an in-process, open-source novel
Read. Play. Create.
Read. Play. Create.
Saturday Morning
(grump)
(grump)
I woke up groggy, messy and grumpy. I could see Chris across the room at the computer, slightly blurry, his back to me. We really shared only one room, for all intents and purposes. A half-wall and cupboards partitioned the kitchen, and the bathroom did have a door, so by city standards it qualified as a "three room" apartment. Still, the space offered little scope for privacy.
"You've got email," called Chris, and I felt a burst of righteous anger.
"What are you doing in my inbox?" I asked, my tone edged with a slight screech.
"Calm down," he sighed, already exasperated with me. "It's in MY inbox, for you. Come read it. I won't look over your shoulder."
I felt ashamed, and irritated with him for letting me stay ashamed instead of helping me laugh it off or giving me a hug. He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Already off on the wrong foot for the day.
I read the message on the screen:
Chris,
Tell your Christine 2 come 2 Timeless, 1pm this aft & bring guitar XXOO
-Trix
How presumptuous.
I really wanted to go, though. I wanted to see what her music was about. She interested me, and the way she moved her body compelled me. I wanted to see more.
I stood outside the bathroom door.
"What's Timeless? Should I go?" I called. I heard the water turn off.
"Hold on."
Chris opened the door and I felt struck by his white, muscular chest, like a statue of a lovely man. Water droplets beckoned from his black mid-chest soul patch, and I felt magnetically drawn to lick them away. He put his arms around me and we held each other a long time.
"Sorry I was a grump," I whispered into his damp, curly armpit hair. He smelled like soap and water, clean and warm. He didn't say anything, but gripped me a bit tighter and kissed my shoulder. We separated slowly.
"Timeless is an old art-house theatre. It's where Trix and Traces plays, mostly." As he spoke, he moved to pick up the clothes I'd left on the floor the night before, depositing them in a hamper. From his dresser drawer, he took the top t-shirt, shook it three times, and slid it over his head.
"They gutted most of the chairs to make a dance floor, and opened up the lobby for lounging and gaping. It's a pretty cool place. Though in the afternoon, I imagine you've been summoned to band practice. You should be honoured."
He walked to the kitchen, looking fresh and ready to face the day. I dragged my bedraggled self behind him.
"Should I go?"
I expected a joke, or a tease, but he looked down at me seriously.
"Do you want to go?" he asked.
I didn't reply right away. I debated different ways to say it and settled on,
"Yes."
His eyes squinted a little as he looked in mine. I wondered what he was looking for.
"Okay," he said, taking in a breath, "Here's the thing. Trix is all drama. She makes drama in the air around her, like a tornado. Maybe you need some more drama, I don't know. Me, I found the last few months dramatic enough, and I'd like to just settle in here and figure this out together. But I get why you might want to check it out. It's interesting. And...well, maybe you're looking for one more chance to show Ethan he was wrong?"
I felt surprised to find that's what he thought this was about, and I felt a prick of irritation that he brought it up. I brought us back on point.
"I'm not joining the band. I'm just going to see what I can see. You know I can't even bring my guitar."
In fact, I couldn't bring any of my three guitars. Ethan was holding two of them - the Les Paul knockoff and classical acoustic - hostage in my old apartment. My Gretsch,was damaged from moving; actually, Ethan threw her down a flight of stairs behind me when I said I was leaving. I still had the bruises, yellow and green, a sickening, vague reminder that I was always letting everyone down.
Chris tilted his head to the side. He seemed perplexed. I wished I could give him more to go on, but I didn't know what he wanted to know. He seemed to arrive on a conclusion, because he sighed, ruffled my hair, kissed the top of my head, and moved to the kitchen. He didn't offer to come with me.
"You've got email," called Chris, and I felt a burst of righteous anger.
"What are you doing in my inbox?" I asked, my tone edged with a slight screech.
"Calm down," he sighed, already exasperated with me. "It's in MY inbox, for you. Come read it. I won't look over your shoulder."
I felt ashamed, and irritated with him for letting me stay ashamed instead of helping me laugh it off or giving me a hug. He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Already off on the wrong foot for the day.
I read the message on the screen:
Chris,
Tell your Christine 2 come 2 Timeless, 1pm this aft & bring guitar XXOO
-Trix
How presumptuous.
I really wanted to go, though. I wanted to see what her music was about. She interested me, and the way she moved her body compelled me. I wanted to see more.
I stood outside the bathroom door.
"What's Timeless? Should I go?" I called. I heard the water turn off.
"Hold on."
Chris opened the door and I felt struck by his white, muscular chest, like a statue of a lovely man. Water droplets beckoned from his black mid-chest soul patch, and I felt magnetically drawn to lick them away. He put his arms around me and we held each other a long time.
"Sorry I was a grump," I whispered into his damp, curly armpit hair. He smelled like soap and water, clean and warm. He didn't say anything, but gripped me a bit tighter and kissed my shoulder. We separated slowly.
"Timeless is an old art-house theatre. It's where Trix and Traces plays, mostly." As he spoke, he moved to pick up the clothes I'd left on the floor the night before, depositing them in a hamper. From his dresser drawer, he took the top t-shirt, shook it three times, and slid it over his head.
"They gutted most of the chairs to make a dance floor, and opened up the lobby for lounging and gaping. It's a pretty cool place. Though in the afternoon, I imagine you've been summoned to band practice. You should be honoured."
He walked to the kitchen, looking fresh and ready to face the day. I dragged my bedraggled self behind him.
"Should I go?"
I expected a joke, or a tease, but he looked down at me seriously.
"Do you want to go?" he asked.
I didn't reply right away. I debated different ways to say it and settled on,
"Yes."
His eyes squinted a little as he looked in mine. I wondered what he was looking for.
"Okay," he said, taking in a breath, "Here's the thing. Trix is all drama. She makes drama in the air around her, like a tornado. Maybe you need some more drama, I don't know. Me, I found the last few months dramatic enough, and I'd like to just settle in here and figure this out together. But I get why you might want to check it out. It's interesting. And...well, maybe you're looking for one more chance to show Ethan he was wrong?"
I felt surprised to find that's what he thought this was about, and I felt a prick of irritation that he brought it up. I brought us back on point.
"I'm not joining the band. I'm just going to see what I can see. You know I can't even bring my guitar."
In fact, I couldn't bring any of my three guitars. Ethan was holding two of them - the Les Paul knockoff and classical acoustic - hostage in my old apartment. My Gretsch,was damaged from moving; actually, Ethan threw her down a flight of stairs behind me when I said I was leaving. I still had the bruises, yellow and green, a sickening, vague reminder that I was always letting everyone down.
Chris tilted his head to the side. He seemed perplexed. I wished I could give him more to go on, but I didn't know what he wanted to know. He seemed to arrive on a conclusion, because he sighed, ruffled my hair, kissed the top of my head, and moved to the kitchen. He didn't offer to come with me.
Preview: Jamie
I had a hard time finding Timeless. I got flustered at the transfer and took the wrong bus, then got off and walked pretty far to my phone's GPS prodding. The city neighbourhoods felt almost schizophrenic, patches of run-down, scary-looking buildings dotting high-traffic, polished commercial zones. I started feeling the street as a repeating loop background, the same 4-corner Starbucks, Drugstore, Bank, Restaurant over and over. By the time I found my way to the other side of the tracks, I was sweating and puffing and wondering why I had bothered.The front door to Timeless didn't budge. Frustrated, I walked to the edge of the building. Down the ally, I saw a teenage boy sitting on the ground, leaning against a propped-open side-door. Above him, laundry dangled on taught, thick lines stretched between windows. For a moment, I imagined one of the large-cupped bras falling directly on his head, a minor amusement insufficient to distract my grump.
The boy didn't acknowledge my approach, and I became suddenly overwhelmed by the effort it would take to speak to him, ask about getting in. Drained, about ready to call it quits and go home, I surprised us both by sinking to the ground beside him, bricks solid against my back. For one brief moment, his eyes lit with curiosity, like I presented an unexpected and interesting spectacle. But before that even registered, he stared at his lap again.
"Are you here for a reason?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Trix told me to come."
He laughed and glanced at me briefly - eyes the colour of milk chocolate. They darted like a squirrel's.
"Oh, she TOLD you. No asking for Trix!"