Tomorrow, I will Come

I’ve been feeling down recently, for a few weeks – a low patch. I think this story reflects it. But I’m hopeful and I’m so very much looking forward to tomorrow.

Encountering Mr Darcy – Tomorrow, I will Come

I don’t know if you read about this; the outfit the actor Colin Firth wore during that “lake scene” went up for auction this last week and sold for £25k. It’s hard to imagine. Part of me says, why? Why spend that much money? How would you display it? Would you even (or would you just strip naked, close your eyes and let the fabric of the shirt slowly drag over your stomach, your chest, oh, often … like say, every night at bedtime)? But then another part of me remembers and knows. Hell yeah, I know.

Have you ever seen it, “Pride and Prejudice” the 1995 BBC adaptation? I’ve seen many adaptations over the years, but that one. Well, that portrayal of Mr Darcy takes the biscuit. There’s something about how Colin Firth acts the character that makes him the most compellingly attractive ego-baby I’ve ever set eyes on. Know what I mean? Just so childishly, stubbornly, sweetly earnest? Those moody, sulky looks, oh they set me on fire. It’s pure liquid-gold sex-appeal.

And then there’s the walk. When he emerges from the lake, there is that knicker-wetting walk through the flowers. I was young when I first saw this, to me back then he seemed old, but it was just that I was young. He’s no boy, oh no. He’s a full-on, broad-chested man, striding all dripping and sexy, riding crop held before his chest. And what the actual fuck is he saying with that riding crop? I know what he’s telling me of course, whether he means to or not. I suspect the prominence of the riding crop was not an accidental inclusion.

My man is away, he has been on a trip this week. I have been in denial, I have denied myself any orgasmic pleasure while he has been away. Tomorrow is Sunday. Tomorrow he comes home. Tomorrow I will spend the morning giving my body some TLC, a nice bath, make myself presentable. I’ll be sure to tease myself to a sharp edge, so I am ready to welcome him home in a fitting manner for a Sunday. I’ll also send him filthy messages, so he knows what to expect when he gets home.

But tonight, tonight I belong to Mr Darcy.

I want to be surrounded by wet shirted Mr Darcys, all fired up and moody, itching to put their riding crops to good use. I want them to stalk past me. I’d be kneeling in their path, these Mr Darcys. They would be wearing those £25k outfits, shirts clinging to their chests, all wet and dripping and walking with that purpose; searching, but not seeing me.

They have lost their way, and find they are walking perpetually past the same spot, this agitates them. They’re not surprised to see that there are … let’ see; six is a good number for those times. There are six Mr Darcys and they are not at all surprised by seeing each other, although they do studiously, persistently ignore each other.

Sometimes one gets dangerously close to me, but it’s like they have a sixth sense to match their number, they side-step me neatly, the long grass rustling in their wake. I am dripped on by their shirts, the dizzying scent of them is masked by lake water, which in itself is appealingly musky. I hug myself, thrilling to be near them, secret, smiling thrills that touch me intimately.

Their shirts cling to their bodies. At first they appear not at all to be transparent, but the more I look, the more I see. Look how this one walks towards me, his shirt plastered to his pecks, I see the darkness of a nipple through it. I cannot turn my head, but I can lick my lips. I honestly think I’d be drooling if I couldn’t.

Here comes another, I let my eyes rove over him and I notice how the front of his shirt very occasionally almost wraps itself around his package. There it is, outlined fleetingly and gone again. I lift my eyes to his, but he does not see me, he stalks past, mere centimeters away from me, all purpose.

Finally, one comes too close. He tries to right his course, but instead trips over me; the softness of his leather boot connects painfully with my left shoulder, sending a mega-watt electric bolt straight through me. He stumbles to one knee, catches himself, but lets an expletive fall from his mouth.

“Bugger!” It’s crude and completely un-Darcy-like.

It astonishes me and seemingly him. He rounds on me, confusion on his face, fear in his eyes, that half a moment before held only angry purpose. My heart instantly warms to his ego-baby and I stir, all concern despite the ache in my shoulder and the pulsing of my electrified clit.

I find I am able to move, and I rise stiffly to my feet. We look at each other a long moment. I begin to feel lost in time, but I am swimming towards him. He sees something he doesn’t like, the look a shock on his face. It scares me, I start to flounder. I raise a hand a hairs width to him. He captures my gesture and stops me through sheer force of will, before I can complete it.

“No,” he says.

He holds up a hand of his own, backing away from me.

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head against my reality and he turns, begins to stride away towards the house that is now there to be seen. And through the trees, just past the flower meadow, I catch a glimpse of a slim figure. Elisa Bennett. He strides onwards, towards his fate and I reach out a hand after him, too late I complete my gesture. I am an echo in time and I’m fading, but it was worth it, just to see his physique that one time. Hell, I’d have paid for it, though I do not possess £25k.

I sink down again, tired and weary. The other Mr Darcys are gone, maybe there was only ever one.

I lift my eyes, determined to watch my Mr Darcy through the trees to his meeting with his Miss Bennett. He strides onwards, further and further away from me and I begin to drift out of time again. 

I let him go, take a blade of grass between my fingers, feel it’s texture, it’s sharp edges. I close my eyes, listen to the silence around me. Yeah, the whole world is alive, there’s birdsong, wind in the grass, in the distance a peacock calls giving me a shiver.

But there are no mechanical hums, no cars, no machines. The air is rich, the earthy sent so powerful. I feel intoxicated and I know it’s okay to go now.

Tomorrow will come.