Fallon's Wonderful Machine (2 page)

Fallon came.

She was gone. Somewhere else. A different
plane. Everything soft and white like clouds made of cotton. When
they touched her she moaned in pleasure. When the released her she
sighed in relief. All around her they gathered. Climbed from her
toes, up up, reached her midsection and intensified. A thousand
more joined. And still they climbed, climbed. Soon she was covered
head to toe and she exploded with joy.

Then as slowly and gently as they had come,
they released her. Let her go. Back to earth. Back to her
Darragh.

There he was. Looking down at her face.
Satisfied smile mirrored her own. So adoring. So caring. For a few
seconds that was all there was. Then his features more determined.
Movements stronger.

He entered her with such ease. Fallon felt
like she was pulling him in. Like they were being pushed together
by an outside force. No, like they were being pushed together
because they belonged like this. Forces be damned. They couldn't be
held apart any longer. Everything was right. Everything was perfect
now. His cock moved back and forth. Twisting a little this way and
this way. Re-exploring its forlorn home. Finding new things and old
things forgotten. And with every stroke they climbed, together now,
like they were meant to be, together they climbed towards that
special place Fallon had just left. Her heaven. She could not let
him go. Held him as tightly as she could. She scratched him she
knew. She held him like this because they had to go together. She
wanted to feel him. To hold him while they were there. Their bodies
slick with sweat. Clinging together. Wanted his breath. His pulse.
His every movement to belong to her in there, in that cottony
sky.

And then as lovers, as one, his hands around
her body like hers around his, they left our world behind and
entered their own.

Three

The next day was when Fallon fell down the stairs.
Such a stupid way to die. Tumbling down the stairs with her whites
flying out of her hamper. So stupid. Way too early. Easily avoided.
Just pull the shoes on properly. Not slip into them and step the
heel flat. Always did that. Stupid. So many times she'd nearly
fallen. Couldn't see her feet when she was carrying the hamper.
Knew it was unsafe. And now she'd killed herself with her idiocy
and laziness.

It wasn't in slow motion like the books and
movies said. No. Much too quick. Another thing was true. She saw
everything. The old worn metal strips nailed to the stairs. Eight
on this one. Ten on the next. Two bent out of shape. Missing a
piece here. And there was the one her foot got snagged on that
time. When she hit her head on the steps the third time her sweater
got stuck on the errant metal and ripped. Awful. She loved that
sweater. Just a white zip-up hoodie with knitted patterns and
pockets that she could close. Or keep her hands in a resting
position in front of her stomach. And now it was ruined. She
wouldn't even have the comfort of being found in a whole
sweater.

And not only her ruined sweater and dumb way
of wearing shoes: dying like this was so inconvenient. Her laundry
wasn't done. Her dirty plate and coffee cup from breakfast still in
the sink. Everyone was going to think she had been a total slob.
The EMTs would carry her out, complaining about the stink and her
dirty underwear strewn all over the stairs and floor. Hope they'll
be careful when they come down. The t-shirt on the rung above her
could cause somebody to slip. Then another person might fall down
and she'd be responsible for another death. That was all she needed
now.

She hadn't even thought about Darragh. Her
family or friends. Wasn't she supposed to? She was being awfully
rude. That's when her neck hit the sharp rung. That was supposed to
be her last thought. Her spirit was supposed to remain behind and
watch the rest with complete serenity. Except:

Fallon McGinn didn't die.

There's something very disturbing about
knowing it was your time, waking up on the basement floor without a
scratch. You should be dead. But it's not a common feeling. Not
everybody can relate. Fallon took stock. No damage on her. Her
white hoodie still intact. Whites on the floor next to the hamper
in front of her. Not strewn all over the stairs. Ask anyone and
they'd say she tripped at the bottom. Lost her hamper. Imagined the
whole thing, poor dear. Fainted maybe. You're here right? So
nothing happened. Fallon had to admit these imaginary people, a
jumbled amalgam of everyone she knew, with the voice of her mother,
were convincing.

She felt that something had happened.
Something was wrong. Of course! She was a ghost. That was it. A
ghost that picked up her laundry with non-translucent hands. Put it
into the machine and added the pouch of washing liquid. Poured some
detergent in the drawer. Of course. Didn't ghosts do laundry all
the time? So she wasn't a ghost.

We've all felt this strange malaise. Waking
up from a dream and sorting the true things from the fake things.
Realising there's no way we could have crashed our mothers' cars or
lost our uncles' dogs. Because neither exist. It fades in time. We
start to feel normal again. Get on with our days.

As Fallon did.

Sometimes when she walked through the living
room, she felt like the machine had moved. It was on the antique
table like in her dream. There were plenty of moving parts. A crank
spun a large brass wheel. Throwing a lever and turning the same
crank moved many small gears that in turn spun a smaller wheel.
Everything was perfectly balanced. She would turn and twist and
pull and they would stay where they were. But now, again, it looked
like it had moved. Why wouldn't it have! Darragh fiddled with it
all the time. People who came over did too. And she. No one could
resist. Stuck their fingers into mechanisms. Moved a cog or looked
at cams and cam followers while the big wheel spun. So it was
nothing to worry about! Someone had touched it. It hadn't
moved.

Enough! Let's not pretend we don't know.
Let's not feign amazement when the machine clicks and whirs in the
night. Let's take the following at face value:

Click. Whir. The following day the
neighbour's dog stopped barking at Fallon. Wagged its tail
instead.

Click. Click. Fallon discovered she hadn't
spent as much money as she thought. Was quite well off for the the
month actually.

Click. Whir. Darragh brought his overnight
bag and spent the night. Unannounced, unplanned.

Click. Click. There was supposed to be a lot
of grass pollen in the air but Fallon didn't sneeze or sniff. Not
once. Her eyes felt fine.

Let's not even pretend that Fallon had
assembled the machine correctly. There were too many combination.
Too many parts that fit where other parts also fit. How could an
untrained woman create a machine from parts she knew nothing about?
From the blueprint of a dream?

That wasn't the point.

Not with this machine. Could it feel, it
would have felt any configuration was sufficient for it to do its
work. But it could not, so it did not. It just worked.

Click. Fallon found the perfect spatula at a
used market. Whir. Her roses blossomed early. Admired by her
neighbours who still had only closed buds, and by passers-by, who
had none.

Four

Click.

That night the machine started early. As
soon as Fallon went to bed. It worked through the night. It was
silent. Its parts well oiled. Well cared for. The phrase 'labour or
love' is invoked too often, to describe the most mundane of things.
When it came to this machine, therefore, the phrase was too weak.
Too watered down. So it won't be used. Let's just watch
instead.

See the levers slide back and forth. See the
switches go on and off. The wheel turns a full circle. One fifth of
a circle back. A gear moves into position and the wheel continues.
Slower now. Another full circle. Are we to see any meaning here?
Are the clicks and whirs, so soft, somehow symbolic of what the
machine is doing? And why is it working so hard tonight?

Unanswered questions! But watching it is
kind of beautiful, isn't it? Intriguing, or hypnotic maybe? No.
There's a smile here. However slight and small. It's hiding in our
features. A satisfaction like watching a lean leopard creep through
the grass. And like the nocturnal leopard, the machine stopped at
last, when the sun rose in a clear sky. Shone through Fallon's
bedroom window. Crept carefully along the floor, caressing her legs
and body before at last stroking her cheeks and kissing her awake
like a nurturing mother.

Darragh came over early. Fallon was still in
her robe and nightgown when he rang the bell. He always rang.
Rather than use his own key and surprise her in a private moment.
He'd never caught her clipping her toe-nails or picking her teeth.
Or worse.

"Hello, gorgeous," he said. Kissed her and
completed his traditional triple greeting: doorbell, kiss,
hello.

"Mm. What's that smell? The one that's not
my hunky man?"

"That's me too," Darragh said. He held up a
bag with a green logo on it.

"Brekkie!" she said, "let me get us set up
on the kitchen."

"I'll do it. You get the coffee going. I can
never figure your machine."

They ate and drank coffee.

"So, Fallon. I've been thinking," he said.
Between sips.

"I don't pay you think," she said.

"I want a raise."

They laughed and smiled at each other.

"What have you been thinking about then?"
she asked.

"I think. I think we should talk about it at
least. About moving in together," he said.

"Oh, Darragh!" she said, "How long have you
been thinking about this. I've wanted to say it for ages."

"A few weeks I guess. Then. I don't know.
Everything seemed so perfect today. I just woke up and everything
was so good. And I was thinking, I'm only missing one thing. To
wake up with you."

"Let's do it," she said, "give notice today.
We'll move your things over when we have time."

"I was going to say. I'd save a lot of money
by living here. And we could use that to get a bigger place. If you
want. And..."

"Say no more. I want you here," she said.
She put the coffee cups away and leaned over his shoulder. Kissed
him. How soft! How wonderful to connect their bodies this way. Not
a kiss hello. Not I love you. This kiss meant I want you. You want
me. I want you to want me. That kind. Their bodies responded. She
took his hand and led him upstairs.

"This is our room now," she said, and landed
on the bed. Almost bounced from the force he lay her down with.
Yes. Their room. Their bed. Her man. Their moment.

Their breathing unified. Their eyes hungered
with lust and love. Their hands, their bodies. Her robe was
somewhere between the stairs and the bedroom. Her nightdress above
her hips. Darragh's face smooth from his morning shave between her
legs. Kisses up and down her thighs. His breath hard through his
nose. Cooling her off like two tiny spring winds. Made just for
her. Still so soft were his lips. So hard her muscle against them.
Against his cheek, his neck. She caressed his face with her lower
body. Tried to steer herself towards him. Him towards her. Come
closer. Come closer. I want to kiss you with my other lips.

Hesitant lover between her legs. Leaned
forward like it was his first. Eyes closed. Mouth pursed. And she
the more experienced let her lips touch him. At once every nerve in
her sex sighed with gratitude. And his too. As instincts took over.
He knew what he was doing. Could read the signs. She could guide
him now. Anywhere she wanted he would go. Slow and persistent she
made him up and down her outer lips. Tongue darted out here and
then. Tasting her. Moistening his own lips and hers.

He was a visitor here. She let him in. Like
she had let him to this room. Their room. He must be allowed
inside. More of his tongue moved around. Familiar environment.
Unfamiliar setting. She led him around. Showed him her inner lips.
Her inside. And here. Yes, here! That special place. The
centrepiece of her sex. Touch with care at first. Fragile now.
Careful. And she led him around again. They both got distracted and
had to move back. Again and again. Not so fragile anymore. Touch it
freely now. More force. She made him stiffen and relax his tongue
as she circled it. Spun around it. Pushed it even. From side to
side.

Each touch. Each push and each lick and lap
sent a thousand thousand little fluttering butterflies along a
thousand thousand paths, tickling her, brushing her, caressing her
from her sex to her toes, to her scalp, to a tiny little spot on
her upper arm. Faster and faster they flew. More and more took off
with each group until every part of her was a storm of butterflies.
Became as one. Touching her in every place at once.

They took her away.

They flew together through a void. No up or
down. No Fallon. No woman, no man, no Darragh. Only the butterflies
and the essence of what was her. Twisting into a spiral of colour
and pleasure. Tighter and tighter the spiral wound. So tight now
that it almost hurt. It was unbearable. The fabric could wind no
more: it exploded. Painted everything with brown and red and gold
and yellow. Unnamed hues and colours.

Fallon returned to herself. To the bed.
Allowed the air inside her lungs again. Released in small,
surprised gasps. She looked at Darragh above her mound with
disbelief and surprise.

"You are too good at that," she said at
last.

His smooth cheeks and chin and teeth
glistened in the sunlight. He fell unto his back beside her and
they lay there. Breathing together. Cooling together.

"Don't think I'm done with you," Fallon
said. She rolled over on top of him. Pinned his arms down.