C.H.

Part V - Kissing After Dark or: I've Got a Bad Feeling About This

In the deserts of Tunisia, in a small village, a band of men stood
around looking out over the swath of destruction that lay before them.
Costumes lay strewn about the sands, props and faux-robots lay on their
side and meticuluously-built sets were little more than debris. Weeks
before, the area had seen the first rainfall in more than 50 years. By
day, temperatures easily hit 50 degrees...and above. Disaster seemed to
stalk the production of this little sci-fi film that seemingly no-one
cared for.

Upon returning to California, the writer-director, a man named George,
found his special effects company which he had started, ILM, had spent
half their budget on a mere 4 shots...none of which were acceptable.
The following night, he checked into the local hospital and was
diagnosed with hypertension and exhaustion.

Disaster had stalked this production, tension compellled it, countless people's
careers hung in the balance, most of all George's. And yet, by some strange, incalcuble wrinkle in the cultural fabric of America, this film succeeded.

It became:

Star Wars.

* * *

I whispered this into Faye's ear as we lay on the couch watching A New
Hope (Episode IV) on our laptop. She had seen Star Wars, as so many had, when
she was young, and not the whole thing. She barely remembered it, so I
had decided that tonight we were going to try and watch at least the
first one or two films and maybe the whole original trilogy. It took
some persuasion, but she gave in after I reminded her that I had read
Jane Eyre and also started on Wuthering Heights. Girls I was finding,
could be manipulated if needed.

In any case, there we were having not even gotten through the part
where Luke and Obi-Wan hustle Han into smuggling them off Tatooine, and
we were heavily making out.

After a while I had stopped telling the story, finding it difficult to
maintain continuity and memory. Instead, I just starting whispering
quotes in between kisses and exhalations.

"You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence
on twelve systems."

or

"Jabba's through with you. He has no time for smugglers who drop their
shipments at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser."

I was without a shirt and the only light in the room came from the cool
blue glow of the screen or filtered in from the streetlamps outside. She
had dressed down to only her undergarments. The ceiling fan only pushed
more warm air upon us. The sheets were starting to feel damp from
perspiration. I opened my eyes and pulled my face away from her navel
long enough to see her face. Her eyes were closed tight. Her hands
clenched into fists, gripping my bedsheets. I stole a glance at the
television through tousled hair, the images of droids and Jedis blurry and out of
focus from the moisture in my eyes. A smile, more of a smirk or a leering
grin formed on my lips, a sort of expression I hadn't had in a long
time.

"Why did you stop?"

Her laboured voice returned me to the task at hand. Her eyes were open.
"You want me to turn off the movie?"


"Fucking keep going."

And I did.


=//Turnquest