A slate grey SUV pulls up to 513 Francis Court. A beagle named Gary hears it first. He jumps onto the faded grapefruit colored couch, his front paws overhanging the back of the sofa as his nose smooshes against the front room window.
The SUV, an Audi Q7, honks its horn. Its driver continues to sit behind the wheel waiting for the pending passenger.
Caroline Robertson is 15 years old. She's going on her first date, her first "hang out" with Graham Treehouse. She's in her bedroom, and she just changed out of and into another top for the fourth time. She hears the car horn.
"Shitshitshit."
She throws on a lilac tank-top over her cream colored bandeau bra. It will have to do. Truth be told, all of her shirts look good on her. She's 5'5, has sun-washed brown blonde hair and an athletic butt. For 15, she's the whole package: girl next door meets teenage, scratch that, all male fantasy.
Caroline grabs her bag, a Marc Jacobs satchel she purchased last month after saving for what seemed like forever, and throws mascara, her wallet and some Neutrogena Rose tinted lip balm inside.
The SUV honks again, and Graham rolls down the window. The Ralph Lauren Polo Black cologne he snagged from his older brother Daniel permeates the air as it escapes the car. He looks nice in the clothes his mother had gotten him at the beginning of the school year: a white button up collared shirt, seersucker blue and white striped shorts, dark brown Sperry's and the braided rope bracelet he had gotten on vacation in Florida when he visited his Grandma Sue last year.
Gary the beagle is still looking at the car from his front room post. His collar tinkles as he releases his nose from the glass, turning his head upon hearing Caroline rush down the stairs and past him.
"Bye buddy," she says, opening then closing the door behind her.
Her mother is in the kitchen talking on the phone, sitting on a floral cushion atop her desk chair facing her built-in desk. It's covered in school papers, bills, junk mail and a hand-painted coffee mug from that morning. Caroline painted it for her at one of those paint parties girls have for their birthdays. Flowers that look like they're from a 1970s pattern and the word Love cover the cup. Mrs. Robertson twirls the phone cord in her hand, hears Caroline open the door, bid adieu to the dog and the door latching shut.
"Hold on," Mrs. Robertson, Diane actually, says to her friend Ginny. Ginny muffles, "Ok," into the receiver.
Diane gets up, puts the phone to the right of its holder, and walks briskly to the door past Gary. She opens it, a thick white painted oak with a brass handle from Restoration Hardware.
"Caroline," she says to the driveway.
The SUV is at the end of block by now. Graham is looking at Caroline from his peripheral vision. Caroline is smiling, her head is turned slightly facing the right window. It's rolled down. Graham's scent is everywhere, and she likes it. Her left hand is placed precariously on the edge of her seat just in case he wants to hold it. He might, but not yet.
Gary is in the doorway, which Diane left open. Diane has begun picking the small weeds between the bricks of her driveway. She forgot about Ginny on the phone. Ginny hangs up her end of the call.
And they all wait for one another.
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Monday, May 19, 2014
with you.
"I can't believe how empty your house is."
"Believe it, Serge."
"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"
Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.
"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.
"Yeah," Serge said.
Repeating him, "Yeah."
"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.
"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.
Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.
You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.
"I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.
Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.
"Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.
Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.
"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"
"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.
There was too long of a silence.
"It's better than nothing," she said.
Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.
"You're right."
"Believe it, Serge."
"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"
Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.
"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.
"Yeah," Serge said.
Repeating him, "Yeah."
"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.
"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.
Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.
You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.
"I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.
Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.
"Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.
Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.
"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"
"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.
There was too long of a silence.
"It's better than nothing," she said.
Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.
"You're right."
Thursday, April 17, 2014
He wasn't wondering.
Reindeer boxer shorts rest limply on Conor Buckley's desk chair. It's June, so this is to be expected. The idea that someone would purchase underwear only for a particular season or holiday is ridiculous. He's had to explain this to a variety of overnight guests. He would be better served to use his breath on perhaps explaining why being such a slob helps him focus on his work. However, Conor can't actually do that. He can't do that because he has had "Art Block" for a week, and always does when his life's a mess.
Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.
He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.
Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.
"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."
"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"
Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.
"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.
"Yeah, I saw her."
"Yeah."
Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.
"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."
It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.
"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.
"Not a surprise, man."
Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.
Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.
He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.
Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.
"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."
"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"
Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.
"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.
"Yeah, I saw her."
"Yeah."
Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.
"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."
It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.
Flash to last night:
"Hey, there," Jen said, but, really it was more like a shout, from down the bar.
"Hey, hey," Conor said, smiling. "How've you been?"
Conor crossed over to where she was.
"I'm good. I'm fine. Katie's here."
"Yeah, I know. I saw her from the balcony."
"How mysterious..."
When Jenn smiles, she shows all of her teeth. She smiles, and she laughs. And it makes the people around her do the same. Conor never understood the phrase laughter's contagious until he met Jenn.
"So mysterious."
"How've you been?"
"Pretty good. Just working." Conor paused remembering he'd been let go. "I mean, I'm looking for work right now. Feels like a job. But I'm painting, and stuff. So..."
"Tell me about it."
"I just did." The two laughed.
"Funny. Anyway, I should get back —"
"Of course. Good to see you." Jenn turned to go, then spun back around quickly. Conor was still looking in her direction.
"I'm here with someone."
She said it like he was wondering. But he wasn't wondering. And that's what's made the moment so awkward.
"That's great," Conor said, then smiled out of the side of his mouth.
They looked at each other, said goodbye again, and Conor proceeded to spend money like he had it.
"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.
"Not a surprise, man."
Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.
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