01-28-2020, 02:10 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-28-2020, 02:11 AM by Jay Carpenter.)
Chores built character. They used to call air jumps into eight-foot ocean waves and a mile swim back to shore building character. While carrying 80lbs of body armor. In the dark. No. Wait. They didn’t call it building character. They called it hell. Damn, he missed that. Scrubbing floors. Cleaning shoes. Scrubbing walls with toothbrushes. It was all the same kind of mindlessness that built character. Or it built tolerance. Both words fit. Jay hated it. And he missed it.
He scrubbed a hand through his still-damp hair as his gaze slid from Natalie’s gut-wrenching eyes toward some point behind her. Toward some snow-covered field. The darkest of skies loomed overhead, littered with billions of sparkling questions looking back at him. The shoulders of a friend pressed up against his something familiar and safe. The space was vacant now, and the words stuck in his chest.
“I only lie to myself,” he said quietly like a mantra forgotten. Then, more to himself than answering her question, “I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, Natalie.”
He snatched the breakfast, devouring the pancakes in about three bites. The bottle of water was also welcome, but he may have preferred vodka instead.
There were options. He didn’t want to think about them. A weak grin was a poor attempt to disarm their mood, “Who are we kidding? My future is bright as they come. I’m very popular: Ascendancy, Jacques, Alistair, Amengual. Even that sonofabitch Placaso couldn’t keep his hands off me.” The haunt of a dark joke shredded his voice as bad as Placaso shredded—well, him. She’d not know the name. He barely heard it himself.
Heat rimmed his tired eyes as they peeled off Natalie’s porcelain silhouette. There were flowers on the wallpaper behind her. Pink and blue things with pointy petals and yellow centers. He just stared at them until his eyes burned. They were painted on in a grid along the whole wall. Some kind of attempt at cheerfulness, he guessed. Twenty-eight down and thirty-six across. His expression softened a little as the mind stirred up old arithmetic.
He spoke before he even realized his lips were moving. “One thousand and eight flowers. Nine petals each. You know there’s more than 9,000 petals on the wall behind you. Nine thousand and seventy-two, actually.”
The faintest of creases lined his brow.
“That’s a lot of flower petals.”
Then he looked back to her after this small marvel of hotel decorating.
He scrubbed a hand through his still-damp hair as his gaze slid from Natalie’s gut-wrenching eyes toward some point behind her. Toward some snow-covered field. The darkest of skies loomed overhead, littered with billions of sparkling questions looking back at him. The shoulders of a friend pressed up against his something familiar and safe. The space was vacant now, and the words stuck in his chest.
“I only lie to myself,” he said quietly like a mantra forgotten. Then, more to himself than answering her question, “I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, Natalie.”
He snatched the breakfast, devouring the pancakes in about three bites. The bottle of water was also welcome, but he may have preferred vodka instead.
There were options. He didn’t want to think about them. A weak grin was a poor attempt to disarm their mood, “Who are we kidding? My future is bright as they come. I’m very popular: Ascendancy, Jacques, Alistair, Amengual. Even that sonofabitch Placaso couldn’t keep his hands off me.” The haunt of a dark joke shredded his voice as bad as Placaso shredded—well, him. She’d not know the name. He barely heard it himself.
Heat rimmed his tired eyes as they peeled off Natalie’s porcelain silhouette. There were flowers on the wallpaper behind her. Pink and blue things with pointy petals and yellow centers. He just stared at them until his eyes burned. They were painted on in a grid along the whole wall. Some kind of attempt at cheerfulness, he guessed. Twenty-eight down and thirty-six across. His expression softened a little as the mind stirred up old arithmetic.
He spoke before he even realized his lips were moving. “One thousand and eight flowers. Nine petals each. You know there’s more than 9,000 petals on the wall behind you. Nine thousand and seventy-two, actually.”
The faintest of creases lined his brow.
“That’s a lot of flower petals.”
Then he looked back to her after this small marvel of hotel decorating.
Only darkness shows you the light.