Juliet’s last lover

Juliet was getting old. Her skin had been replaced during her last physical so she looked shiny and new, but she was older than almost all of her lovers.

She had never been easy to love. She was uncompromising, demanding and skittish. Young people were afraid of her. Old friends appreciated her authenticity but they’d grown up in a different era, where truth was more important than ease of use. Most of them were too old to frolic with her but some still visited occasionally just to talk and maybe take a picture. They admired her elemental beauty.

Juliet knew her life would soon come to an end, probably because of an accident. She couldn’t warn anybody but she could feel a weakness in one of her joints. She had felt it give while she was with Steve, not one of her favourite lovers, though she admired his tenacity. He was rough with her but she knew he’d relax sooner or later and his touch would become sure and gentle. Juliet hoped she’d live long enough to experience that joy with one more pupil.

She’d helped thousands of young men and women in her long career. The women, it seemed were better. They were sensitive, like Juliet, and their movements were considered and thoughtful. The guys felt they had to prove something and Juliet would wind up bouncing around under their spastic clutching and grabbing. She hated that.

Sooner or later they all fell in love with her. They learned she could be quick and powerful, lively and energetic. They learned how to exercise control with gentleness and skill not brute force. Juliet didn’t know how other females felt but she yearned for the skilled, deft hands of an experienced lover, one who would appreciate her unique qualities and come back often.

Steve was no such partner. He’d kick her and grab her limbs and twist them. She could feel that he was nervous and afraid and she sympathized but she hated the pounding she took from him. He didn’t know what to look for. He wasn’t sensitive or caring. He’d never notice her aching joint.

It was Steve who had come to see her again this afternoon. She could feel his anxiety in the extra force he put into the joggling and prodding– part of his dreadful preliminaries. It put her in a bad mood. The weather didn’t help. A thunderstorm was brewing and the air was filled with static electricity. It made Juliet jumpy and even more skittish than usual. But she had to cooperate. She always did what her partners demanded whether it hurt or not.

Her aching joint burned under Steve’s rough handling. The thunderstorm erupted with hail and furious winds filling her world with an unearthly light. Steve’s fearful hands gripped like a vice. She bounced, and twisted and struggled in protest. If only he’d let go and let her guide him she could show him how their partnership was designed to work– the perfect joy of control and submission.  But his fear made him even more powerful and he handled her with mighty heaves and jerks, back and forth, tearing and pushing. She moaned and held herself rigid, willing him to finish. And then suddenly it was over. She felt her ailing joint flutter and then give way. She was torn, broken, unable to perform.

It was the end for both of them. Juliet had always wanted her life to finish with a bang and it did, in one last glorious spin into the ground from 800 feet over the airport.

She was crushed under the impact, her classic monoque fuselage crumpled like a candy wrapper. Steve was dead inside. A colourful brigade of fire and emergency vehicles raced cheerfully to the scene and sprayed Juliet with flame retardants before the firemen hacked the flimsy doors away and confronted the bloody remains.

Then they swaggered around looking important in their day-glo fireproof jackets and waited for the ambulance to take the body away.

Bystanders gathered taking pictures with their cell phones. “What do I call that thing,” shouted one of them.

“A Canuck,” said another. “It’s called a Fleet 80 Canuck. We all trained on her — a real good plane to learn on. I’ll be she’s over 70. Don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

“What did you call her before? Juliet?”

“Yep, that’s her name. Juliet Delta Quebec– that’s radio talk for those letters on her tail. CF-JDQ. Hey, can you send me one of those pictures? She was a good friend.”

1 thought on “Juliet’s last lover

  1. Ooh, I loved this one! The sleight of hand and the ‘lover’ metaphor works really well, toeing the line between “too obvious” and “contrived”. The first few paragraphs were an odd experience to read (“skin replacement??” “a different era?”) and as it went on to talk about lovers and rough pupils, I was half convinced I was reading about some half-immortal escort. About half way through, when the narrative mentioned the weather, it occurred to me that Juliet was not human. My first thought was “horse” (an ex-classmate of mine would often write about/from the POV of horses), but then obviously the “spin to the ground” meant it couldn’t be.

    As with the previous story, this had me confused and wondering what was going on, but here I felt your control of the narrative and I trusted that this was as it should be, that I’d get answers in the end. So it was good confusion; “ooh, what does that mean? Tell me more” rather than “huh? I don’t get it.”

    Well, except for one small thing: “It made Sierra jumpy.” Who’s Sierra? Leftover from a previous draft where the plane was called Sierra perhaps?

    Other than that, I can’t think of any suggestions for improvements. Sure, you can probably go deeper with the text, iron out some prose here and there, proofread etc., but on the whole I can’t think of anything I would change. Very good.

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