OK, it's time to post part II of Jim & Carol's story. Thanks to Markus for reminding me tonight. And he's going to kill me because it was Thundercats I saw on a tee and not Samurai Pizza Cats... But I'll keep looking. And if it's any comfort, I found you a vintage 84 Optimus Prime shirt here:

http://www.t-shirt.com/t-shirts/Vintage-84-Optimus-Prime-T-Shirt.html

Previously, on Jim & Carol... nah, just read on.

1

Though the passions being played out within the tiny hotel room were animal, Jim felt a celestial sense of beauty. Like a religious fervour, his lust for Carol sang with goodness. On Carol’s queen size bed, they weren’t just having sex, satisfying carnal urges, they were sharing their pain. Two people who’d deduced life’s futility, tasted it’s lack of hope, were holding onto each other for want of something else, something more real. They didn’t have love, but they had a need for each other that was stronger than most marriages. With Carol, Jim was sharing his darkest hour. He thought that for the night at least, he had found redemption. As they writhed and moaned, Jim was holding Carol. Holding her like he’d held no one else he’d had sex with. Carol for her part went on kissing his eyes, whispering Give me your soul, give me your soul, whenever she had control of her senses. When she lost control she cried out, tears splashing at her cheeks, and Jim’s as she thrashed her head from side to side.

When the final anguish of orgasm came, it was simultaneous. Carol convulsed from head to toe, thrusting her head forward several times like a mentally retarded patient. Jim’s eyes clouded over and his face contorted in that ridiculous way that only male faces do during climax. Satiated, and exhausted, there were no words between them. Each had gained an intense understanding of the other’s pain. They lay silent and still under the white lace doona, basking in the moment. Their souls, only minutes before entwined, made the slow journey from oneness back to their rightful owners. Only when this journey was complete could Jim or Carol make a sound. Carol is the first to break the silence with,

“Well, I don’t know about love, but I certainly feel dizzy.”

“That’s not love, that’s booze.” is Jim’s typically cynical reply. He follows it up with, “There’s no love left in the world. The boomers took it and turned it into a cliche devoid of any real meaning. They gave it out for free and reduced it’s value to nothing. People don’t fall in love, they just become content with each other’s company.”

“Well, I’m content right now. I think that gives me the right to pretend.”

Jim is concerned with Carol’s train of thought. He knows that it would be conceited of him to think that Carol’s post-orgasmic glow was a show of love, but he too is feeling content. He could very easily find some consolation in sharing his life with Carol, but that wouldn’t solve his problems. Things were too far gone now to even consider redemption. He tries to find the words to tell Carol he has to leave, but before they arrive she says,

“I’m not about to confuse sex with love, or contentment or whatever, but right now, this second, I’m happy. I can almost believe that one day I’ll find what I’m looking for. I’m really greatful to you for that, wether you share my joy or not.”

“No, I agree, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. Still, I don’t want to mess up your life, so I guess I’d better leave.”

Carol rolls toward him and throws her arms around his neck.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she says, “Just let me pretend for a while longer.”

While Jim lays silent, trying to find excuses to get up and get out, he sees that Carol is asleep. Drawn in by the rythym of her breathing, he feels the pull of sleep himself. Before long he is caught, and he drifts into oblivion.

2

When Jim wakes, his watch tells him it is just after five-thirty in the morning. Beside him, Carol lays with her face turned away, her arms no longer holding on. The pattern of her breath tells him she is still asleep. Rising slowly from the bed so as not to wake her, he begins rounding up his clothes.

He could stay and lay at her side until she wakes, he is well aware. He knows that this is exactly what Carol wants him to do. But if he gets back into the bed, falls asleep again, and wakes along side her, he will be in trouble. He wil have a perfect moment on his hands, and perfect moments are dangerous things for people who’ve made up their minds to die. Perfect moments save - Jim doesn’t want to be saved.

Fully clothed now, he looks down at Carol’s sleeping form. She is curled in a foetal position with her face to the wall. She has pulled the doona around her on all sides so that it forms a perfect sculpture where she lies. It traces the curves of her body in much the same way as Jim is now doing with his eyes. Her body is in near to perfect proportion and Jim ponders once again the logistics of getting back into the bed. Dragged by the strength of his convictions alone he walks to the door. As he struggles with the stiff and unyielding lock, Carol stirs and turns towards him. In a tone of frightened desperation, her eyes not yet open, she calls his name.

“Jim?”

Unsure of wether she is actually awake or not, Jim says simply,

“Yeah?”
“Are you leaving?”

Jim’s eyes scan the motel room, like he is searching for words that are floating through the air. They come to rest once again on Carol and he says,

“Yeah.”

Eyes completely open now, and locked with Jim’s, Carol sighs and says,

“I thought you might.”

With this she turns her body back towards the wall and resumes the slow and steady breathing of sleep. Jim, with nothing left to say, finally opens the door and leaves. As the door closes Carol begins to weep. She pours out her tears like the scotch she serves for a living - freely and without any deep thought. She continues to cry until exhaustion drags her back to sleep.

In the primary coloured and softly lit world of her dreams there is a house. Somewhere in the suburbs, far away from Woodley, two children roll across a lush lawn in the back yard with a border collie pup. As Carol pours generous serves of fresh water over bright green ferns from a plastic jug, a car pulls into the brick-paved yard out front. The pup stops frolicking and its ears stand straight up. As the dog’s tail begins wagging ten-beats-to-the-second, Carol stops watering and says,

“Dad’s home.”

The children rise from the lawn and race each other to the white picket gate at the side of the house. As the gate opens, a smokey-grey cat runs into the back yard and pounces on a butterfly. After the cat, a tall and well-built man walks into the yard where he is set upon by two happy children and a barking dog. Tucked under one arm he is carrying a brightly coloured statuette. As Carol approaches him to kiss his cheek she notices what it is.

“Here you go sweetheart,” he says, handing her the statue,“I bought you a garden gnome.”