Not mine.
Notes: well, this is random and very different. Hope you enjoy.
I tried not to cringe visibly as the door slammed shut, leaving me sagging against the kitchen counter and trying not to think. Have you ever pointedly tried not to think? It's quite hard, actually. I suppose that's what all those monks or whatever, the meditation ones, end up doing. Just forgetting about thinking.
What a pointless train of thought.
It took a full few minutes for me to motivate myself to get up and wander aimlessly from room to room again. The apartment that had always been so cramped now seemed gloomy, desolate, and incredibly large. I began to think that sending Dutchy away had been a mistake. He really was a good friend, always ready to help, and he certainly meant the best. He could just be a little overzealous at times.
My drifting took me eventually to the bedroom. Big mistake. I stared at the bed for something like thirty seconds. It was much too large for just one person to sleep in. The sheets were tangled, falling off to the right side. It hadn't been made in three days, since…
Stop.
The answering machine blinked placidly on the nightstand, newfangled, high tech, like he'd wanted. Blink, blink, blink. Pause. Blink, blink, blink. Pause. I wearily pressed the play back button, only half listening.
"Hey, Specs, I heard about what happened with Skittery, and I j-"
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. I jammed my finger down on the delete button.
"8:21 PM," intoned the machine in a pseudo-pleasant monotone, "you have no new messages."
I bit my lip, repressing the urge to throw something heavy through the window. A good friend Dutchy might be, but a secret keeper, he was not.
The silence was beginning to be overwhelming. I was almost expecting a ghost to appear out of the wall. It would fit right in with my mood. Ghost…okay, stop that train of thought.
I made my way back to the kitchen. Robotic yellow numbers flashed from the display screen of the five-CD-changer we'd bought used a few months ago at a tag sale. It had a few interesting quirks (for instance, it simply refused to play track seven on any CD), but it still worked pretty well. I turned up the volume, wondering what Dutchy had left for me. A dialogue of synthesizer and percussion flowed through the static of the speakers, joined by a familiar voice. I smiled. Paul Simon, Graceland.
A hissing from the stovetop startled me; the pot of water that had been sitting there for the past half-hour was boiling. I could picture Dutchy, reminding me for all the world of my mother. He would be insisting that it didn't matter if I was hungry or not. Not being hungry isn't a very good excuse for starving yourself to death, he would say. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the macaroni and cheese he'd gotten out of the cabinet was his brand.
Paul Simon's voice floated lightly through the room, making my stomach clench.
And she says losing love is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow…
I stared for a second at the boiling water, then took the box of pasta and replaced it in the cabinet. I took down a box of lasagna noodles instead, turning it over mechanically in my hands. Dutchy's remedy for everything was music; it didn't occur to him that this might not work for everyone else. I'd never told anyone else about my base comfort, it was too embarrassing. Well, I'd told one person.
I passed another few minutes standing on the chair, lost in thought. I had been doing that a lot, I noticed, existing more in my mind than in the real life. It was starting to scare my friends, I knew, but I couldn't help it. My memories and fantasies were a lot more appealing that my current situation.
A new track crackles through the old sound system.
You don't feel you could love me,
But I feel you could…
I got down and began to rummage through the refrigerator.
I lost myself in cooking for almost half an hour, pausing only to skip erratically through the selection of music Dutchy had left with my elbow, nose, or whatever other part of my body was reasonably clean. Somehow I managed to quell most of the memories that seemed to appear with every breath.
I slowed down again once the lasagna was in the oven. There were three extra noodles in the colander. He always liked eating the extra noodles. I didn't see why. I picked them up and tore them in half methodically, dipping each in the splatter of tomato sauce on the counter and eating it. Not bad.
I had almost mastered preventing thought when I heard the car outside. Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes was playing, I remember that. Still half lost in my own world, I walked slowly to the window. I think I knew it was him even before I saw the familiar Honda.
In retrospect, I hope he didn't mind getting tomato sauce smeared all over his shirt.
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Specs signs his name and the date to the paper, placing it to the side with a stack of other memoirs. Skittery, leaning over his shoulder to read it, ruffles his hair affectionately and assures him that it's now his favorite shirt. Specs laughs and tells him he looks much better without one, anyhow.
They put off the rest of the paperwork until some other time.