Chapter 10! We're finally getting somewhere. Thanks again for the reviews. I appreciate them greatly.
Maybe, just maybe,you think, this can work.
Spending time with Emily has definitely been the highlight of your year. The more you get to know her, the more you find that you have in common.
She ranted for almost an hour about Tarantino; how his cinematography changed the film industry forever. How his chosen soundtracks add an entirely new dimension to his movies. That his ability to cultivate an entire scene based solely on dialogue is not only creative, but ridiculously brave.
You sat and listened patiently. You agreed, of course. Tarantino has been one of your favorite directors since you began taking an interest in film. It'd been breathtaking, though, to witness Emily talk animatedly about something she obviously has a passion for.
You interrupt while she's taking a breath.
"What do you do?"
"What do I do?" She asks.
"For a living."
She looks at you strangely. Smirking. "What do you think I do?"
"What?"
"If you had to guess, what would you say my job is?"
She's full on smiling now. It's gorgeous, but you're frustrated.
"I don't know..." You hate guessing games. "Do you work at The Frog?"
She laughs, "No, I don't work there. It's more like a second home."
"You seem to know a lot about cinema... do you study it?"
"Nope." She pops the P.
"Photographer?"
"Nuh uh."
You cross your arms in front of you. "I give up." You state.
She laughs again. "What do you do?"
"I work for a software company. In IT."
"Huh," she looks surprised, "I would never have guessed that."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, affronted.
"No, I'm sorry, I just meant you talk about music and literature so much, I would've assumed you did something along those lines."
"Oh, yeah... I can see that." You shift uncomfortably, "Problem is, there's no money to be made in those fields. Not unless you hit it big. And the chances of that happening are slim to none." You laugh.
"I think you can do anything." She says, suddenly very serious.
Your breath catches as you make eye contact.
"That's silly," you try to lighten the air around you that has become impossibly thick, "You haven't heard me. I could be shit."
"I doubt it," she smiles.
You smile.
"I'm starving," She announces. "Have you eaten?"
Your stomach chooses that moment to sing the song of it's people.
"I have not," You giggle.
"Have dinner with me?"
You're thrown, quickly, back to Friday night.
Would you like to have dinner with me?
"I..."
"Friends can have dinner together, Naomi," she rolls her eyes, "We need to eat. It's an important part of that whole 'staying alive' thing."
You laugh.
"Touché." You stand, "What did you have in mind?"
The answer was 'Italian.'
You followed Emily down the street and around the corner to a very cozy looking restaurant.
"I've been coming here for years now," she'd said as you entered, "The food is to die for."
And she'd been correct. The bread, the eggplant parmesan, the cabernet sauvignon, the conversation; everything had been perfect.
"You still haven't told me what you do," you say as the server brings out a plate of Tiramisu.
"And you still haven't let me read any of your poetry," she counters.
"That seems a bit unfair. I told you what I do!"
She laughs, "I never said I'd divulge my career if you told me yours." She raises an eyebrow. That eyebrow will be the death of you.
It's been like this all night. This borderline flirtatious behavior. More than borderline, but you've dedicated every ounce of yourself to burying it deep inside. Where you can forget it.
That's pretty much how we get through our own lives, watching television. Smoking crap. Self-medicating. Redirecting our attention. Jacking off. Denial.
"So, I let you read my poetry and you tell me your job?" You ask in disbelief.
"Those are the rules." She smiles.
You're walking her home.
"I don't recall participating in that rule making," you finally add.
"You didn't. I made the game, I make the rules," she says in a sing song voice.
You know it's meant to be a light hearted comment, but it tugs at you.
"Is that what this is?" You ask, "A game?"
She stops walking and turns around.
"No." She shakes her head, "Far from it."
The energy surrounding you both becomes super charged. You're suddenly aware of just how close you're standing to each other.
You refuse to make eye contact, knowing if you do it would ruin everything.
she could destroy you.
she could destroy you,
and you'd let her.
"Most of my poetry is really short," You're grasping at straws here.
"I'd still love to read it," she looks over her shoulder, "This is me."
You finally look up. It's a brick townhome on the corner.
"Can we do this again?" She asks.
The night's been wonderful for the most part. You can't think of a possible excuse for why you wouldn't -
"Yeah. We can."
She smiles.
She hugs you goodbye.
It's simultaneously the greatest and worst moment of your life.
You immediately fall in love with her scent, the way she fits perfectly in your arms, the small sigh that escapes her mouth.
You feel weightless and heavy at the same time.
Light as a feather, stiff as a board.
You feel at home.
You're home.
she could destroy you,
and you'd let her.
"Night, Naoms," she lets go and climbs the stairs to her place.
"Goodnight, Emily."
Before bed you send out one last text.
E. Fitch.
Finger's trembling.
Mouth dry.
"we no longer speak,
but late at night I
dare myself to remember
and wonder 'what if,' as if
'what' will become
'because'
and 'because' will
suffice"
Phone buzzes.
Incoming text.
E. Fitch.
"I'm a painter."
Denial quote is from "Choke" by Chuck Palahniuk.
Poem is from yours truly :)