Lunch with his father had become an ordeal. It had become something that warranted a great deal of preparation and planning. Richard had been slowly marking the days on his calendar. Each day Richard would rise late in the afternoon and after completing his usual morning routine Richard would look at his Bird of the Month calendar; which had been a lukewarm gift from his mother. Richard would sigh and cross another day off. After enough time the calendar had become filled with Xs.
The morning of his lunch Richard awoke early, hours before his usual rising time, Richard made sure he left himself ample time to pace about his apartment before he had to meet his father. Richard examined his face in the mirror, looking for things that his father might disapprove of. It was evident that he must shave. He had let his facial hair grow for a little over a month now. He could already feel his father’s teases and taunts at the sight of his makeshift beard. Forgoing any sort of electric device Richard started the shaving process. He didn’t mind the cuts he knew he would receive; it would show his father just how much effort he had put forth for this lunch date of theirs. Richard was the type of man who wanted people to know how much he tried. He carried two lighters with him, one a silver Zippo which he used to light cigarettes in the company of others, as well as a plain bic lighter which was used when he was alone.
Richards face looked much more clean and angular now that it was free of hair. Running his hand over his face he traced he blood that had started to blossom out of the small gashes, the blood created a sanguine tribal mask. He washed the blood from his face using cold water and then countered the cuts with a dose of a designer aftershave, a gift from his father that had been as well received as his bird calendar. Dressing quickly Richard took out his sole suit, which was reserved for funerals; funerals and lunch with his father. Richard liked to think of himself as dashing in the suit, but in truth he looked more like a child putting on his father’s suit then James Bond.
The bus caused Richard to arrive at the upscale restaurant a half hour early. Richard had hoped that the half an hour was enough to beat his father here. It wasn’t. When Richard nervously told the maître de he was the first part of the Grayson party, the maître de politely corrected him, he was the second person to arrive. Richard was crestfallen; no matter how early he arrived his father was there first. He suspected next time he would need to camp out in front of the restaurant. The head of the restaurant led him to his father’s table. Richard couldn’t help but feel as if he was being brought before a mob boss.
They found his father at home in the back of the place conducting business loudly and pleasantly on his cell phone. His eyes met both of them and motioned for Richard to sit and the maître due to fetch him another drink. While his father continued his phone call Richard browsed the menu. He quickly found what he would order, a frittata with ham, onions, peppers and Gouda cheese. He continued to look through the menu even though he knew nothing he read would change his mind. Richard needed something in his hands to keep him from fiddling with the objects on the table. Last time he had done this his father, who was on the phone again, had snatched away the creamer packets from him, which Richard had been politely stacking.
Soon enough the phone call was over. Richards father placed his phone on the table, his forth utensil. His father then lifted his gaze to his son and gave what Richard saw as a predatory flash of his teeth, other might have called it a smile.
“Hiya Pap.”
“Son,” it was said with a false sense of formality, and then his father grinned again.
“So, how’s mom?” It was an admittedly weak question, but Richard knew it wouldn’t lead to something embarrassing.
His father waved away the question with his hand that wasn’t clutching a drink, but answered the question none the less. “She’s good, bored I guess. She misses you, she says that a lot. “
Richard knew it was true and could feel himself start to turn a brighter shade of red. “I’ll call her tomorrow,” it was the best Richard could do.
“See that you do. I mean you have a cell phone, I get the bill every month,” This was true. “Nice suit by the way.” Richards’s father had also bought the suit and made the same comment every time he saw his son in it.
Finding himself very uncomfortable Richard began to fiddle with the aglet at the end of his shoelace.
“What’d you do get in a fight with a weed whacker?” His father started in.
Richard just shrugged and sighed. He was now preparing for the rest of the lunch, which would be very similar to how things were going now, how things had been going on the last Friday of every month for well over a year. Every day in Richards Bird of the Month calendar was filled with Xs.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Please Read This Before Reading the Story That Follows
The story I have just posted is a continuing work in progress. This is just the latest version of the story. I would like to ask for your input and thoughts on the piece. Anything will help.
Thanks much. I hope you enjoy.
Thanks much. I hope you enjoy.
The Blonde
The Blonde
By Andrew Larson
After he rolled off her his only desire was to continue reading his magazine. He had been pleasantly reading an article on a play he would never see. And now, with his arm trapped underneath her neck and her clinging to his chest, he couldn’t reach the magazine of his desire. So, much to his anguish he closed his eyes and listened to her coo and sigh while he remained trapped. An animal in his situation would chew its own limb off, he however only lay there and pretend to sleep, waiting for her to nod off before he freed his arm, grab his magazine and move into another room. This was not the life Nicholas Ferrell had imagined for himself.
As he lay naked on his couch, leafing through the magazine that had before been of enough interest to draw him out of his bed, a women in his arms, and his sleep, he suddenly found the article, and the magazine in general lacking. And as his gaze drifted around his darkly lit apartment he came to the realization that he was looking for something specific: his laptop. The machine hummed and glowed from across the room. In the darkness the computer emitted a challenge to its owner. Nicolas took up the challenge and reached out for his machine and placing it on his naked lap. The heat from the machines’ fan provided enough heat to cause a faint burning sensation in his thighs, which Nicholas didn’t find completely unpleasant. Out of habit Nicholas dashed the cursor about the screen causing a blank Word document to fill the screen. The sudden pure whiteness of the screen caused him to recoil briefly before his eyes accepted their new conditions and provided him with his sight again. His hands hovered over his keyboard, his fingers lightly drifting over the keys as if searching for one letter that might be better suited to start his page than the rest. Nicholas had been searching for that perfect starting letter for an uncountable number of nights that all bore a striking resemblance to this one. As on the previous nights he was unable to find his desired letter and made an almost random second choice.
The blinking cursor starts out as a mark of defeat, and then you find yourself typing words, the same ones over and over again just so you’ll never have to see it again. When that eventually fails the blinking black line works itself into your life, you find yourself tapping your fingers upon the keypad in time with the pulsing of that stoic black line. And soon it settles into every empty thing. And soon it becomes a friend.
He called this one “Ode to My Blank Page”. He hadn’t written anything more substantial then this in over a year. His laptop was filled with similar follies and attempts at filling a page. Each time he sat down to write, after putting it off all day, he would expect the words to come as they once had, polluting the screen with his fully formed thoughts and ideas. No one would ever read this electronic scribbling, which Nicholas considered this a blessing. Nicholas saved his new testament of failure with the others, in a mundanely labeled folder. He knew no one would look in a folder entitled “technical writing portfolio”, he also held no delusions that anyone would be snooping about his computer. He just didn’t feel right placing these late night attempts in his folder labeled “writing” for whatever reasons.
Nicholas was no longer interested in the magazine. He had already made his ritual attempt to write something meaningful. Having exhausted all of his possible late night activities he just sat with his computer on his lap and stared at his screen, the pale illumination of the screen cast a spot light of sort on his face, leaving everything else in the room its natural black. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting here when the trance was broken by a familiar voice from behind him.
“Nick? What are you doing up?”
It was the woman whom he had left in bed. Angie. She was clothed in a white floral bed sheet which was worn in a toga like fashion and nothing else besides her lengthy black hair that almost covered her right breast. The computers glow was akin to moonlight and gave her pale skin a bloodless quality. Nicholas couldn’t deny the fact that she was quite attractive, even now, having just awaken and draped only in a bed sheet.
“Oh, sorry, I was working on an article for the paper.” It was a simple lie that came rather easily.
Angie briefly looked at the blank document displayed on the computer screen and in response placed her hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. Her hands were cold to the touch and felt refreshing.
“Nick come back to bed, it can wait till tomorrow.”
The fact that she called him Nick made him want to stay on the couch. It was a known fact that he despised the shortening of his name. He counted himself lucky however, it could have been worse. Angie had been known to on occasion refer to Nicholas as “Nicky” something that almost automatically put him in a black mood. The slip up in regard to his name aside he was still torn between the habitat he had created for himself on the living room sofa and what awaited him in their bedroom, which he knew would be the same thing that drove him out of there however long ago. The force that drove Nicholas out was more than a desire to read his magazine, it was the over whelming feeling that he was becoming confined.
Nicholas looked toward Angie. It was plain in her eyes that she wanted him to return with her to the bed they shared. He hadn’t noticed it before but now he was able to detect the hurt within Angie’s look. Hurt that he left their bed in the first place, and in that moment Nicholas regretted his departure from bed and realized that he hadn’t even entertained the idea of going to sleep there. Nicholas then saw her eyes briefly dart back toward the black document prominently displayed on his computer screen; he then recognized the look in her eyes as pity.
Wordlessly Nicholas closed his laptop, using slightly more force than necessary for the machine. And looking over Angie another time he walked from the darkened living room to the equally black bedroom. They entered the bed on opposite sides that they had agreed upon when they purchased the bed together and she wrapped around him tightly, her cold body searching for warmth beyond the blankets and comforters. Before he drifted off to sleep Nicholas lightly said into the top of his bedmates head, “You’re right, it can wait until tomorrow.”
The first time he saw The Blonde she was jaywalking across a rather busy street. Some of the cars slowed down and allowed her to cross their path while others maintained their speed and came within inches of her, causing her dress to be blown about. The sheer brazen disregard for traffic laws, let alone her own well being, caused Nicholas to stop awkwardly and watch from his safe vantage of the sidewalk as she made her death defying trek through traffic. Nicholas found himself suddenly caught up in a moment of great anxiety and worry over the fate of this blonde woman in the dress and her treacherous crossing of the street and stayed very still watching her until he saw her foot step up onto the curb of the other side. His heartbeat continued its drum like pounding as he noticed her walking down the street towards him. He stood statue still as if the only two parts of his being that seemed to be in motion were his heart, which continued to pound at break neck speed, and his eyes which slowly followed the Blonde as she walked his way. Nicholas remained in his state of suspension until she walked past him, coming as close to him as the cars had to her, both causing a near disaster.
Later that night Nicholas found himself alone on his couch again. This was something he had promised to himself that would stop after Angie discovered him there previously. His fear of being discovered in this state again was a tangible presence in the darkened room. In his mind Angie hadn’t looked at him the same since she saw him naked, alone and staring at his computer screen. He had suspected she had been aware of his inability to compose any bit of writing of his own for quite some time. All he could write now were the small bits of nothingness that haunted his files and his articles for a local paper in which he had several pieces a week. The paper was called The Weave and was his main source of income at the moment. He wrote a book review, a movie review and a fashion column, all under different names. For his movie review he used the moniker Roy Harper, the name he used for his book reviews was Vic Sage, and he only used his true name for his fashion column. Sometimes he wondered which of the names sounded the most false and at times he worried it was his own.
During the moments in which Nicholas sat in his apartment engulfed in the light of his computers glow he started to feel as if his degree was useless. Nicholas Ferrell had earned himself a degree as a writer specializing in poetry. He had been good and suspected that in some far off place in his mind he still was. He had garnered a rather pleasant amount of attention from the college and was able to see his works published in a number of well respected, albeit small, journals and magazines, there had even been talk of a book. He had been proud of his work and received perhaps too much praises too quickly. He felt he had not yet earned a book deal and saw his work as needing as much polish as possible. This prompted his decision to enroll in graduate school for a honing of his craft to take place. It was his poetry that had brought Nicholas and Angie together during their third year of college. Nicholas had dropped out of grad school after the first year when he was unable to place his words in the correct order anymore; to him his poems became horrid and sad little affairs. This was also the same year that he and Angie had moved in together. At first he blamed the new place. She consented to make it as much like his previous writing/living arrangements as she possibly could. When the reorganization of the apartment didn’t help he started to blame her, but always to himself, although he was positive at times it bled into how he acted around her. It was only on these silent solitary nights that he would blame himself.
Then he saw the Blonde a second time.
Nicholas waited for a bus to take him to the Weaves main office. The rain was coming down so hard there was a reasonable fear that the water might leave bruises. Nicholas was free from the worry of the rain under a rather stately looking umbrella. And here while waiting for the bus to take him to work, he saw the Blonde walking towards him. Just as before the symptoms returned. Nicholas resumed his statuesque pose. This time however his stillness was by no means out of the ordinary and his pounding heartbeat was masked by the sound of the rain coming down upon his umbrella.
She walked towards him wearing a similar dress and a similar attitude towards her wellbeing; she was without raincoat or umbrella or any protective outerwear to speak of. As she took her place beside Nicholas at the bus stop Nicholas found himself able to steal looks at her from under his black protective crescent. She didn’t look particularly put off by the downpour that was happening all over the city. Nicholas stood next to her stealing a glance every so often. Finally it dawned on him.
“Excuse me, miss I was wondering, would you like to share my umbrella? If I am being too presumptuous, I fully understand.”
She turned to look at him, made a quick study of his face, and replied: “You know I’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask me that.” And with that she stepped closer to Nicholas slightly brushing up against his arm as he raised the black nylon canopy over their heads.
Nicholas introduced himself and in turn learned that the Blondes name was Mara Cline. They continued to make the appropriate small talk that one would expect to have with an umbrella partner. Nicholas found out that she was a third year student at a local college, that she was originally from a small town in the same state, that she enjoyed both the Velvet Underground and Johnny Cash, and she had just been to a museum by herself. Nicholas mainly asked questions and enjoyed her answers. The main thing she was able to get out of him was that he was on his way to his job, and what exactly his job was. She seemed interested.
And as her bus neared Nicholas found himself doing something surprising to both parties. He asked for her number. Mara thought for a second and before stepping out from under the shelter that Nicholas had so chivalrously provided she consented and wrote down ten digits for him. Mara then boarded her bus without looking back to Nicholas who now stood alone under his umbrella safe and secure from the onslaught of rain that he suspected would continue all day.
It was a Wednesday night and Nicholas had a standing dinner date with his friend Bryan. This evening, like many others they stayed in and prepared the food themselves. Tonight they made sushi. All of the ingredients were laid out on the kitchen counter, the avocado thinly sliced, the red peppers made into strips, onions for flavor and decoration were made into tiny circles, lines of imitation crab meat were set beside the chopped salmon and the cucumbers were cut into smallish sticks. All was prepared and ready to be placed onto the rice lined seaweed. Half way through the placement of ingredients did Nicholas inform Bryan of his encounter with the Blonde, whose name he now knew to be Mara Cline. Bryan seemed to handle the subject with a mix of disappointment and curiosity.
“Are you going to call her?” this was Bryans first question after finding out what she looked like.
Nicholas realized that he hadn’t considered not calling her.
“Yes, I think I am.” Nicholas’ decision was obviously already made. While thinking about Mara more it instilled in him the desire to call her sooner than he had planned.
Predictably the conversation shifted towards Angie. Bryan wanted to know whether or not he intended to call things off with Angie. Angie and Nicholas had been together for slightly over three years and he was repeatedly asked by family and close friends when he planned on proposing. Nicholas had never entertained the idea of marrying Angie, she used to bring up the topic, but after noticing how silent Nicholas got when the subject was brought up she stopped bringing it up all together. So they continued on living together and it was nice and comfortable in all the ways a relationship of three years should be. But Nicholas started to desire the surprises a new relationship holds, the electric thrill of holding their hand for the first time, and the secrets that slowly came out. Nicholas held Angie’s hand out of habit and they knew all of each other’s secrets.
Bryan knew all of Nicholas’ complaints about his relationship with Angie as they came up with an ever-increasing frequency during their midweek dinners. So, Bryan was not completely shocked to discover that Nicholas had acquired a woman’s number; he had just figured Nicholas would have waited until he had come to a more finite decision about his current situation with Angie. Bryan advised Nicholas to wait to use the number, perhaps not to use it at all, jokingly he even asked for the number himself. Nicholas thought over all of Bryan’s advice and as quickly as Bryan had offered his reasonably sound advice Nicholas had come to his own conclusion: he was going to call Mara the second he left Bryans. The rest of their evening was free of talk about women, at least in specifics, and they enjoyed their sushi and as the evening drew on they opened a bottle of wine solely to feel the effects of the alcohol.
When Nicholas left Bryans apartment he retrieved both his cell phone and Mara’s number and with the wine still lingering in his blood he dialed the number. After explaining who he was and why he was calling and after a brief moment or two they had a date for coffee on the coming Friday afternoon.
Picking an outfit hadn’t been a problem for Nicholas in quite a long time, so the Friday morning ritual of getting dressed was a chore. Shirt after shirt and tie combination after tie combination later Nicholas had decided on a plain white dress shirt and a red and blue striped tie with black dress pants. Overall he was pleased. Sitting through the day became a long and tedious process that numbed Nicholas’ mind. He was unable to concentrate on the film he was watching that he would later have to read a plot synopsis online to review properly. Instead of reading the book that was meant to be reviewed by him, his eyes wondered about the pages until they came across a word that matched his thoughts, “time”, “date”, “sex”, all of these and more were the only words his eyes were capable of registering all day. Soon the appropriate time came and he made his way to the coffee shop, a local independent place that had once been a southern style home but was now a place for couples and hipsters of all ages. He had picked the place, wishing to show off his knowledge of the trendier locations in the city. He wasn’t sure whether he should wait outside for her or to go in ahead of time. He hadn’t been on a first date in quite some time and felt very, very out of practice. He quickly scanned the interior of the place and not seeing her opted to stand guard at the entrance of the shop. He was rewarded rather instantly. She made her appearance within thirty seconds.
Mara was wearing a black sundress and a pair of black heels. Her hair was Debby Harry blonde and against the dark shade of the dress it stood out even more. The bright red lipstick completed her look in a stunning way. Stunning was the best way Nicholas could describe her. He wondered if he would be struck motionless every time he saw her. Part of him hoped he would. She didn’t show any real sign of recognition until she was very close to him, and then she smiled at him. The smile was enough to knock him out of his motionless state and straight to his knees. Nicholas held the door open for her as they entered the coffee shop to retain his image of a chivalrous man, at least in her mind.
He was now walking her home after their first date and his mind was flush with possibilities. They had spent hours talking and he had liked everything he had heard, not just their shared interested (The Smiths, Nine Stories, and Iggy Pop) but the things they disagreed on as well. He had told her which columns he wrote for.
“I really only like the book reviews,” she stated, “The fashion column really doesn’t tackle any issues, it more states the same thing over and over again: men tuck in your shirts, girls wear heels.” When she said the last part she looked down at her own feet and saw that she was following one of his rules he had written on how to make a good first impression and she blushed accordingly.
As their walk continued she took out a package of Virginia Slims and placed it between her lips. He had watched earlier as her lip stick rubbed off on her coffee cup and was looking forward to seeing it on the filter end of the cigarette as well.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“No, not anymore at least, I quit last year.” There was no pride in his voice when he stated this.
“Why?” She asked it as if quitting had never really occurred to her.
He had never been asked why he quit; usually he was met with praise on his part, and congratulations on overcoming a struggle that so many others couldn’t bring themselves to do. In truth it hadn’t been a struggle for him, he had just one day decided he no longer wanted certain articles of his clothing to smell like smoke any longer. Angie had loved his choice and had “helped him through it” as she put it to others. Nicholas now found himself without an answer for Mara.
“My ties smelled like smoke.” It was the best he could do and he felt foolish for having blurted it out.
At first she laughed in response and then leaned over and quickly, with deft hands undid his tie for him and handed it to him afterword, like she was a cat bringing back a dead mouse for her master pleased at what she had done. She then took out another cigarette, lit it, and placed in Nicholas’ lips.
Nicholas had sex with Mara that night. Nicholas thought to himself that he should be feeling bad about this, he should be stopping this, but he didn’t, all he could think about was how this was what he was missing in his life. Angie was truthfully the furthest thing from his mind. After the act was completed Nicholas and Mara were both in awe of what had just transpired between them.
“I don’t usually do this sort of thing. Sleep with a man after meeting him once.” Mara explained while still laying her head across his chest.
And I’ve never cheated before Nicholas thought to himself.
“It just felt right”. Mara explained further.
Nicholas couldn’t argue with that, what they did felt right in quite a few ways. He had gone past the standard steps of a relationship he had been yearning for these past few months.
Nicholas explained to her that he wished he could stay but it was necessary for him to return home.
“I need to finish my fashion column for the week, you know, the one you despise so much.”
She laughed and said she understood, but only if he promised to call.
“None of that wait three days bullshit, I want to hear from you tomorrow.” It was the first time he had heard her swear and, turned him on.
He dressed and she remained in her bed. He could feel her eyes on him with every article of clothing he returned to his person, lastly remained his tie, the source of all of this. Mara insisted on tying it for him. She stood up, still naked and skipped over to him, and while her nude form pressed up against him she tied an average four corner knot, which Nicholas noted didn’t particularly go with the collar of his shirt, but none the less he let her do her job and finish. Nicolas would have used a Winsor knot himself, but he couldn’t help but smile through her trial and error. It took her three attempts before the knot, was as she called it “perfect”. The fact that she was pleased with it pleased him.
When she was finished with the tying she flung herself back on to her bed, an act which conjured up thoughts of staying the night with this girl, something he knew couldn’t be done. However thoughts of Angie also managed to seep in, how she had never before tied one of his neckties for him, but how she did purchase the majority of his stock. Before Nicholas walked about her bedroom door he leaned over and kissed Mara one last time, promising to call her tomorrow. He stood admiring her for a half a second after, her smile and mussed up hair complemented her nudity. Looking at her now he seemed to get a better look at her then he did in the coffee shop, or the bus stop. Here he didn’t see a reckless girl who cared so little about her well being. Here in her bedroom, lounged sans clothes on her bed he saw a vision of a woman who needed people, who had learned about life though the stories of others. He looked at her blonde hair and felt his heart drop to his sockless feet. Nicholas had never been with a blonde before. After this encounter he was sure this was what his life had been missing.
Nicholas began to cancel his Wednesday dinners with Bryan and replace them with dates with Mara, most of which revolved around her apartment. Nicholas never really thought of how Angie might find out. In fact Nicholas was sure she didn’t suspect a thing. He was out no later than usual, he even found the coldness that had been between them start to thaw. A thought of guilt never crossed his mind.
On a Wednesday when Mara was busy with a school project Nicholas called Bryan, seeing if it was possible to have dinner. Bryan consented and invited him over. When Nicholas got to the door he realized this felt strange, not being with Mara on a Wednesday night, however when Bryan opened the door he recalled how nice all the dinners with Bryan had been in the past, how they used to be something to look forward to, now the only time he saw Bryan was during a group function, Angie in tow. Bryan never mentioned their non-existent dinner dates but Nicholas could see in his eyes that even lying to Angie by omission was causing him to lose sleep. Bryan more or less welcomed him in by opening the door and then silently walking into his own apartment. Nicholas was developing a tense feeling in his neck he would have to remember to tell Mara about. Their small talk petered out rather quickly and Bryan seeing no reason to dance around the subject brought it up after ordering Chinese.
“So, how are things with the other woman?”
Nicholas wasn’t sure if Bryan was making an attempt at a joke, or if he was taking this all very seriously, but Nicholas responded truthfully.
“Things have been going great.” It was the truth; he was very pleased with how things had been progressing with Mara.
The subject of Mara obviously made Bryan uncomfortable, or maybe it was the ease at which Nicholas talked about her and how “great” things were going, Nicholas couldn’t be sure. He was however glad when after a few seconds of awkward silence Bryan launched into a rather long winded explanation of a CD he had recently purchased. Nicholas was content upon hearing Bryan talk at lengths about something he enjoyed. He couldn’t help but smile throughout his long and widening speech. About half way through it all Nicholas decided to introduce Bryan to Mara. It would be the first of his friends she would meet. Nicholas was tickled by the idea of maybe spending some Wednesday night back in this apartment.
After the food had arrived and quickly dispatched Bryan thoughtfully put down his fork and made a serious face.
“Nicholas, I really have to know why? Why throw away everything you have?”
He had only one response for his good friend.
“Why not?”
Bryan picked up his fork again and speared a piece of chicken.
Things continued for another month about the night at Bryans. Mara even met him once and they seemed to enjoy each other’s company which caused Nicholas to become ecstatic. One afternoon on a day in which you could detect the first real signs of fall Nicholas took off early from his job and made his way to Maras. His blithe attitude was reflected by his long and many layered knock on her door. She answered the door in another one of her vintage dresses; this one had a small rip in the hem. It became a custom of theirs that she would greet him at the door with a kiss, however this time she barely spoke a word as she walked him into her apartment. Knowing something is wrong and knowing what’s wrong are two very different things, and Nicholas only knew the first. It became more and more evident that she wasn’t pleased to see him, but Nicholas put off asking what was wrong as long as he could. He recounted his day, complimented her dress, the weather, anything to put off asking her what was bothering her. Finally after an extended period of silence he broached the subject.
“Mara is something bothering you?” He knew something was.
“Yes Nicholas, something is bothering me, something has been for a long time”, she never called him anything but Nicholas, “It took me longer then I’d like to admit, but once I found out a lot of things made sense. I’d say you’re cheating on me, but you’re really cheating on her aren’t you.” It was all said in an even tone, her voice didn’t quiver for a moment.
Nicholas hung his head for a moment before he was able to meet her gaze again. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m right aren’t I?” She knew she was.
“Yes.” It hurt him to admit it aloud after all this time.
“I can’t believe you! I thought you were a good person, I thought you cared about me. You wasted months of my life,” Nicholas didn’t see them as a waste, “Were you ever planning on telling me? Or at least ending it with her?”
Nicholas had no idea how to answer the question. “No” was the best he could do.
“What made you choose me? What made me the perfect candidate for your mistress? Is it because I wear these dresses,” and she lifted the hem of her dress in a mock courtesy, “Do I look like someone you can just fuck and then go home to your real girlfriend?”
Nicholas had never heard her like this, however now things started falling into place. She’d been here before. She had been the other woman before; he realized she might have never been anything else. He felt bad for her, he wished to comfort her, but knew that he’d never touch her again. He took one last look around the apartment, at her taking in as much of it as he could. He knew he’d never see her again.
After Maras Nicholas went to Bryans to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t surprised, or upset, however he played the part of the good friend and spoke kindly to his friend. It was late when he Bryans for home. He hadn’t called it home in a long time; he called it “her place” or “the apartment”.
It was dark when he entered. Sighing he took out his laptop and continued with his duty to try and write something. He sat there for much shorter than usual. He was half way through a throwaway line when the urge to go to bed, not just sleep, but to go to bed with Angie over took him. Lightly closing the only source of light in the apartment he stumbled into their room, stubbing his toe on forgotten pieces of the apartment. Shedding his clothing slowly and carefully, in a way that would make the least amount of noise, he got undressed. Sliding into bed he put his arm around Angie and found her warmly keeping the bed for him. He kissed her neck as a greeting.
“Nick,” He didn’t even mind her shorting his name right now, her voice quaked with sleep, “I know about her Nick. I’ve packed my stuff,” Now realizing it was a suitcase he had stubbed his toe on, “I don’t want you to ruin my last night in the apartment, and you can have the couch tonight.” He was shocked.
“Angie…”
“No, Nick, no, “she was crying now,” I can’t, not now, maybe later; once I’m gone we can talk, but not tonight.”
Nicholas got up and made his way to the exile of the couch, where he had spent countless nights.
“Nick,” the tremble in her voice was evident,” what’d she have that I didn’t”. She didn’t really want to know, no one ever wants to know the answer to that question.
“She was blonde.”
By Andrew Larson
After he rolled off her his only desire was to continue reading his magazine. He had been pleasantly reading an article on a play he would never see. And now, with his arm trapped underneath her neck and her clinging to his chest, he couldn’t reach the magazine of his desire. So, much to his anguish he closed his eyes and listened to her coo and sigh while he remained trapped. An animal in his situation would chew its own limb off, he however only lay there and pretend to sleep, waiting for her to nod off before he freed his arm, grab his magazine and move into another room. This was not the life Nicholas Ferrell had imagined for himself.
As he lay naked on his couch, leafing through the magazine that had before been of enough interest to draw him out of his bed, a women in his arms, and his sleep, he suddenly found the article, and the magazine in general lacking. And as his gaze drifted around his darkly lit apartment he came to the realization that he was looking for something specific: his laptop. The machine hummed and glowed from across the room. In the darkness the computer emitted a challenge to its owner. Nicolas took up the challenge and reached out for his machine and placing it on his naked lap. The heat from the machines’ fan provided enough heat to cause a faint burning sensation in his thighs, which Nicholas didn’t find completely unpleasant. Out of habit Nicholas dashed the cursor about the screen causing a blank Word document to fill the screen. The sudden pure whiteness of the screen caused him to recoil briefly before his eyes accepted their new conditions and provided him with his sight again. His hands hovered over his keyboard, his fingers lightly drifting over the keys as if searching for one letter that might be better suited to start his page than the rest. Nicholas had been searching for that perfect starting letter for an uncountable number of nights that all bore a striking resemblance to this one. As on the previous nights he was unable to find his desired letter and made an almost random second choice.
The blinking cursor starts out as a mark of defeat, and then you find yourself typing words, the same ones over and over again just so you’ll never have to see it again. When that eventually fails the blinking black line works itself into your life, you find yourself tapping your fingers upon the keypad in time with the pulsing of that stoic black line. And soon it settles into every empty thing. And soon it becomes a friend.
He called this one “Ode to My Blank Page”. He hadn’t written anything more substantial then this in over a year. His laptop was filled with similar follies and attempts at filling a page. Each time he sat down to write, after putting it off all day, he would expect the words to come as they once had, polluting the screen with his fully formed thoughts and ideas. No one would ever read this electronic scribbling, which Nicholas considered this a blessing. Nicholas saved his new testament of failure with the others, in a mundanely labeled folder. He knew no one would look in a folder entitled “technical writing portfolio”, he also held no delusions that anyone would be snooping about his computer. He just didn’t feel right placing these late night attempts in his folder labeled “writing” for whatever reasons.
Nicholas was no longer interested in the magazine. He had already made his ritual attempt to write something meaningful. Having exhausted all of his possible late night activities he just sat with his computer on his lap and stared at his screen, the pale illumination of the screen cast a spot light of sort on his face, leaving everything else in the room its natural black. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting here when the trance was broken by a familiar voice from behind him.
“Nick? What are you doing up?”
It was the woman whom he had left in bed. Angie. She was clothed in a white floral bed sheet which was worn in a toga like fashion and nothing else besides her lengthy black hair that almost covered her right breast. The computers glow was akin to moonlight and gave her pale skin a bloodless quality. Nicholas couldn’t deny the fact that she was quite attractive, even now, having just awaken and draped only in a bed sheet.
“Oh, sorry, I was working on an article for the paper.” It was a simple lie that came rather easily.
Angie briefly looked at the blank document displayed on the computer screen and in response placed her hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. Her hands were cold to the touch and felt refreshing.
“Nick come back to bed, it can wait till tomorrow.”
The fact that she called him Nick made him want to stay on the couch. It was a known fact that he despised the shortening of his name. He counted himself lucky however, it could have been worse. Angie had been known to on occasion refer to Nicholas as “Nicky” something that almost automatically put him in a black mood. The slip up in regard to his name aside he was still torn between the habitat he had created for himself on the living room sofa and what awaited him in their bedroom, which he knew would be the same thing that drove him out of there however long ago. The force that drove Nicholas out was more than a desire to read his magazine, it was the over whelming feeling that he was becoming confined.
Nicholas looked toward Angie. It was plain in her eyes that she wanted him to return with her to the bed they shared. He hadn’t noticed it before but now he was able to detect the hurt within Angie’s look. Hurt that he left their bed in the first place, and in that moment Nicholas regretted his departure from bed and realized that he hadn’t even entertained the idea of going to sleep there. Nicholas then saw her eyes briefly dart back toward the black document prominently displayed on his computer screen; he then recognized the look in her eyes as pity.
Wordlessly Nicholas closed his laptop, using slightly more force than necessary for the machine. And looking over Angie another time he walked from the darkened living room to the equally black bedroom. They entered the bed on opposite sides that they had agreed upon when they purchased the bed together and she wrapped around him tightly, her cold body searching for warmth beyond the blankets and comforters. Before he drifted off to sleep Nicholas lightly said into the top of his bedmates head, “You’re right, it can wait until tomorrow.”
The first time he saw The Blonde she was jaywalking across a rather busy street. Some of the cars slowed down and allowed her to cross their path while others maintained their speed and came within inches of her, causing her dress to be blown about. The sheer brazen disregard for traffic laws, let alone her own well being, caused Nicholas to stop awkwardly and watch from his safe vantage of the sidewalk as she made her death defying trek through traffic. Nicholas found himself suddenly caught up in a moment of great anxiety and worry over the fate of this blonde woman in the dress and her treacherous crossing of the street and stayed very still watching her until he saw her foot step up onto the curb of the other side. His heartbeat continued its drum like pounding as he noticed her walking down the street towards him. He stood statue still as if the only two parts of his being that seemed to be in motion were his heart, which continued to pound at break neck speed, and his eyes which slowly followed the Blonde as she walked his way. Nicholas remained in his state of suspension until she walked past him, coming as close to him as the cars had to her, both causing a near disaster.
Later that night Nicholas found himself alone on his couch again. This was something he had promised to himself that would stop after Angie discovered him there previously. His fear of being discovered in this state again was a tangible presence in the darkened room. In his mind Angie hadn’t looked at him the same since she saw him naked, alone and staring at his computer screen. He had suspected she had been aware of his inability to compose any bit of writing of his own for quite some time. All he could write now were the small bits of nothingness that haunted his files and his articles for a local paper in which he had several pieces a week. The paper was called The Weave and was his main source of income at the moment. He wrote a book review, a movie review and a fashion column, all under different names. For his movie review he used the moniker Roy Harper, the name he used for his book reviews was Vic Sage, and he only used his true name for his fashion column. Sometimes he wondered which of the names sounded the most false and at times he worried it was his own.
During the moments in which Nicholas sat in his apartment engulfed in the light of his computers glow he started to feel as if his degree was useless. Nicholas Ferrell had earned himself a degree as a writer specializing in poetry. He had been good and suspected that in some far off place in his mind he still was. He had garnered a rather pleasant amount of attention from the college and was able to see his works published in a number of well respected, albeit small, journals and magazines, there had even been talk of a book. He had been proud of his work and received perhaps too much praises too quickly. He felt he had not yet earned a book deal and saw his work as needing as much polish as possible. This prompted his decision to enroll in graduate school for a honing of his craft to take place. It was his poetry that had brought Nicholas and Angie together during their third year of college. Nicholas had dropped out of grad school after the first year when he was unable to place his words in the correct order anymore; to him his poems became horrid and sad little affairs. This was also the same year that he and Angie had moved in together. At first he blamed the new place. She consented to make it as much like his previous writing/living arrangements as she possibly could. When the reorganization of the apartment didn’t help he started to blame her, but always to himself, although he was positive at times it bled into how he acted around her. It was only on these silent solitary nights that he would blame himself.
Then he saw the Blonde a second time.
Nicholas waited for a bus to take him to the Weaves main office. The rain was coming down so hard there was a reasonable fear that the water might leave bruises. Nicholas was free from the worry of the rain under a rather stately looking umbrella. And here while waiting for the bus to take him to work, he saw the Blonde walking towards him. Just as before the symptoms returned. Nicholas resumed his statuesque pose. This time however his stillness was by no means out of the ordinary and his pounding heartbeat was masked by the sound of the rain coming down upon his umbrella.
She walked towards him wearing a similar dress and a similar attitude towards her wellbeing; she was without raincoat or umbrella or any protective outerwear to speak of. As she took her place beside Nicholas at the bus stop Nicholas found himself able to steal looks at her from under his black protective crescent. She didn’t look particularly put off by the downpour that was happening all over the city. Nicholas stood next to her stealing a glance every so often. Finally it dawned on him.
“Excuse me, miss I was wondering, would you like to share my umbrella? If I am being too presumptuous, I fully understand.”
She turned to look at him, made a quick study of his face, and replied: “You know I’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask me that.” And with that she stepped closer to Nicholas slightly brushing up against his arm as he raised the black nylon canopy over their heads.
Nicholas introduced himself and in turn learned that the Blondes name was Mara Cline. They continued to make the appropriate small talk that one would expect to have with an umbrella partner. Nicholas found out that she was a third year student at a local college, that she was originally from a small town in the same state, that she enjoyed both the Velvet Underground and Johnny Cash, and she had just been to a museum by herself. Nicholas mainly asked questions and enjoyed her answers. The main thing she was able to get out of him was that he was on his way to his job, and what exactly his job was. She seemed interested.
And as her bus neared Nicholas found himself doing something surprising to both parties. He asked for her number. Mara thought for a second and before stepping out from under the shelter that Nicholas had so chivalrously provided she consented and wrote down ten digits for him. Mara then boarded her bus without looking back to Nicholas who now stood alone under his umbrella safe and secure from the onslaught of rain that he suspected would continue all day.
It was a Wednesday night and Nicholas had a standing dinner date with his friend Bryan. This evening, like many others they stayed in and prepared the food themselves. Tonight they made sushi. All of the ingredients were laid out on the kitchen counter, the avocado thinly sliced, the red peppers made into strips, onions for flavor and decoration were made into tiny circles, lines of imitation crab meat were set beside the chopped salmon and the cucumbers were cut into smallish sticks. All was prepared and ready to be placed onto the rice lined seaweed. Half way through the placement of ingredients did Nicholas inform Bryan of his encounter with the Blonde, whose name he now knew to be Mara Cline. Bryan seemed to handle the subject with a mix of disappointment and curiosity.
“Are you going to call her?” this was Bryans first question after finding out what she looked like.
Nicholas realized that he hadn’t considered not calling her.
“Yes, I think I am.” Nicholas’ decision was obviously already made. While thinking about Mara more it instilled in him the desire to call her sooner than he had planned.
Predictably the conversation shifted towards Angie. Bryan wanted to know whether or not he intended to call things off with Angie. Angie and Nicholas had been together for slightly over three years and he was repeatedly asked by family and close friends when he planned on proposing. Nicholas had never entertained the idea of marrying Angie, she used to bring up the topic, but after noticing how silent Nicholas got when the subject was brought up she stopped bringing it up all together. So they continued on living together and it was nice and comfortable in all the ways a relationship of three years should be. But Nicholas started to desire the surprises a new relationship holds, the electric thrill of holding their hand for the first time, and the secrets that slowly came out. Nicholas held Angie’s hand out of habit and they knew all of each other’s secrets.
Bryan knew all of Nicholas’ complaints about his relationship with Angie as they came up with an ever-increasing frequency during their midweek dinners. So, Bryan was not completely shocked to discover that Nicholas had acquired a woman’s number; he had just figured Nicholas would have waited until he had come to a more finite decision about his current situation with Angie. Bryan advised Nicholas to wait to use the number, perhaps not to use it at all, jokingly he even asked for the number himself. Nicholas thought over all of Bryan’s advice and as quickly as Bryan had offered his reasonably sound advice Nicholas had come to his own conclusion: he was going to call Mara the second he left Bryans. The rest of their evening was free of talk about women, at least in specifics, and they enjoyed their sushi and as the evening drew on they opened a bottle of wine solely to feel the effects of the alcohol.
When Nicholas left Bryans apartment he retrieved both his cell phone and Mara’s number and with the wine still lingering in his blood he dialed the number. After explaining who he was and why he was calling and after a brief moment or two they had a date for coffee on the coming Friday afternoon.
Picking an outfit hadn’t been a problem for Nicholas in quite a long time, so the Friday morning ritual of getting dressed was a chore. Shirt after shirt and tie combination after tie combination later Nicholas had decided on a plain white dress shirt and a red and blue striped tie with black dress pants. Overall he was pleased. Sitting through the day became a long and tedious process that numbed Nicholas’ mind. He was unable to concentrate on the film he was watching that he would later have to read a plot synopsis online to review properly. Instead of reading the book that was meant to be reviewed by him, his eyes wondered about the pages until they came across a word that matched his thoughts, “time”, “date”, “sex”, all of these and more were the only words his eyes were capable of registering all day. Soon the appropriate time came and he made his way to the coffee shop, a local independent place that had once been a southern style home but was now a place for couples and hipsters of all ages. He had picked the place, wishing to show off his knowledge of the trendier locations in the city. He wasn’t sure whether he should wait outside for her or to go in ahead of time. He hadn’t been on a first date in quite some time and felt very, very out of practice. He quickly scanned the interior of the place and not seeing her opted to stand guard at the entrance of the shop. He was rewarded rather instantly. She made her appearance within thirty seconds.
Mara was wearing a black sundress and a pair of black heels. Her hair was Debby Harry blonde and against the dark shade of the dress it stood out even more. The bright red lipstick completed her look in a stunning way. Stunning was the best way Nicholas could describe her. He wondered if he would be struck motionless every time he saw her. Part of him hoped he would. She didn’t show any real sign of recognition until she was very close to him, and then she smiled at him. The smile was enough to knock him out of his motionless state and straight to his knees. Nicholas held the door open for her as they entered the coffee shop to retain his image of a chivalrous man, at least in her mind.
He was now walking her home after their first date and his mind was flush with possibilities. They had spent hours talking and he had liked everything he had heard, not just their shared interested (The Smiths, Nine Stories, and Iggy Pop) but the things they disagreed on as well. He had told her which columns he wrote for.
“I really only like the book reviews,” she stated, “The fashion column really doesn’t tackle any issues, it more states the same thing over and over again: men tuck in your shirts, girls wear heels.” When she said the last part she looked down at her own feet and saw that she was following one of his rules he had written on how to make a good first impression and she blushed accordingly.
As their walk continued she took out a package of Virginia Slims and placed it between her lips. He had watched earlier as her lip stick rubbed off on her coffee cup and was looking forward to seeing it on the filter end of the cigarette as well.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“No, not anymore at least, I quit last year.” There was no pride in his voice when he stated this.
“Why?” She asked it as if quitting had never really occurred to her.
He had never been asked why he quit; usually he was met with praise on his part, and congratulations on overcoming a struggle that so many others couldn’t bring themselves to do. In truth it hadn’t been a struggle for him, he had just one day decided he no longer wanted certain articles of his clothing to smell like smoke any longer. Angie had loved his choice and had “helped him through it” as she put it to others. Nicholas now found himself without an answer for Mara.
“My ties smelled like smoke.” It was the best he could do and he felt foolish for having blurted it out.
At first she laughed in response and then leaned over and quickly, with deft hands undid his tie for him and handed it to him afterword, like she was a cat bringing back a dead mouse for her master pleased at what she had done. She then took out another cigarette, lit it, and placed in Nicholas’ lips.
Nicholas had sex with Mara that night. Nicholas thought to himself that he should be feeling bad about this, he should be stopping this, but he didn’t, all he could think about was how this was what he was missing in his life. Angie was truthfully the furthest thing from his mind. After the act was completed Nicholas and Mara were both in awe of what had just transpired between them.
“I don’t usually do this sort of thing. Sleep with a man after meeting him once.” Mara explained while still laying her head across his chest.
And I’ve never cheated before Nicholas thought to himself.
“It just felt right”. Mara explained further.
Nicholas couldn’t argue with that, what they did felt right in quite a few ways. He had gone past the standard steps of a relationship he had been yearning for these past few months.
Nicholas explained to her that he wished he could stay but it was necessary for him to return home.
“I need to finish my fashion column for the week, you know, the one you despise so much.”
She laughed and said she understood, but only if he promised to call.
“None of that wait three days bullshit, I want to hear from you tomorrow.” It was the first time he had heard her swear and, turned him on.
He dressed and she remained in her bed. He could feel her eyes on him with every article of clothing he returned to his person, lastly remained his tie, the source of all of this. Mara insisted on tying it for him. She stood up, still naked and skipped over to him, and while her nude form pressed up against him she tied an average four corner knot, which Nicholas noted didn’t particularly go with the collar of his shirt, but none the less he let her do her job and finish. Nicolas would have used a Winsor knot himself, but he couldn’t help but smile through her trial and error. It took her three attempts before the knot, was as she called it “perfect”. The fact that she was pleased with it pleased him.
When she was finished with the tying she flung herself back on to her bed, an act which conjured up thoughts of staying the night with this girl, something he knew couldn’t be done. However thoughts of Angie also managed to seep in, how she had never before tied one of his neckties for him, but how she did purchase the majority of his stock. Before Nicholas walked about her bedroom door he leaned over and kissed Mara one last time, promising to call her tomorrow. He stood admiring her for a half a second after, her smile and mussed up hair complemented her nudity. Looking at her now he seemed to get a better look at her then he did in the coffee shop, or the bus stop. Here he didn’t see a reckless girl who cared so little about her well being. Here in her bedroom, lounged sans clothes on her bed he saw a vision of a woman who needed people, who had learned about life though the stories of others. He looked at her blonde hair and felt his heart drop to his sockless feet. Nicholas had never been with a blonde before. After this encounter he was sure this was what his life had been missing.
Nicholas began to cancel his Wednesday dinners with Bryan and replace them with dates with Mara, most of which revolved around her apartment. Nicholas never really thought of how Angie might find out. In fact Nicholas was sure she didn’t suspect a thing. He was out no later than usual, he even found the coldness that had been between them start to thaw. A thought of guilt never crossed his mind.
On a Wednesday when Mara was busy with a school project Nicholas called Bryan, seeing if it was possible to have dinner. Bryan consented and invited him over. When Nicholas got to the door he realized this felt strange, not being with Mara on a Wednesday night, however when Bryan opened the door he recalled how nice all the dinners with Bryan had been in the past, how they used to be something to look forward to, now the only time he saw Bryan was during a group function, Angie in tow. Bryan never mentioned their non-existent dinner dates but Nicholas could see in his eyes that even lying to Angie by omission was causing him to lose sleep. Bryan more or less welcomed him in by opening the door and then silently walking into his own apartment. Nicholas was developing a tense feeling in his neck he would have to remember to tell Mara about. Their small talk petered out rather quickly and Bryan seeing no reason to dance around the subject brought it up after ordering Chinese.
“So, how are things with the other woman?”
Nicholas wasn’t sure if Bryan was making an attempt at a joke, or if he was taking this all very seriously, but Nicholas responded truthfully.
“Things have been going great.” It was the truth; he was very pleased with how things had been progressing with Mara.
The subject of Mara obviously made Bryan uncomfortable, or maybe it was the ease at which Nicholas talked about her and how “great” things were going, Nicholas couldn’t be sure. He was however glad when after a few seconds of awkward silence Bryan launched into a rather long winded explanation of a CD he had recently purchased. Nicholas was content upon hearing Bryan talk at lengths about something he enjoyed. He couldn’t help but smile throughout his long and widening speech. About half way through it all Nicholas decided to introduce Bryan to Mara. It would be the first of his friends she would meet. Nicholas was tickled by the idea of maybe spending some Wednesday night back in this apartment.
After the food had arrived and quickly dispatched Bryan thoughtfully put down his fork and made a serious face.
“Nicholas, I really have to know why? Why throw away everything you have?”
He had only one response for his good friend.
“Why not?”
Bryan picked up his fork again and speared a piece of chicken.
Things continued for another month about the night at Bryans. Mara even met him once and they seemed to enjoy each other’s company which caused Nicholas to become ecstatic. One afternoon on a day in which you could detect the first real signs of fall Nicholas took off early from his job and made his way to Maras. His blithe attitude was reflected by his long and many layered knock on her door. She answered the door in another one of her vintage dresses; this one had a small rip in the hem. It became a custom of theirs that she would greet him at the door with a kiss, however this time she barely spoke a word as she walked him into her apartment. Knowing something is wrong and knowing what’s wrong are two very different things, and Nicholas only knew the first. It became more and more evident that she wasn’t pleased to see him, but Nicholas put off asking what was wrong as long as he could. He recounted his day, complimented her dress, the weather, anything to put off asking her what was bothering her. Finally after an extended period of silence he broached the subject.
“Mara is something bothering you?” He knew something was.
“Yes Nicholas, something is bothering me, something has been for a long time”, she never called him anything but Nicholas, “It took me longer then I’d like to admit, but once I found out a lot of things made sense. I’d say you’re cheating on me, but you’re really cheating on her aren’t you.” It was all said in an even tone, her voice didn’t quiver for a moment.
Nicholas hung his head for a moment before he was able to meet her gaze again. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m right aren’t I?” She knew she was.
“Yes.” It hurt him to admit it aloud after all this time.
“I can’t believe you! I thought you were a good person, I thought you cared about me. You wasted months of my life,” Nicholas didn’t see them as a waste, “Were you ever planning on telling me? Or at least ending it with her?”
Nicholas had no idea how to answer the question. “No” was the best he could do.
“What made you choose me? What made me the perfect candidate for your mistress? Is it because I wear these dresses,” and she lifted the hem of her dress in a mock courtesy, “Do I look like someone you can just fuck and then go home to your real girlfriend?”
Nicholas had never heard her like this, however now things started falling into place. She’d been here before. She had been the other woman before; he realized she might have never been anything else. He felt bad for her, he wished to comfort her, but knew that he’d never touch her again. He took one last look around the apartment, at her taking in as much of it as he could. He knew he’d never see her again.
After Maras Nicholas went to Bryans to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t surprised, or upset, however he played the part of the good friend and spoke kindly to his friend. It was late when he Bryans for home. He hadn’t called it home in a long time; he called it “her place” or “the apartment”.
It was dark when he entered. Sighing he took out his laptop and continued with his duty to try and write something. He sat there for much shorter than usual. He was half way through a throwaway line when the urge to go to bed, not just sleep, but to go to bed with Angie over took him. Lightly closing the only source of light in the apartment he stumbled into their room, stubbing his toe on forgotten pieces of the apartment. Shedding his clothing slowly and carefully, in a way that would make the least amount of noise, he got undressed. Sliding into bed he put his arm around Angie and found her warmly keeping the bed for him. He kissed her neck as a greeting.
“Nick,” He didn’t even mind her shorting his name right now, her voice quaked with sleep, “I know about her Nick. I’ve packed my stuff,” Now realizing it was a suitcase he had stubbed his toe on, “I don’t want you to ruin my last night in the apartment, and you can have the couch tonight.” He was shocked.
“Angie…”
“No, Nick, no, “she was crying now,” I can’t, not now, maybe later; once I’m gone we can talk, but not tonight.”
Nicholas got up and made his way to the exile of the couch, where he had spent countless nights.
“Nick,” the tremble in her voice was evident,” what’d she have that I didn’t”. She didn’t really want to know, no one ever wants to know the answer to that question.
“She was blonde.”
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Scenes of Love
Scenes of Love
By Andrew Larson
He sees her from across the room and is drawn into her orbit, slowly circling her and steadily moving closer, his planet craving the warmth of her sun. He finally walks up to her and showing no regard for her conversation moves her hair, the color of spun gold, away from her ear and whispers, “When you walk, it looks as if you’re dancing.”
He releases his hold on her strand of hair, letting it peacefully sweep back down, trapping his endearment within. And he turns to walk away. His wrist is, however, caught in a gentle grasp that sends his pulse racing. She looks into his cool grey eyes and unafraid says, “I can see poetry when you speak.”
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. There were worse things to think about then a stunning blonde, he told himself. His preoccupation with this woman had quickly and quietly leaked into every facet of his life. Now having made him miss his stop and walking several blocks more than necessary. Not that he minded the walking. The early fall weather suited him and his inclination to wear his one suit as often as he could, its color fading turning its once perfect blackness into a color more reminiscent to soot. His preference for his dark suit and ties gave him a formal look that went unmatched with his mannerisms. He was a young man of stark contradictions. He routinely wore his dusk colored ensemble with a finely pressed and ironed white shirt which had once shone brightly under the midnight of his topcoat but now only furthered the discolored look of his outfit. He looked as if he had stepped out of an old black and white photograph. Someone’s young grandfather come to life. And yet in his breast pocket he kept a plethora of brightly color handkerchiefs. He used them frequently and for anything ranging from wiping off a table, to blowing his nose, to wrapping up leftover food. When pressed about why he kept so many with him at all times he simply responded, “So when I encounter a woman in distress and I lend her my handkerchief I can say ‘No, no, I insist that you keep it’.”
His fashions sense aside, his demeanor was something that perplexed many and vexed a few. Mainly his co-workers at the University student newspaper. He was a late addition to the staff of the paper. So he was given the leftover advertising accounts; which consisted of a local shoe repair shop, a small diner that had left their menu unchanged for the duration of the last three presidential administrations, and the local burlesque house.
None of his fellow advertising students employed by the newspaper would go near the burlesque account. The establishment was named The Black Canary, and it was an account that had been with the paper for some years. So it fell into the hands of the young man of stark contradictions, who did not so much as blink when first handed the account. Of course he was under the assumption that it was nothing more than a simple bar. It wasn’t until his first trip to negotiate the price of their ad did he learn why no one else had taken the account: It was the newspaper’s booby prize. The irony was not lost on him.
It was coming out of the Black Canary for the first time in which he had his first encounter with her.
He had just left the burlesque house and was quite pleased with himself for closing the deal with the manager, a Ms. Dinah Lance, so easily. He was in a hurry to leave however. Being in the presence of so many women that were in only a matter of time planning to disrobe in front of others made him rather uncomfortable. He was still looking at the ground, as he had been for the duration of the time he spent inside the place of business, as he left. While his eyes were studying the intricacies of his shoes he failed to see what was in front of him and collided straight into someone. All she would’ve had to do was bat an eye and he would have collapsed; it didn’t really require full body contact. Upon regaining his footing his loss of words was apparent as well as an understatement. In that moment he forgot his native tongue and reverted back to something that even his cave dwelling ancestors would have struggled to comprehend.
“Ugh. Oh! I me-. Sor. I wan-. Ah….”
“Sorry is truly the only acceptable response.”
And with that, she gathered her scattered books that littered the sidewalk and with movements so fluid you’d swear she didn’t have a bone in her body, turned and walked in the opposite direction.
His mind was frozen. He stood there still looking straight down, averting his eyes for fear of them being burned out by her radiance. He stayed like that for years, a human statue; a marker of his time. Future civilizations will see him frozen there and assume that the people of his era found entertainment solely in footwear. At least it felt like it was years.
It was like finding out your parents can’t always come to the rescue. Like finding out the Wizard is just an ordinary man behind a curtain. Small things began to ruin what was once perfect. They muddied up thoughts that were once azure pools of perfection.
She didn’t use a coaster.
The first time he saw her dog ear the page of a book he had to suppress a scream.
The brand of cigarettes she smoked.
The way she would drop a slight hint that she might, maybe, be free at an undisclosed time in the future and she would like him to reserve that time for her.
These were the new things that kept him up at night. They slowly started replacing images of long walks and late nights in candle light.
After he finally regained control over his motor skills, he made his way back to the newspaper’s offices. Quickly forgetting his victory in the burlesque house, his senses were still caught up in the brief encounter he had with that miracle of a girl. Upon returning to his colleagues he attempted to describe her. He looked for his copy editor, a man a few years older than him, who, from what he had heard around the newsroom, knew more about women than any other man on campus.
“She had the most luminous eyes I’ve ever seen. They saw through everything. They shone like twin moons in the night sky.”
“I think a color might be more helpful, you know like green, if we ever want to find this girl”, responded his copy editor.
“Oh, blue,” said the young lover, as if the simple word blue held any real meaning to him.
The copy editor could tell this was going to be difficult and by the end of it all, after all his profound images, they came to the conclusion that he was looking for a blonde, blue eyed, red lipped woman. He laughed, “Ha! Yeah, good luck with that.”
“What about all that description I gave you? Surely it must be of some help.”
His editor bluntly responded, “Save up all those adjectives and write a poem.”
And that is just what he did. He wrote poems. Dozens and dozens of them, all about her. The way her brow furrowed or how delicate she looked. He filled notebook upon notebook with his poems.
Towards the End
A Fight
“I just don’t understand why he would be calling you.”
“We’re still friends. That’s it. I wish you would get past this whole jealousy thing, it’s really unappealing.” And with that she rolled away from him.
“What do you two talk about? That’s all I want to know,” he said to the back of her head.
“What does it matter what we talk about?”
“It just does. Trust me.”
“Trust you!? Ha, I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face. I’m supposed to trust you, when you can’t trust me to make a simple phone call?” she said, turning back around as to unleash the proper amount of venom.
“Fine. I don’t care.”
“Good.”
They lay in silence for a few seconds, each one picking a different object in the bedroom to stare off at, anything to avoid making eye contact.
“You,” she whispers, “we mainly talk about you.”
With the help of his copy editor he started to publish his poems in the school paper. They ran one a week, in hopes that she would read them and realize that she was the topic of what seemed like an endless supply of poems.
“You don’t even know if she’s a student here,” his copy editing friend protested at first.
“Ah that is where you’re wrong, good sir, on our chance encounter I noticed she was carrying textbooks.”
“Ok, so she is a student, do you have any idea how many colleges are in the area?”
“It matters not, I kno-“
“Seven, there are seven colleges around the city,” he interjected, “and all of them issue textbooks”.
“Do you ever wonder why I’m the writer and you’re the editor?” he posed.
“You write ads, ads for shoes and scantily clad women. You’re hardly Keats.”
“It’s because I know things you don’t. The world smiles on a young man in love.”
The young man’s poems ran for months, they attracted nothing but complaints from readers. However they stayed. He may have been a copy editor but he wasn’t heartless and he saw something that he admired in his romantic friend. So, he stalwartly opposed the poems being removed. Although they did shrink in size over time, to the point where it would have taken a magnifying glass to read them clearly. Until finally his outpouring message was received.
Ad space had been bought in the paper for one week only. It was placed next to the ad featuring the Black Canary, and it read: The Rayner Gallery opening. Nine o’clock. Buy a new suit.
“Who placed it?” he asked, shoving the ad under the nose of his friend.
“Oh, that? Not sure, some blonde, blue eyes maybe. A real looker.”
He ran towards the door in a flurry of excitement.
“Hey kid, where’re you off to? It’s only four!”
“I gotta see a man about a suit!”
Their meals were eaten in relative silence. Words were spoken sparingly and only when necessary. “Pass the bread”, and “Salt please” among other single syllable words made up the bulk of the conversations.
“And over there,” she gestured to an empty area of the unfurnished apartment where the sun came perfectly through the window, “There I could set up my easel and canvas.”
“You could paint all morning and into the early afternoon while I dutifully made you breakfast and coffee,” with this sentiment he moved closer to her and slowly, in a expression of pure contentment wrapped his arms around her waist, deftly sliding his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans. Closing his eyes he nestled his face into the inviting nape of her neck and whispered the rest of his ideal morning into her clavicle, “I would find you sitting there basking in the sunlight. Draped only in one of my old dress shirts that I let you use as a smock. Venus personified. Patiently waiting for me.”
“Ha! You wish!” She then burst free from his tender embrace and twirled about the apartment, unhindered by furniture or inhibition. Her smile and laughter brought life to the bare one bedroom apartment, giving them a vision of their futures here. Their mornings of coy smiles over coffee, and afternoons spent in different rooms. Her painting, him studying or writing, and yet they would both be so attuned to each other they would feel the other next to them. Their evenings would be spent laying on the hardwood floor together. Him playing with her hair, her humming along as he softly sings to her from her favorite songs, “Ring of Fire”, “Friday I’m in Love”, “Division Day”, each one dedicated to a different part of her body.
When the landlord came in she found them already sprawled out on the paneled floor, laughing and wrestling. It took her several mock throat clearings before she could successfully rouse them.
“So what do you two think, could this be home?”
She was gazing up at him; a smile seemed a permanent fixture these days. Without needing to look down, he kissed the top of her head. His way of saying, “This is home.”
“I can’t lie to myself any more; being with you is the worst thing for me right now. I can’t paint, I can’t work. I feel trapped with you. I’m leaving.”
The look of surprise on his face was obviously forced.
“This can’t be coming as a surprise.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“No, not a surprise, it’s just…I don’t know, not what I was hoping for.”
“I don’t think this is what either of us hoped for.”
They are walking hand in hand, leaving matching footprints in the fresh powder snow behind them. The snow had just fallen and had yet to cover everything with its fresh start. Leaving the gallery together, during the coldest winter on record, the falling snow was magic. It always starts with magic.
By Andrew Larson
He sees her from across the room and is drawn into her orbit, slowly circling her and steadily moving closer, his planet craving the warmth of her sun. He finally walks up to her and showing no regard for her conversation moves her hair, the color of spun gold, away from her ear and whispers, “When you walk, it looks as if you’re dancing.”
He releases his hold on her strand of hair, letting it peacefully sweep back down, trapping his endearment within. And he turns to walk away. His wrist is, however, caught in a gentle grasp that sends his pulse racing. She looks into his cool grey eyes and unafraid says, “I can see poetry when you speak.”
This is how it started. At a gallery opening during the coldest winter on record. It was magic for both of them. It always starts with magic.
Right After
The First Night
The First Night
They lay in bed together. Under mounds of down blankets they make their own home. And like a pair of foxes they are curled up together, using each other for warmth as much as anything else. The only vocal communication between the two has been laughter and moans for hours; finally after the sun had risen did one of them speak.
“So, does this make it our second date?” she asked. Which only sent them back in to a fit of laughter.
“So, does this make it our second date?” she asked. Which only sent them back in to a fit of laughter.
The Lover
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. There were worse things to think about then a stunning blonde, he told himself. His preoccupation with this woman had quickly and quietly leaked into every facet of his life. Now having made him miss his stop and walking several blocks more than necessary. Not that he minded the walking. The early fall weather suited him and his inclination to wear his one suit as often as he could, its color fading turning its once perfect blackness into a color more reminiscent to soot. His preference for his dark suit and ties gave him a formal look that went unmatched with his mannerisms. He was a young man of stark contradictions. He routinely wore his dusk colored ensemble with a finely pressed and ironed white shirt which had once shone brightly under the midnight of his topcoat but now only furthered the discolored look of his outfit. He looked as if he had stepped out of an old black and white photograph. Someone’s young grandfather come to life. And yet in his breast pocket he kept a plethora of brightly color handkerchiefs. He used them frequently and for anything ranging from wiping off a table, to blowing his nose, to wrapping up leftover food. When pressed about why he kept so many with him at all times he simply responded, “So when I encounter a woman in distress and I lend her my handkerchief I can say ‘No, no, I insist that you keep it’.”
His fashions sense aside, his demeanor was something that perplexed many and vexed a few. Mainly his co-workers at the University student newspaper. He was a late addition to the staff of the paper. So he was given the leftover advertising accounts; which consisted of a local shoe repair shop, a small diner that had left their menu unchanged for the duration of the last three presidential administrations, and the local burlesque house.
None of his fellow advertising students employed by the newspaper would go near the burlesque account. The establishment was named The Black Canary, and it was an account that had been with the paper for some years. So it fell into the hands of the young man of stark contradictions, who did not so much as blink when first handed the account. Of course he was under the assumption that it was nothing more than a simple bar. It wasn’t until his first trip to negotiate the price of their ad did he learn why no one else had taken the account: It was the newspaper’s booby prize. The irony was not lost on him.
It was coming out of the Black Canary for the first time in which he had his first encounter with her.
The Start of it All
The First Encounter
The First Encounter
He had just left the burlesque house and was quite pleased with himself for closing the deal with the manager, a Ms. Dinah Lance, so easily. He was in a hurry to leave however. Being in the presence of so many women that were in only a matter of time planning to disrobe in front of others made him rather uncomfortable. He was still looking at the ground, as he had been for the duration of the time he spent inside the place of business, as he left. While his eyes were studying the intricacies of his shoes he failed to see what was in front of him and collided straight into someone. All she would’ve had to do was bat an eye and he would have collapsed; it didn’t really require full body contact. Upon regaining his footing his loss of words was apparent as well as an understatement. In that moment he forgot his native tongue and reverted back to something that even his cave dwelling ancestors would have struggled to comprehend.
“Ugh. Oh! I me-. Sor. I wan-. Ah….”
“Sorry is truly the only acceptable response.”
And with that, she gathered her scattered books that littered the sidewalk and with movements so fluid you’d swear she didn’t have a bone in her body, turned and walked in the opposite direction.
His mind was frozen. He stood there still looking straight down, averting his eyes for fear of them being burned out by her radiance. He stayed like that for years, a human statue; a marker of his time. Future civilizations will see him frozen there and assume that the people of his era found entertainment solely in footwear. At least it felt like it was years.
The Realization
Flaws
Flaws
It was like finding out your parents can’t always come to the rescue. Like finding out the Wizard is just an ordinary man behind a curtain. Small things began to ruin what was once perfect. They muddied up thoughts that were once azure pools of perfection.
She didn’t use a coaster.
The first time he saw her dog ear the page of a book he had to suppress a scream.
The brand of cigarettes she smoked.
The way she would drop a slight hint that she might, maybe, be free at an undisclosed time in the future and she would like him to reserve that time for her.
These were the new things that kept him up at night. They slowly started replacing images of long walks and late nights in candle light.
Before
The Huntsman Gives Chase to the Doe
The Huntsman Gives Chase to the Doe
After he finally regained control over his motor skills, he made his way back to the newspaper’s offices. Quickly forgetting his victory in the burlesque house, his senses were still caught up in the brief encounter he had with that miracle of a girl. Upon returning to his colleagues he attempted to describe her. He looked for his copy editor, a man a few years older than him, who, from what he had heard around the newsroom, knew more about women than any other man on campus.
“She had the most luminous eyes I’ve ever seen. They saw through everything. They shone like twin moons in the night sky.”
“I think a color might be more helpful, you know like green, if we ever want to find this girl”, responded his copy editor.
“Oh, blue,” said the young lover, as if the simple word blue held any real meaning to him.
The copy editor could tell this was going to be difficult and by the end of it all, after all his profound images, they came to the conclusion that he was looking for a blonde, blue eyed, red lipped woman. He laughed, “Ha! Yeah, good luck with that.”
“What about all that description I gave you? Surely it must be of some help.”
His editor bluntly responded, “Save up all those adjectives and write a poem.”
And that is just what he did. He wrote poems. Dozens and dozens of them, all about her. The way her brow furrowed or how delicate she looked. He filled notebook upon notebook with his poems.
Towards the End
A Fight
“I just don’t understand why he would be calling you.”
“We’re still friends. That’s it. I wish you would get past this whole jealousy thing, it’s really unappealing.” And with that she rolled away from him.
“What do you two talk about? That’s all I want to know,” he said to the back of her head.
“What does it matter what we talk about?”
“It just does. Trust me.”
“Trust you!? Ha, I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face. I’m supposed to trust you, when you can’t trust me to make a simple phone call?” she said, turning back around as to unleash the proper amount of venom.
“Fine. I don’t care.”
“Good.”
They lay in silence for a few seconds, each one picking a different object in the bedroom to stare off at, anything to avoid making eye contact.
“You,” she whispers, “we mainly talk about you.”
Earlier
Poems
Poems
With the help of his copy editor he started to publish his poems in the school paper. They ran one a week, in hopes that she would read them and realize that she was the topic of what seemed like an endless supply of poems.
“You don’t even know if she’s a student here,” his copy editing friend protested at first.
“Ah that is where you’re wrong, good sir, on our chance encounter I noticed she was carrying textbooks.”
“Ok, so she is a student, do you have any idea how many colleges are in the area?”
“It matters not, I kno-“
“Seven, there are seven colleges around the city,” he interjected, “and all of them issue textbooks”.
“Do you ever wonder why I’m the writer and you’re the editor?” he posed.
“You write ads, ads for shoes and scantily clad women. You’re hardly Keats.”
“It’s because I know things you don’t. The world smiles on a young man in love.”
The young man’s poems ran for months, they attracted nothing but complaints from readers. However they stayed. He may have been a copy editor but he wasn’t heartless and he saw something that he admired in his romantic friend. So, he stalwartly opposed the poems being removed. Although they did shrink in size over time, to the point where it would have taken a magnifying glass to read them clearly. Until finally his outpouring message was received.
Ad space had been bought in the paper for one week only. It was placed next to the ad featuring the Black Canary, and it read: The Rayner Gallery opening. Nine o’clock. Buy a new suit.
“Who placed it?” he asked, shoving the ad under the nose of his friend.
“Oh, that? Not sure, some blonde, blue eyes maybe. A real looker.”
He ran towards the door in a flurry of excitement.
“Hey kid, where’re you off to? It’s only four!”
“I gotta see a man about a suit!”
The Start of the End
Silence
Silence
Their meals were eaten in relative silence. Words were spoken sparingly and only when necessary. “Pass the bread”, and “Salt please” among other single syllable words made up the bulk of the conversations.
The Beginning of Something Good
A Place to Call Home
A Place to Call Home
“And over there,” she gestured to an empty area of the unfurnished apartment where the sun came perfectly through the window, “There I could set up my easel and canvas.”
“You could paint all morning and into the early afternoon while I dutifully made you breakfast and coffee,” with this sentiment he moved closer to her and slowly, in a expression of pure contentment wrapped his arms around her waist, deftly sliding his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans. Closing his eyes he nestled his face into the inviting nape of her neck and whispered the rest of his ideal morning into her clavicle, “I would find you sitting there basking in the sunlight. Draped only in one of my old dress shirts that I let you use as a smock. Venus personified. Patiently waiting for me.”
“Ha! You wish!” She then burst free from his tender embrace and twirled about the apartment, unhindered by furniture or inhibition. Her smile and laughter brought life to the bare one bedroom apartment, giving them a vision of their futures here. Their mornings of coy smiles over coffee, and afternoons spent in different rooms. Her painting, him studying or writing, and yet they would both be so attuned to each other they would feel the other next to them. Their evenings would be spent laying on the hardwood floor together. Him playing with her hair, her humming along as he softly sings to her from her favorite songs, “Ring of Fire”, “Friday I’m in Love”, “Division Day”, each one dedicated to a different part of her body.
When the landlord came in she found them already sprawled out on the paneled floor, laughing and wrestling. It took her several mock throat clearings before she could successfully rouse them.
“So what do you two think, could this be home?”
She was gazing up at him; a smile seemed a permanent fixture these days. Without needing to look down, he kissed the top of her head. His way of saying, “This is home.”
The Very End
“I can’t lie to myself any more; being with you is the worst thing for me right now. I can’t paint, I can’t work. I feel trapped with you. I’m leaving.”
The look of surprise on his face was obviously forced.
“This can’t be coming as a surprise.”
The First Time
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The End Again
“No, not a surprise, it’s just…I don’t know, not what I was hoping for.”
“I don’t think this is what either of us hoped for.”
Way Back At the Start
They are walking hand in hand, leaving matching footprints in the fresh powder snow behind them. The snow had just fallen and had yet to cover everything with its fresh start. Leaving the gallery together, during the coldest winter on record, the falling snow was magic. It always starts with magic.
Going On my Own
This is my attempt to start a blog of my own. After writing for Jay and Tony's wonderful I became inspired to forge my own path in the blogsphere. I will still contribute to the "Da Dawg House" as it is my first home and I have plans to abandon it. However I felt this blog might be better suited more my needs. Seeing as I am mainly a writer of fiction I found myself reaching for topics to write about, however here I plan to post parts of stories I am working on and the like. Perhaps this will provide a shot in the arm I've felt was needed lately. So I will start off with a short story I wrote awhile ago, one of my personal favorites. It will be in the following post.
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