Some sort of story

Unfinished-novel quotes, journal entries, short stories and miscellaneous thoughts.

[dvnynvd]

Another You

We were adolescents once: High strung and strung out. Now there’s a glass of water on my bedside table, No more empty bottles in the sink. I’d have you a thousand ways and this is one of them, But I still like to reminisce.

[dvnynvd]

Jim and Janna

Friday was date night, she was insistent. It took him some time to adjust to the ritual but eventually he couldn’t imagine a Friday spent any other way. Each week she'd make a different cocktail and put on a record and a pretty little dress. Her hair was graying far too early but she allowed it to; she liked the way it looked. She curled it with an iron and tied it back with a bow. “You can’t be so dependent on me” she said to him one Friday night, spinning out from under his arm. “And why is that?” he countered. She closed her eyes, humming to the rhythm, allowing the flow of music and whiskey to trickle through her veins. “Because,” she said, and took a big swig. “People grow old and dependent, and when one person dies the other one follows. And I won’t have you dyin’ on me Jim, whether I’m around or not. You've got too damn much to offer this world." "I wouldn't want to live in a world without you, darling." She kissed him hard on the mouth. "And that, sweet Jimbo, is exactly the problem."

[dvnynvd]

Train Tracks

Riddled with unwanted thoughts, I beg for sleep. It doesn't come. But the rumble of a distant train brings me unexpected comfort; soothes me like a lullaby. Gentle sounds of a childhood memoir not fully conceived. I want it on repeat.

[dvnynvd]

Things You Do Not Own

Like a blank canvas, he said to me. Except I didn’t see how. There are stories here that don’t belong to you. He said, the beauty of a canvas is that it can be painted again and again. But, I told him, these aren’t your stories to cover up.

[dvnynvd]

Caged

“You doing okay up there?” Calum asks, presumably because I’ve been so quiet and my hold around his neck keeps tightening. But how do you reveal to the man you fear losing that you think he deserves better? He jumps, adjusting his hold on my legs, and continues walking.

Instead I say, “Yes honey, I couldn’t be better,” with a kiss on the top of his head. His hair is unexpectedly crunchy from the styling gel. It reminds of being a child, running wet-haired out of the apartment and developing tendrils made of ice. I can’t remember if I ever caught a cold from a stunt like that. Kids don’t worry about those sorts of things. It’s curious how adulthood makes you fearful; of flus and extreme sports and making friends. Now we want safety, we want comfort, we want knowledge and we despise the unknown. Caged by our need for security.

[dvnynvd]

Melting Ice Cubes

I watched her from across the table, her eyes a puckered red of raw emotion. It was a good thing the only light around us came from candles, which were sparse. Just one small tealight in a decorative glass jar. I wondered how the servers maneuvered around in such dim lighting; graceful movements with trays balanced on one hand. They must have had a good mental map of the place, or else a sixth sense. I wished one of them would show up and ask if I wanted another drink, because Jesus, did I ever. But obviously they were observant of their patrons and wouldn’t make the mistake of interrupting such a tender moment. Instead, I sat sipping the melting remnants of my ice cubes. A silent companion.

I reached into the seat next to mine for my Chanel bag, thinking I would re-apply my lip chap, a nervous habit.

Hillary stopped crying. “Are you leaving?”

“Oh,” I said, dropping the bag back on the seat. “No. No, I was just looking for my lip chap.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed.

I knew I should reassure her, tell her everything was okay. But I couldn’t, because it wasn’t. So instead I resumed my silence and she resumed her whimpering.

[dvnynvd]

1″

There are always other ways. It doesn’t need to be all 1 inch spacing and proper etiquette and driving on the right side of the road. Sometimes, sure; maybe even most of the time. But why don’t you let yourself slip sometimes? Bleed outside of the lines and into neighbouring shapes; cross the boundaries that keep you laced up tight, gasping for air.

[dvnynvd]

Heads or Tails

The screen door squeaks and slams shut behind me, a rude welcome to the warmest place I’ve ever known. There are flies on the roof, but just house flies, not the malicious kind. I can take my cardigan off without fearing for my bare arms. Music plays on an expensive sound system; summery classic rock, but I don’t know the artist. It smells like wood and I feel relaxed.

I make myself a drink; ice cubes and vodka and juice from the fridge, and parade myself out onto the dock. The sun is bright today without cloud cover. A blazing yellow within a quilt of blue, warming my skin. I take a sip of vodka and the feeling creeps across my chest. Another kind of warmth.

I see the truck pull up. Actually, I hear it before I see it, a loud rumbling noise like a bear, and I wonder which side of the coin I’ll see today. I wonder if it’s even worth flipping. Maybe I’d like to stay right here. Maybe avoidance is a better approach.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” I say as I walk back into the kitchen, a generic statement to test the waters. Grocery bags on the counter, he’s putting them away. Sliced meat, cheese, bacon, rice.

“No vegetables, huh?” I ask. It’s meant to be a joke but I’ve never been very witty. He mumbles something that I don’t make out. No eye contact. No greeting, kind or otherwise.

So it’s tails today.

[dvnynvd]

Goldfish

He turns right and enters the industrial neighbourhood, the same one he’s driven to and from for 18 years, feeling much like a fish swimming circles around the same 3 structures. He doesn’t try to pretend it fascinates him anymore, he has accepted that the buildings don’t change; that they won’t change. A more artistic or optimistic person might venture to pick out the easily missed details, but Jack doesn’t.

He pulls into the parking lot and grunts with irritation to see that his parking spot has been taken. Not that it says his name on it, but after so many years he thinks a pattern should be noted and respected. Glancing at the clock he notices he’s 6 minutes later than usual, which means he’ll be rushed to make his morning round from kitchen to coffee to men’s room and off to his desk. The morning has barely begun and he is already brimming with displeasure.

He parks in a space much farther than his knees would prefer, and takes a moment to linger in his own silence. It feels like a cloud; obtrusive and moist. It’s during this pause that he tastes the pungent vapour of last night’s whisky on his breath. Fuck, he could really use that coffee.

He rubs his eyes with such vigour that he sees stars, an uncomfortable form of comfort, and forces himself out of the car. Now he’s 8 minutes late.

He kicks his door shut.

[dvnynvd]

Date Night

Already late for our reservation, I run to brush my hair and powder my nose and then we head out into the cool spring evening. I’m able to wear my favourite beige peacoat; too cold for winter but now able to make a reappearance in my closet. It’s probably about a hundred years old but I’ll never give it up. Calum holds out his arm to steady me in my towering heels and I am grateful for this small gesture. We walk arm in arm in a comfortable silence; the birds singing to us in the twilight. I imagine them as our personal musicians, the way they’re depicted in the cartoons.

“What are you smiling about?” he asks, grinning handsomely.

“It’s just a perfect evening.”

He stops and pulls me in for a kiss, his one arm still looped through mine and wrapped around my waist, the other holding my cheek. We stand as if stopped in time, frozen in our embrace. It feels like the whole world comes to a stop alongside us, or maybe it’s just that the rest of the world no longer matters to me, for what more could matter to me than this man and this moment?

When you imagine a scene like that, you imagine colours; vivid electric tones and fireworks. But really, it’s monochromatic. Objects blur into one another, blur into time, blur into thoughts. Nothing is clear and all structure decays. What’s important from 9 to 5 is meaningless now. It’s as good as a strong drink because it makes you forget.

And we do forget. We forget about our tiresome jobs and the bills that we’ve always struggled to pay. We forget about the things we are lacking and we feel rich, like rulers of our own domain; King and Queen. We talk about our passions and our dreams and nothing seems too tall for us to conquer. Laughter fills the time like helium in a balloon, floating full and weightless, until our bottle of wine runs dry. We’re the last patrons to stumble out of the restaurant, long after official closing hours, and we giggle all the way home about our imposition.

[dvnynvd]

To Do or Not To Do

I told myself to do it. But it’s inhibition, it’s blurry-eyed anxiety. The wall didn’t even exist but I had no idea how to climb it. It’s the what-if and what-if-not scenarios that I stuff down my own throat until I have no room left for real nourishment.

But it’s not like I didn’t want to.

[dvnynvd]

Change

Maybe it was a mantra: people don’t change, stop trying to change them. But I guess that’s just it, I was trying to get myself to see that I couldn’t be the one to change someone.

Because if there is anything I’ve learned, it’s that people absolutely will change. I suppose we don’t see it in foreshadow; we don’t plan to be something else. The things that we want flourish, then wither, and eventually we grow new leaves. Maybe change is forced upon us in a way that won’t allow our ignorance, or perhaps we transition slowly, silently, the way the caress of turning tides makes a soft curve out of a sharp edge.

I won’t be this version of me forever.

[dvnynvd]

Sleepless

"You're right," Jerrica says suddenly. "You should sleep on it. But let me know what you decide and we will figure it out together, okay?"

I nod, although I’m fairly certain that sleep isn't going to help sort the tangled mess in my head. I scrape at the dry skin around my nails, a brainstorming habit, feeling less at ease than I expected I would feel. The couch is so cushioned that it’s almost uncomfortable, swallowing my legs into its spongy embrace. I imagine myself sinking inch by inch until I’ve been completely digested. It’s an inviting idea.

Jerrica switches on a comedy and falls into a beer-induced slumber. The living room is dark, illuminated only by the flickering fluorescence of the TV screen. It reminds me of sleepovers of my youth when staying up until 3 in the morning was a rebellious achievement, and the same flickering darkness would be the last fading image I saw before drifting off to sleep. Except this time I don’t feel sleepy.