Miss Emily Smith

Miss Emily Smith

by M. B. George

I truly believed my life would be perfectly ordinary. There was no reason to believe otherwise. My job was my dream from childhood, a technological desk job made to bring the creativity of others to life. But nobody can live with normal forever, nor do people choose when their lives get flipped upside down.

I stared at my phone, swiping left and right. And then I saw her. My heart stopped but a single drop of cold sweat down my back brought me back to life. Her face wasn’t that of a model, but she had an alluring beauty all her own - a rounded face, red cheeks as if blushing, a smile that made my head spin, eyes glistening and green that reminded me of how light first hits a freshly mined emerald. Her description, understated - “Very cute. Very nerdy.” So I swiped right. Admittedly, the nervous, hair-splitting energy left my body once her eyes were gone.. A day later, the notification rolled in that she liked me too. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just nerves, but my heart skipped a beat. I suppose the feeling was less of elation and more of a primal, guttural fear. A fear that pulled me, hypnotized me. I crawled ahead even when every cell in my body told me I should run.

To my surprise, we ended up on a date fairly quickly. Her style of dress was a little plain, and her speaking skills were limited. At the end of our short evening though, when we both parted ways, I was unable to catch my breath. We did nothing to warrant it - casual dinner, walking around a mall and talking about our admittedly nerdy interests. Emily was sweet, calm, with red cheeks but a certain suave. Regardless, we were both happy.

I soon began to talk to her everyday. I began to learn more about her as well - an intellectual, a woman who enjoyed media of all kinds that centred the pain of the world. A place for the overlooked, pitiful children and the adults they would become to show the world the horrors they endured. And yet, when the world and god himself turned away from their suffering, she comforted them. Demanded change. Helped them. And yet she was called evil for it. A modern Mary Magdalene. It was a perfectly adorable disguise for a strange, compassionate creature. But although work kept me busy, she stayed on my mind. My precious two free hours were spent talking to her; the rest were spent dreaming of her. But of course, it became worse. We went to karaoke.

Her voice was strong, fierce, able to go impossibly high pitches yet still remain controlled. She missed the last train. I had anticipated it could happen - the trains stopped around midnight and we hadn’t met until 10pm. But neither of us quite seemed to care. It was a private intermediary where we could talk and enjoy each other’s company until we reached the point of going to each other’s apartments. We spoke of our families, our feelings, and I made the bold move of resting my head in her lap. But it was fine, a moment that made her cheeks go red and the corners of her mouth turn up. The soft, pink dress she wore complimented her eyes. Soon enough, I found myself wondering after the taste of her lips.

Time passed. I kept falling in love with that sweet girl - amongst the horror movies, the torture, the occasionally strange sexual proclivities. She became familiar yet always managed to be new and strange, unlike any person I had met before. Wise beyond her supposed years, initiating sex with a calm beckoning and a whisper of “if I am your god, get on your knees for me”. She was obsessed with learning - languages, science, math, anything she didn’t know was a new mountain for her to climb. She had her day job, but had always wanted to be an artist. She wrote on anything she could find, but was fussy about her pen. Anything but a black 0.3mm fountain pen from her preferred brand was simply not good enough. She would say things casually, things I never would have considered myself. “You humans are such consumptive creatures. Happiness always seems so close, yet it always lies another door down. You are given all, but act like you have nothing. Keep searching, you poor things.” “Me? Do you really think one such as me could be restrained by morality? I convinced Pilate to put Jesus on the cross.” In this case, feeling mischievous, I followed with: “Why was one such as yourself on a dating app, then?” She pouted, but only for a moment. Then, she smiled far too wide with every single tooth in her mouth. “I wanted to settle down and see what love is like.”

Our time together was often short. Two days off a week each, never to line up - but we always kept dinner warm for whoever came home last. She had shown herself to be eccentric, sometimes cruel, but always smiled at me sweetly. The world seemed to be her enemy, but in me she found the reprieve she was always longing for. We ate, we danced, we sang, we made love, our home was void of all hangups and shame. The nature of our love was ever-shifting. Sometimes it was a fierce, passionate flame, and other times a bed of warm embers, but it would be a cold day in hell if our fire for each other ever went out.

One day, I came home to find her staring at some mail and grinning. She ran to me and kissed me, a deep warmth within her spread from her lips to mine, a gentle stinging wondrous pain. Her book had been picked up by a big-name publisher. We went out for dinner to celebrate, an evening of drinking and laughing and staying up late together. I was so proud of her for pushing herself to her dream and never compromising. But before she left for the book tour, I got the sudden fear that she may forget our love. I found myself paralyzed with fear, terrified of the possibility. Living without her would be living without salvation. Knowing it had been coming, I bought her the most beautiful, understated ring I could find. I gave it to her the night before she left and proposed marriage. With a sly tear in her eye, she accepted. “I suppose I can do you the favour of being yours for the rest of your life”, she told me. 

I was kept busy while she was gone, but the constant dull ache in my chest kept me checking my calendar. Coverage of her talks was rare in my country, but she sent me the popular articles from her home country. Many praised her - her writing, her intellect, her outlook on life and her philosophy surrounding the human condition. But many more found her unsavoury. Her insistence that religion was merely a tool of oppressive power upset many. Her belief that humans are their own gods was also often attacked. She believed in showing the full extent of the suffering of the discriminated and damned to make her words unavoidable. Her book was quickly banned in many schools and areas - she laughed about it over text. “The more forbidden the fruit, the sweeter the taste”, she laughed. 

She soon became a prominent name. She refused to bow to the censors and the detractors. She figured, one day, if she was bored of writing, she may finally go into politics and reshape the world in her vision. She told me simply that she knew why she was here. “Unfortunately, however, I find humans too interesting to start a holy war just yet.”

All I knew is that I was content. My dearest and I held the world in the palms of our hands. Of course, at times she was recognized on the street in her home country. “She-devil!” Was a common attempted insult sent her way. However, she just laughed. “If they know that, surely they know my name.”

My dear sweet devil was toying with those who tried to threaten her life, not an ounce of fear elicited. And I married that devil. She had horns, to be sure - but I found them quite becoming on her. We vowed to love each other, and when we danced, she let me lead. But I had become her disciple over the course of our love. Like Jesus allowing Judas to mark him for death, she gave me poison and I drank it welcomingly. When I asked for seconds, she kissed me deeply. I will never stray from her. But then again, I don’t think straying would be an option.