Free Lullabies by Lang Leav

The Professor
    A streak of light flashes across the sky. Thick heavy raindrops pound the uneven dirt floor, littered with dried leaves and twigs. She follows closely behind him, clutching an odd contraption — a rectangular device attached with a long, squiggly, antenna. “You were right about the storm, Professor!” she yells over the howling wind. “Yes, my assistant!” he cries, voice charged with excitement, as he holds up the long, metal conductor. She stumbles over a log as he reaches out to catch her.
    They tumble on the dry grass laughing. He tosses aside the bent, silver coat hanger, wrapping his arms around her waist. The little transistor radio falls from her hands.
    The sun peeks through the treetops.
    She thinks of their first conversation. “I live by a forest,” he said, describing it in such a way that when she came to scale those crooked, winding stairs, it was like she had seen it a thousand times before. As if it had always been there, waiting to welcome her. Like the pretty, sunlit room that remained unfurnished, sitting empty in his house, now filled with her paints and brushes.
    She would fondly call him her Frankenstein, this man who was a patchwork of all the things she had ever longed for. He gave her such gifts — not the kind that were put in boxes, but the sort that filled her with imagination, breathing indescribable happiness into her life. One day, he built her a greenhouse. “So you can create your little monstrous plants,” he explained.
    He showed her how to catch the stray butterflies that fluttered from their elusive neighbors, who were rumored to farm them for cosmetic use. She would listen in morbid fascination as he described how the helpless insects were cruelly dismembered, before their fragile wings were crushed and ground into a fine powder. “Your lips would look beautiful, painted with butterfly wings,” he would tease her.
    “Never!” she’d cry, alarmed.  
    They spent much of their days alone, in their peaceful sanctuary, apart from the little visitor who came on weekends. When the weather was good, the three of them would venture out, past the worn jetty and picnic on their little beach. He would watch them proudly, marveling at the startling contrast between the two things he loved most in the world. His son with hair of spun gold, playing at his favorite rock pool and chattering animatedly in his singsong voice. She, with a small, amused smile on her tiny lips, raven hair tousled by the sea wind. She was different from anything he had ever known.

The Dinner Guest
    The wine, sipped too quickly, has gone to my head. I watch the way your hands move as you tell your joke and laugh a little too loudly when you deliver the punch line.
    His eyes flash at me from across the table. The same disapproving look he shot me earlier, as I was getting dressed.
    It’s a bit tight.
    Don’t be ridiculous, I say.
    How do you know him, again?
    Just an old friend. We worked together years ago.
    He clears his throat, breaking my reverie. My grin fades into a small, restrained smile.
    You top up his glass.
    The conversation drifts into stocks and bonds. My mind begins to wander, like a bored schoolgirl.
    Your hand brushes my leg.
    Was it an accident? I look at you questioningly, but you are staring straight ahead, engrossed in conversation.
    Then there it is again. Very deliberately, resting on my knee.
    Oh, your hands.
    They slide up my thigh and under my skirt, lightly skimming the fabric of my panties.
    It’s been so long.
    I part my legs under the table.
    The conversation turns to politics.
    A mirror effect, you say.
    He looks confused. What’s this about mirrors?
    The word sends a jolt through my body.
    Your hand slips into my panties. 

Vania
    Vania Zouravliov,  that’s  his name! My favorite artist. I wanted his book that time . . . very badly, in fact. I tipped my little coin purse upside down and counted all my money. I was short twenty dollars! 
    She lies on her