Dry and Dusty

by Pesty Bandit

Arthur is a professional, nothing more nothing less. At least that is how he views himself. He does his job and he does his job well with never any mistakes on his end. But what does Arthur do when he isn't working? This fic explores Arthur's life after the movie and gives him something he secretly wishes to posses. Romance.

Monday moring, the alarm goes off at 6:30 am. I turn on my side and press snooze although there is no need to sleep any longer. I lay and watch the red numbers change slowly as it guides me from my dream world to reality. I watch numbers and let my body shakes off the last minutes of rest and start to wake up. I let my mind go through the dream I just had, searching for anything odd now that I am awake but as I remember by mind starts to create a haze around my vision and I begin to lucid dream of things that aren't there.

I look past the red numbers on the clock on my bed side table for a moment and out my bed room door, down the hall and to the kitchen. In the small yellow kitchen I can almost imagin someone in there making coffee. I can almost imagin a woman in my tee shirt sitting in the chair I had forgotten to push in last night. I can almost imagin her placing the newspaper in front of my spot while I slumber. But she doesn't exist. I don't have a woman to learn my mannerisms and start my day before my alarm goes off. It's just me and the five minutes ticking down in my one bed room apartment.

Thankfully the alarm goes off once more and I am able to catapult myself out of bed before I can start to feel a slight sense of self-loathing. I remake the bed-grabbing my loaded die from its hiding place beneath the pillow under my head before I change the sheets, tucking in the covers, getting rid of wrinkles-like I had been taught. I turn to the chair with my clothing already picked out the night before. I shower, brush my teeth, and change into my day wear without a thought of the girl I don't have again.

I walk down the hall to my empty kitchen that doesn't quite feel like a kitchen and I make my coffee that doesn't quite taste like coffee. I read the news that doesn't quite seem like news-nothing ever quite seems like itself lately. I reach into my pocket and pull out my token. I hold it in my fingers, turning it between my index and thumb, recalling the weight and texture that only I know. I'm reassured by this that it isn't someone else's dream...this is real life and I'm just really unsure of what I know about it any more.

I look out the window that is across from me and catch a glimpse of the sun rising and for once I decide to change my daily routine ever so slightly. I drop my token back into my pocket, take my coffee and tuck my newspaper under my arm as I walk to the window and open it up. I step out onto my fire escape and sit, silently observing the world as it awakens.

I sip my coffee and look down as the early birds try to beat the morning traffic. The sun rises above apartment buildings and I can hear the actual winged-creatures chirping and the shop keeps opening up their doors to welcomed guests. Everything appears so perfect. Picture perfect. I sigh at myself and take a sip of coffee, putting my hand back into my pocket so that I may unwillingly feel the die in my hand. So easily this could be a dream, someone else's dream, someone else's reality. But it isn't. This is the real world.

I stand on my fire escape and take one last look at my surroundings, my perfect little real world with nothing odd or out of the ordinary, just a moment in perfect time and unison with the rest of the world. I turn to go inside but then I am blinded slightly by the reflection of the sun off a shiny surface. I tense up and gaze around seemingly natural although I am on high alert...and then I find it. The guilty party.

Across the street a woman reading a hard cover book sits on her own fire escape. I can't see her face but I can almost make out the title of the book. The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud. For a moment I am tempted to stop and watch this woman reading this book about dreams, tempted to stop my day and wait for her to lower the book so I may catch a glimpse at her face. All I can really see is long billowing dark hair, and pale skin. I can't make out her figure or anything else about her, just her hair, her skin, her small hands holding Freud.

My alarm goes off once more and I wake up from this tiny lapse. She is just another woman in her own world without the slightest notion of who I am or what I can do, what I have seen. I climb back in through the window into my one bed room apartment and I shut the window behind me, place the coffee and newspaper on the table and walk to my room to shut the alarm off for the third time this morning. I pause and glance out my window, but she is gone. Just Freud laying on the fire escape without the woman holding him.

I push her to the back of my mind and walk out of my room, shutting the door behind me. I walk to the kitchen and rinse out the cup of coffee in the sink and leave it there so I know I have something to return to. I do a quick sweep of the apartment, making sure all windows are locked and everything is as perfect and untouched as it was the night before. Finally, when I am content, I pick up my newspaper, grab my keys, and walk to the door. I unlock the three locks instinctively and lock them back up in the same motion as I shut the door behind me. I take a quick breath, reach my hand in my pocket and hold the die once more...and then I begin my day.