Almonds, Honey, Mahogany

I know what he wants, and yet, as I sip my Darjeeling, I can't say I'm altogether ready to acquiesce his unspoken request just yet.

"Darjeeling, Georges?" I ask cordially. "It's excellent, you know. When I steep it, it always is."

The Darjeeling glistens in the candlelight, golden and rare. On the coffee table I have scones out, I have sugar and milk out, and he isn't touching any of it. His arms are crossed, the international sign for 'I hate you. Why I am even here with you is beyond my comprehension.' His eyes are narrowed. I narrow mine to match.

"Georges, what happened to us?" I ask softly, almost hurt by his utter lack of manners. I start playing with the head of my cane absentmindedly as I speak. "We used to be friends, mon cher. I remember quite clearly."

There is no answer, of course. I pour myself another cup of tea and add a sugar to it. I can't add that much to my tea anymore, for sadly my physician forbids it. Everything I have set out on the coffee table is for Georges, and he is ignoring it as though it were an illusion, and he knows better. How rude.

"You know what I think," I say suddenly, to break the silence that falls like a thick perfume on this picturesque scene. I shake some pale blond hair out of my eyes before continuing. "I think that boy has changed you. Ruined you, in fact. With his curly hair and his goddamn beautiful hands. You know what his hands stink of? Bitter almonds and honey. Don't you know what that signifies? Death. Suicide and embalming. That boy has Death's hands."

"Denis does not have Death's hands," Georges says between clenched teeth, his voice as painfully white as his knuckles, which by now lie clenched on his lap. I spare Georges a rare glance. I truly hate looking at people. They cause me to be quite ill. Even with Georges, aesthetically pleasing as he is, I cannot bare to look at him for more than four seconds before becoming physically sick.

"Denis? No, of course he doesn't have them. No, to have Death's hands, he would have to be given them. And why would Death give such a beautiful gift to a frivolous child such as him?" I snap. "God, I hate that boy!"

I throw my teacup onto the carpeted floor. It shatters into a hundred shards of white and orange stained china. I run a hand through my hair, count to ten, try to calm myself with stuttered breaths.

"Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq... six... sept... huit... neuf... dix..." I breathe.

"You're insane, Andre," Georges says softly, staring at the ground, where tea has started to seep into the carpet and eventually stain. I've hidden my face in my hands, but when I take them away, I am smiling.

"Quite glad you noticed, mon cher," I say. "I see your wit hasn't dulled one iota since we last met."

"Please, Andre, where is..."

"God?" I finish. "Why, he's everywhere, love. He's in the sky, he's in the ground, he's with my mother... Why, I do believe he's even in the small dark room you ingenue is languishing in at this very moment. Or is the term ingenue not quite adequate to describe the idea, Georges?"

"Small dark room where?" Georges growls.

"No questions during teatime," I declined, waggling my finger at him. "You could at least attempt to be civil, sweet. But, you are a guest, so..."

I take the ornate box off of the chair beside me and hold it in outstretched hands to Georges.

"For you!" I beam, urging him to take the present silently. "I tuly hoped you'd like the box. It was made from teak and mahogany, carved in India. I remember you usd to love India. Is that still the case?"

"What is it?" Georges asks, curiousity getting the better of him. For one blessed moment, I believe he's forgotten about Denis, that insolent pest.

"It's a surprise! Why would I spoil it?" I ask, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "Please, open it, and then you can talk to Denis. On my word."

Georges looks into my eyes for any hint of dishonesty. As painful as it is, I meet his gaze, and he believes me. Slowly, he lifts the lid. I wrinkle my nose as a waft of bitter almonds and honey assaults me, and I look away. I do not see the expected shock, and then the horror in Georges' eyes. I do hear the crash as he drops the box onto the coffee table.

"What did you do to him?" Georges asks, his voice faint and strangled.

"I took back what was not rightfully his," I say quietly. "He has stolen Death's hands, and because of that he must suffer."

I can practically see the images flashing in Georges' head, vivid pictures depicting his sweet boy, bloody stumps where his hands should be, weeping from the inexorable pain. I smile, happy to have put such pleasant thoughts in his head.

"But, I'm a man of my word," I continue. "I'll let you talk to him."

I turn to the wall and slide open the fake panel. Tenderly, I croon, "Oh, Denis, Georges is here and I daresay he's anxious to talk to you."

I truly hate intimacy. As Georges runs to the gap in the wall to talk to a whimpering Denis, I have half a mind to excuse myself discreetly and be sick. After three minutes, I have had enough, and I push Georges out of the way with my cane.

"I'm sorry Denis, that's quite enough," I say into the wall. "We don't want to spoil the visit, do we?"

I shut the panel on Denis as he starts to shriek, and turn away discreetly so I can administer some snuff to my stuffy nose.

"You're a bastard," Georges says tightly. I can practically hear the tears he's holding back. "An insane, twisted bastard."

"Once again, your powers of observation never cease to amaze me," I laugh, and tilt my head back as I sniff a little. "If you want, cher, I'll give him back. But he will never be whole again, in the physical sense and I daresay the mental. You will hate him. You will look after him, you will feed him, but you will hate him as you hate me. You will spite him and then send him on his way. I know you, Georges. Don't deny it."

"He is different! I hate you, child. I hate your bones and I hate the ground you walk on. I love him who you mutilated."

My eyes narrow, and I silently mouth some words.

"We are all men," I finally offer, a weak defense against his hatred. "Why dost thou love him more than me?"

"Why would I love you?" Georges snaps, and with that goes my reasoning. Never mind the fact that I hate to touch, I strangle him with my bare hands until he is cold and smells of death.

I open the panel in the wall and calmly say, "Denis, Georges is dead. I strangled him. I'm leaving now."

I don't listen to Denis' half-crazy pleas as I pack up his hands and leave them neatly by Georges' body. Then I look at the parlour, grab my hat, and bid everyone there adieu.