A Noble Suggestion

She lay on the ottoman with her knees hanging over one side and her head over the other. She moved her right leg, stretched straight, toe pointed, knee locked, to the time of an unheard tune. Her floral-patterned skirt lie flat against the ottoman like a rumpled doily. Everything about her, her skirt, her blouse, her cascade of hair pooled on the floor, was floral. When she raised her leg her skirt would rise and fall towards and away from her blouse. While she did this she was parting her lips ever so slightly, as though she were chanting some refrain.

Martin sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the room.  When she raised her leg, he would let the chair roll forward; when she lowered her leg, he would push his.

The two of them danced like this for some time, Martin in the rocking chair and Emma on the ottoman. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling. Martin’s gaze was fixed on Emma. Neither of them blinked. 

Emma’s leg repeated its journey once more. Martin, expecting her to raise it again, began to rock, but Emmas sat straight up.

She looked at Martin.

Martin looked at her.

She took a breath, raised her chin, and kept Martin in the corner of her eye.

“I have an idea,” she said. She was on her feet and standing over Martin in an instant. Her flowery skirt brushed the top of his knees. He looked up to her. She looked down, hands on her hips.

Martin couldn’t move, first because her knees were around his, and second because her presence seemed to smother him. When she was stupefied on the ottoman his gaze swallowed hers. Now that she was over him he felt not as though he was falling through an abyss but that an abyss had moved to swallow him.

Martin started to take a breath.

“Come on,” she said, holding out her hand.

Martin had to keep his elbows tucked as he took his cousin’s hand. If he were to stand straight up he would be nose to nose with the girl. She gave this sort of half laugh, something between a cough and a hiccup. Emma took a step backwards, pulled Martin out of the rocking chair, turned toward the kitchen in the same motion, and made for the stairway. She smelled, he thought, like the flowers on her blouse. He was at the foot of the stairs before he realized he was following her. 

She led him downstairs to a mostly finished basement. The room was as large as the living room upstairs but was used as a single bedroom. There was no door, only a sheet nailed, twisted, and knotted at the corners to cover the entry.

This is where guests stayed. A week ago, in preparation for Emma, his mother set him to changing the sheets and opening the windows to rid what remained of their previous guest. 

The room was a large rectangle, except for the sheet that cut one corner. It was dark, the blinds and the shades had been pulled, but in that suburban darkness Martin saw a pile of quilts and sheets next to the bed. The coffee table had been pulled from the couch and placed a few feet in front of the sheet. 

“Feng shui,” she said. She pulled him into the center of the room and stopped at the foot of the bed. 

Emma spun on the balls of her feet to meet him and dropped, pulling him with her, to the floor. Her skirt pillowed and swirled. They were sitting, or rather, she was sitting, and Martin was in a sort of uncomfortable kneeling position. 

“Comfortable?” She slid her hand under the bed and pulled out the portable table used for breakfast-in-bed. Martin had put it there a week ago. On it there was a candle, a little bowl, something that looked like a wooden pestle, a steel plate, and a collection of bits of metal, stone, and wood in all sorts of shapes.

Martin shifted, bumped the table, crossed his legs, and was slightly more comfortable.