Love on the Fringe
By Louise Dragon
The girl stepped out of the fog and began to make her way around the tombstones toward Pom.
Pom Lasiter glanced quickly behind him, but he was alone in the cemetery. Not even a bird chirped.
Beautiful, yet sweet features adorned the slim body of the dark-haired girl stepping daintily through dew-moistened grass on the fringes of Cullman Cemetery.
Pom, heart beating more and more rapidly with each approaching step, tried to think of something witty to say. Instead, this came out: “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a scary place like this?”
The girl stopped short, looked Pom square in the face, and burst into tears. Great big droplets that rolled down alabaster white cheeks and dripped onto her green gauzy dress.
Oh, great, Pom’s voice inner voice proclaimed. Meet a beautiful sexy girl in the middle of nowhere and what do you do? Make her cry? Charming, simply charming!
“I’m Pomeroy Lasiter,” Pom spoke quietly trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Is there anything I can do?”
“Edda. Edda Brudie.” She held out a petite white hand. Which immediately disappeared into Pom’s large brown one.
“I’m lost,” she sobbed. “I’m so lost and cold and tired. I need your help.”
Pom reluctantly dropped Edda’s waxy cold hand.
“You’re freezing,” he said removing his blazer and draping it over the girl’s shoulders -- like they do in the movies. She gazed up at him with the largest and bluest eyes Pom had ever seen. His knees weakened and his mouth dried up. At that precise moment in his young life, Pom knew what the phrase “love at first sight,” meant. This girl equaled that phrase for him. He would gladly do anything she asked. He gulped trying to get words to come out of his arid mouth.
“What can I do?” he choked out
“We-we were in an accident,” the girl stammered. Her voice lilted, with an almost singsong quality.
“Our car hit a tree . . . somewhere out there. I’ve been wandering around for hours looking for help. Wait, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Edda backed away slightly, a frown furrowing her pretty face.
“My girlfriend died last month,” Pom gushed out the words. It was all he could think of to explain his presence. He didn’t want this girl to know that he was so desperately lonely that he had planned to take his own life last night. Down a bottle of pills and die right here on a grave – any grave. Pom didn’t have a girlfriend. Pom never had a girlfriend, but things were looking up.
Edda’s face softened. “How sweet,” she murmured, relief washing over her pretty face. She moved in closer and once again looked up at Pom’s face with those lipid pools of blue. “Come,” she said, “maybe we can still save Bruce.”
“My boyfriend,” the girl sobbed, “he was driving the car and I couldn’t get him out.”
Damnit, Pom’s inner self-proclaimed, a boyfriend, how charming!
Still, if the dude were dead, consoling Edda would then become Pom’s job. A tiny smile played over his lips as he followed the girl into the forest.
In a small clearing next to a huge oak tree lay the rusty remains of an old vehicle.
Little Edda paced back and forth before the wreck wringing her hands.
“Wha?” Pom began reaching for her.
She flung herself against Pom sobbing for all she was worth.
“Bruce was right here,” the girl wept scrubbing her face from side to side against his willing chest.
He hooked a finger under her chin forcing her to look up at him. That face, those eyes, crazy or not, he was going to kiss her.
She actually stopped struggling and accepted his kiss . . . melted into it, but there was a slimy little wriggling place on one lip that caused Pom to move away slightly, his breath coming in quick gasps.
Her mouth smelled foul like festering mushrooms.
A small yellow worm wriggled from a hole under Edda’s full lips and fell to the ground between them.
Pom backed away hitting the canted door of the rusted car wreck.
A greasy green sack fell out revealing old bones, rotting flesh, and plenty of maggots.
Pom looked into the wreck and saw another festering body behind the wheel. He spun back to face Edda.
“You . . .you’re dead,” he said flatly, hardly believing his misfortune. “How charming!”
Edda moved in to snuggle against him again but he backed away from her.
“Are you really dead?” he asked shaking his head with disbelief.
“Yes,” she said and pointed to spot on Pom’s wrist where a small yellow maggot inched out of his white shirtsleeve.
“But so are you.”
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