27 PM
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