Tainted Name continued

"Wow, I had never really thought about it until just recently… you know until me and my partner wanted to pursue it…”

Samuel’s eyes flicked down sheepishly. The woman in front of him, ten years his junior, had already lived and survived the rearing of children. One that wasn't even her own. Her tricks to help them ease at night, keep them warm and calm, had far surpassed what Samuel and Trine had even considered asking their parents for. Unable to look her in the eye, his gaze had fallen on the water glass in front of her. Its contents are clear as her insight into his problems at home; what he and his partner , who were both nearly in their mid forties, had been so blind to. Throughout his childhood he felt betrayed by parents’ separation and his partner had faced a myriad of problems due to the simple color of her skin. Though he underestimated the woman in front of him and the hardship she had faced by being born into a lower class than he and his partner; and she fell into a limbo state between the privilege of her skin tone and the disparaging events of her parents choices that kept her in a constant state of alertness. If he reached out now, underneath her hair and collar, would he squeeze to find solid rock? Her neck having to be petrified in order to hold her head high, looking for a brighter tomorrow where she can finally rest her worried mind?

Amelie cleared her throat and pulled at the pink embroidered fabric covering her neck. He hadn’t realized he had been staring but from the blush of her cheeks and twisting in her chair he knew he had made her uncomfortable.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second there…” he lied sheepishly, “ what was it we were talking about?”

“You said you were interested in my work. Well in particular my first novella and a few short poems I wrote a year or so back.”

“Right! I really like those. ‘Stepping Pattern’ had such a nice cadence to it and I liked the twist on your movie reference within it. What inspired it?”

She laughed and reached for her coffee, smothering her amusement with the beverage. Her tongue clicked as she lowered the cup back down to the table, cleared her throat again, and began.

“Well before I wrote that poem, I found out that knowing who is walking up around a corner or up a flight of stairs based off of their footsteps is ‘not normal’” she chuckled before continuing, “and in ‘A mothers rage’ the most iconic scene is when the main villain come crawling down the stairs towards her last victim. It’s so iconic that literally every sequel has a version of her doing that. I just thought it would be interesting to combine the two in a twist making that main villian a source of comfort instead of pain and fear. Like that little girl had something even more frightening than a literal demon in her home.”

Amelie took another sip of her coffee and Samuel pursed his lips. His hand found its way to his chin and smoothed over the pensive look he was now giving the author in front of him.

“Oh…” he said

“That wasn’t the answer you were expecting?”

“No, no. I guess… I guess I didn’t know what I was expecting but I thought it came from something more personal.”

“I mean it kind of did, weren’t you listening? I can tell who is walking up the stairs by their footsteps which is not a normal thing that people can do apparently. Had me looking back at my home life growing up in a whole new light.”

“Tell me more.” Samuel saw her nose scrunch up and her curls sway below her chin from her curt denial.

“No, I don't think that would be wise. Plus, the more personal side of it doesn’t add much benefit to that poem. Getting too specific would isolate too many people and you would end up just writing a poem for your siblings.”

Samuel looks down at his hands in his lap. He lets her words hang in the air for a few moments, trying his best to digest them. Perhaps he had been wrong about their connection.

“My home life growing up wasn’t the best either…” he admitted, “I thought.. I thought maybe you had had a similar experience and I connected with that.”

Samuel tossed his hand up slightly; just raising barely above the table to showcase his disappointment in being wrong about her motivations for work that had become one of his favorite poems recently published. Amelie’s gaze softened as Samuel continued to avoid it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

He responded with a quick nod and flexing of his smile into a hard line spread across his face. Were tears welling in his eyes? Amelie couldn’t be sure as he continued to avoid looking at her. She reached across the table, just barely stopping past the top edge of his plate.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked, raising her eyebrows to reassure him she would listen if he wanted her to. Otherwise, she would leave that stone unturned; the scab unpicked. Amelie could be warm and cold all at once. It was a shock to Samuel when he first met her and now the strange sensation bore through his bones as a dull ache. Like he had just come in from outside in the snow; his cheeks and hands stinging with rejoining warmth but his core never got fully unfrozen. He thought for another moment as he stared at her finger dancing above his plate. Her nails were painted on the tip with a fine pattern on her ring finger, yet the skin that bore those nails were a tad wrinkled and looked to have been hardened for years of working behind her writing. He looked down at his own hands, the blurry tendrils set in his lap again. He had not realized he had started to cry but now that he had discovered it, his face burned of embarrassment. How could he be so naive? Why did her work move him so? Samuel cleared his throat.

“No, that's alright - something better left unsaid. Right?” he lifted his head to face her again and she smirked.

“An Empty Nest burns Brighter? My god, you are a fan of my work!”

Amelie sat back in her chair, rescinding her fleshy invitation to hide it underneath her forearms in a friendly crossing of arms. She chuckled with disbelief Samuel had read her first poem in history - one outside of the writings of a child in assignment. A small note to no one listening but through the discarded media of small-town print. A small town that was not even hers but she had won the contest nonetheless

“How did you find it? That isn’t on my site… nor has it been republished in any of the anthologies.”

“I heard rumors that you had been a ghostwriter for a bit of time while you still worked your day jobs. I asked my assistant to look into the local papers near your home. No dice over the phone but when I happened to be filming on the East Coast the next summer, I came across it in the library. Apparently the historian there had a thing for you and you working in the next town over pursued the other staff members that it might be nice to keep that as your tie to their town. They thought you would be a politician of some sort”

“Are writers not their own class of politicians? What with all that we capture and comment on?” she paused, “ and who we move with our words?”

“I guess you're right."