Free Monochrome by H.M. Jones Page B

he would feign exasperation and “school” her on the quote, quite annoyingly, but she enjoyed the game.
    It made him almost giddy. He had a child-like love and wonder of literature that she shared. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met someone who loved literature with such a passion, and she was in class with literature majors every week, but most of them thought Romantic poetry was corny. Or they were jaded, snobbishly unaffected by this or that book or poem because it didn’t fit this or that theory.
    She enjoyed theory and debate, she enjoyed trying to understand historical snapshots captured in important moments, and the themes in whatever she was reading. But she also just enjoyed the sound of words fitting perfectly together, harmonious consonants and sound formed for each other, and so did he.
    Ishmael spun towards Abigail, walking backwards, and she assumed he was going to shoot her another quote. “It’s your turn,” he said, instead.
    She raised an eyebrow at him.
    “To test me.” He shot her a sly smirk.
    “Ah! Let me think…”She thought carefully about the author she chose. She wanted to stump him to get back for his prior superiority. She thought about the authors he tended to quote—mostly male, romantic poets—and knew she had him.
    “Got one.” He continued his backward trek and gestured for her to lay it on him.
    She cleared her throat, and dropped her voice deep and mournful:
    “How strongly does my passion flow,
    Divided equally ‘twixt’ two?
    Damon had ne’er subdued my heart,
    Had not Alexis took his part;
    Nor could Alexis powerful prove,
    Without my Damon’s aid, to gain my love.”
    She chuckled at his puzzled expression.
    “What time period? Classical?” He asked, unsure. “Female?”
    She answered the first question. “Her contemporaries were metaphysical.”
    She grinned, knowing he’d never get it. He stopped walking and frowned.
    “I don’t know.” He held up his hands, defeated, but smiling.
    “Men very rarely read women poets,” she teased.
    He rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yeah, yeah. You got me. Who is it?”
    “That, unlearned man, is the poetry of dramatist and poet, Aphra Behn, ‘On her Loving Two Equally.’”
    Ishmael motioned for Abigail to continue walking, but decided to walk by her side to make talking easier.
    “You used my misogyny against me.” He nudged her with his elbow.
    “I had to bring out the big guns. It’s one of my favorites,” she said, more reservedly.
    “You’ll have to tell me the rest of it sometime.” He frowned. “Nightfall is coming and the fog will roll in soon. In about two miles there’s a place we can stop, but, you should know, it’s not a very nice place.”
    “Well, I told you I wanted to stay somewhere cheap.” She studied his face, which darkened.
    “I know you did. Only, this place is kind of a breeding ground for the down and out. The people there have no qualms about trading their grandmothers for a good memory.”
    She didn’t want him to see the fear she felt, so she tried to keep her face expressionless as she asked, “What do you suggest we do, then?”
    Ishmael scratched his beard. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I know you’re married and are trying to make it back home to your family.”
    Abigail raised her eyebrow at him, curious. “Yeah?”
    “I think we should share a room.”
    The words out, he turned his face from her, back to the reflective black pebbled path, and walked briskly ahead. She followed, not saying anything for a while. It was clear from his embarrassment he wasn’t hitting on her or trying to be inappropriate, but it was still a precarious position.
    She barely knew this man and, though she was beginning to like him, she still wanted to be wary. She’d been misled by men before, and wasn’t about to let down her guard. The way he defended the actions of the Snakes, his own heavy guilt when the subject of his other Leads came up, all made