February 26, 2024
In the last six years you have sampled a wide variety of Midgardian food, the majority of which left much to be desired. You have eaten pizza more than a handful of times, and never been terribly impressed. The pizza that Jane orders is no different in appearance or composition from any other pizza that you've consumed. And yet, it is somehow far more appetizing. The crust is full, and just the right texture...soft on the inside and firm on the outside. It reminds you of the bread you ate as a child, those huge, round loaves that were baked in ovens of stone. You quickly deduce that you were far more famished than you originally allowed yourself to believe. But it is more than that. There is something undeniably comforting about eating hot food. Not something pre-packaged that was hastily prepared with an electronic device...something that was actually exposed to the heat of a natural flame.
Jane sits across from you at the table. She does not lift her entire slice of pizza to her mouth and bite directly into it as you've seen Erik do before. She tears away tiny pieces of it with her fingers and eats them one at a time. You watch her for several minutes...her thoughtful expressions, how delicately she brings the morsels to her lips.
All your life you were told that you had a way with words. And yet, somehow it managed to escape everyone's attention that while you were adept at speaking, you didn't necessarily enjoy doing it. Still, you are eventually torn between your disdain for idle chatter and your need to distract yourself from your own thoughts by filling the silence with noise.
You recall your mother counseling you on how to converse effectively with females. Encourage her first to talk about herself. If she wants to know about you, she will ask. Sound advice...since the last thing you want to do right now is talk about yourself.
"Tell me," you begin, "how are you occupying yourself these days?"
You expect Jane to be skeptical of your query. But she does not appear remotely suspicious. She finishes chewing her food before she replies.
"Still research, mostly. That's the only plus side to the war, I suppose."
"What is?"
"Job security. Lots of new data to analyze, and not that many people who are qualified to do it."
You nod. Despite the war's profound effect on its economy, the United States was still essentially a capitalist nation. A person's survival was dependent entirely upon their ability to acquire currency or yoke themselves with someone with means. Erik spoke on many occasions about what a relief it was to finally procure a position that allowed him to purchase his own home. Settling down, he called it.
"No husband?" you ask.
It's a logical question. Or at least, it would be where you come from. Not that there weren't Asgardian women whose pursuits lay outside of marriage or motherhood. But they were few and far between. Still, you regret your inquiry almost immediately because you fear it will be interpreted as romantic interest.
"You humans exist so briefly," you explain, when she doesn't respond right away. " I just assumed you'd be married by now…parading around a small litter of young in your energy inefficient vehicle."
You wonder if perhaps you insulted her. But after a few seconds, she smiles.
"You flatter me."
"I guess my brother was a pretty tough act to follow," you muse.
"Well, pretty much everyone is a step down, once you've dated a god."
"Dated?" you pry.
Her use of the verb seems to deviate from its literal definition.
"Um...it's like when two people are courting each other. When they go out together, it's called dating."
"Ah."
"I did try for a few years to have a baby," she confides.
"I'm no expert on human reproduction," you say. "But I was under the impression that it required the participation of a mate."
"Oh...well, there are ways around that."
"Is that so? Such as what?"
"Artificial insemination from a donor."
"I'm not sure I want to know how that's done," you remark.
While you can certainly imagine how one might go about being artificially inseminated, you would rather not.
She laughs.
"Well, I'm not sure I want to tell you."
"You'd really let an anonymous man sire your child?"
"They're not really anonymous. They're pre-screened in advance. You can pick your donor from a database. You can see their pictures and everything."
"How crude," you remark. "Surely there are more efficient ways to procreate...and more enjoyable."
"More enjoyable, maybe," she agrees. "It didn't work out anyway."
"Oh."
"Apparently, it wasn't meant to be. With my family's medical history, it's probably for the best."
The look upon on her face implies that she no longer wishes to speak of it, which makes you wonder why she brought it up in the first place.
"Terribly sorry," you mumble.
"Oh," she says, suddenly.
She holds up one finger, as though she is just now recalling something of importance.
"What?"
"I got your mail." She wipes her hands with a napkin. Then she turns around and grabs up a stack of letters from the counter behind her. "I saw it on the front doorstep when the pizza came."
"I thought they were supposed to put it in the box, outside."
"Well, they probably did put it in the box," she points out. "But it looks like the letters piled up. The postal worker must have brought them to the door."
"Rubbish, most likely," you tell her.
You never gave much consideration to the mail. When Erik first relocated to the hospital, you made an effort to collect it every few days. Gradually, those days evolved into weeks. And it troubled you not, as rarely was any sort of correspondence addressed directly to you. The few items that bore your name were advertisements and offers for credit cards and bank loans. Erik referred to such items as junk mail, and disposed of them straightaway.
She does not, however. She sifts through the stack of envelopes instead.
"This one isn't."
"What is it?"
"It's from the DMV."
"The what?"
"Department of Motor Vehicles…it's got your name on it, and Erik's."
You cannot fathom why something would be addressed to both you and Erik.
"Do you want me to open it?" she asks.
You toss your hand.
"I don't care."
Jane opens the envelope. Inside are two sheets of paper. She unfolds them and scans the first sheet.
"Your registration is expired."
"My what?"
"Registration? If you want to drive, you have to register your vehicle with the state. According to this, the registration on Erik's car expired 6 months ago. It says here they've sent several notices already."
There's a stack of mail that you've accumulated in the last year, all of which is addressed to Erik. You never studied at it all that closely, mostly because you honestly didn't think it was that important. Erik told you, around the time of his diagnosis, not to concern yourself with bills, because they would all be paid automatically for the next five years...some of them even longer. He explained that the house itself was paid for and that the only bills that needed to be paid were the various utilities, such as gas and electricity, and the internet and phone service. He mentioned that his car insurance policy included you as a driver. But he never mentioned anything about vehicle registration. Of course, it's entirely possible that he simply forgot.
"You're lucky you haven't been pulled over," she informs you.
"What am I supposed to do?" you inquire, since you genuinely have no idea.
"You pay it. You can probably do it online. But with all the late fees it's going to be like...four hundred dollars."
"Oh," you say, quietly.
You have only a general idea of how much money that is. The only purchases you make are online grocery orders and the most you ever spent at one time was a hundred and fifty dollars.
"Do you have the money to pay it?"
You do...technically. Erik gave you a plastic card that he said would allow you to withdraw funds from an account. The card even has your name printed on it...something he cited as a legal necessity. You did not question it at the time. But you only ever use the card to deposit fuel into Erik's car. You recall Erik saying that it could also be used to acquire paper currency. When Erik bestowed it upon you, you quickly memorized the number that was printed on the front. Even that was unnecessary. Since whenever you order things online, you always use the same website, and the information is auto-populated. You also have a small amount of cash that you have been carrying around for quite some time. Though you never found reason to spend it.
"If you like," she offers, "we can go out tomorrow and get you some more food...and whatever else you might need."
"Out?" You echo, sheepishly.
"Yeah, you know...out. As in...outside of this house."
You have no desire to go out for anything. What little traveling you do is based purely on necessity. Once, not long after the war ended, you ventured to a local supermarket. It was a huge, brightly lit expanse with a ridiculously excessive selection of items. It seemed as though every person you encountered was staring at you. A few even captured your likeness with their cellular phones. You shudder to think what became of those images. You certainly never went out of your way to find out. You left the shop without purchasing anything. When you returned to the house, you were too embarrassed to tell Erik what happened. Not long after, he showed you how you could use the computer to order food online and have it delivered to the house.
The butcher shop you sometimes frequented is small and owned by a husband and a wife, who are very clearly not American...although you cannot not begin to guess their country of origin. You recall Erik theorizing that they might be Jamaican. But you know not whether that was an accurate observation. The couple is either truly oblivious to your identity or they are simply happy to have your business.
"Where do you normally shop?" Jane asks.
You shake your head.
"I don't."
"Where do you get your food, then?"
"I order it on the computer."
She rolls her eyes.
"I figured...from where?"
You do not respond.
"Is it Wegman's? I know they deliver. Erik shopped there before when he lived in Baltimore."
You know that Baltimore is a city. But you do not recall Erik mentioning having lived there.
"Maybe."
"The one on Onondaga?"
You shrug. Even though you know she is correct, you cannot resist the urge to be evasive. Between discovering your unpaid vehicle registration and her insatiable curiosity, you are beginning to feel anxious.
"I'm just trying to figure out why your refrigerator is so empty."
"Sometimes I get busy," you lie.
"Doing what?"
"Just...things."
"I can understand being too busy to buy food. But I used the last of your detergent when I started that laundry earlier...and you're out of a lot of other stuff too."
You have no idea what stuff you are out of, and right now you don't actually care.
"It's not a big deal," you claim, flippantly.
You frown immediately at your use of the phrase big deal, which you cannot remember ever using before now. You know not the origin of the phrase. It's something that Erik would say. In your mind, you can picture his face...that reassuring smile he would give you whenever you were convinced that you somehow managed to ruin absolutely everything, yet again. Hey...it's not a big deal.
Thankfully, Jane does not question your use of the phrase.
"It's a big deal if you don't have anything to eat," she counters, "and if you can't wash your clothes."
"I can order all of that on the computer," you remind her.
"Then why haven't you?"
"As I already said, I get busy."
"As I already asked...doing what?"
You feel the urge to pick your fingers once more. At least this time, you are conscious of it. You fold your hands in your lap instead. If by some chance you do surrender to temptation, your hands will be under the table where Jane cannot see them.
"Is that really any of your business?
"Are you agoraphobic?"
"Am I what?"
You recognize the word…parts of it, anyway. You studied Greek etymology in your youth. You know that an agora is a marketplace or a wide open space. And the suffix, phobic, means fear. You deduce that the word refers to a fear of open spaces.
"Agoraphobic," she repeats.
"Oh, you people have a word for everything," you say, dismissively. "And an expensive remedy to go with, no doubt."
"It's a documented condition."
"I'm sure it is."
"I had this roommate in college who was agoraphobic," she shares. "The only place she went was to class. The rest of the time she stayed in her room. She had a nervous breakdown one day when there was a gas leak and they had to evacuate our building. She eventually had to be hospitalized."
You unfold your hands and begin picking away at the skin around your right thumb.
"Now, there's a fascinating tale that has nothing to do with me whatsoever."
"So…we can go grocery shopping, then?"
"You're a crafty sort, aren't you. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a witch."
She smirks.
"How do you know I'm not?"
You realize that Jane is probably not going away anytime soon. The last thing you need is for her to diagnose you with some imaginary malady. Perhaps your participation in this little excursion will serve as sufficient evidence that you're not on the verge of a mental collapse.
"Fine," you concede, doing your best to appear nonchalant. "We can go tomorrow."
She is pleased, of course.
"Great."
When you are both finished eating, Jane wraps the few remaining slices of pizza in metallic foil and deposits them in the refrigerator.
The box the pizza was delivered in is wider across than the waste bin in the kitchen. You decide to carry it outside to toss into one of the larger receptacles. You normally wouldn't bother. But doing so means putting some distance between you and Jane, even if it's only for a few minutes. Thus, you eagerly make the brief trek across the yard to where the bins are located. When you open the lid to the largest container, you see the bag of rubbish that Jane removed from the kitchen earlier. Sitting atop it is the bottle of Erik's discarded medication.
You truly weren't expecting to see it again. You knew that Jane absconded with it. But as intelligent as she is, you assumed she had destroyed it, or at least put it somewhere you weren't likely to find it. You stare at the bottle, deliberating your options. On one hand, it seems wasteful to merely throw the pills away. On the other, you know that Erik no longer has any use for them. He receives all the medication he needs at the hospital.
You should leave them where they are, and you know it. You should shut the container and walk away. Because if you retrieve the pills, you are basically admitting to yourself that you plan to take them at some point.
Except that you kind of do want to take them. Despite how silly they made you feel, they also provided you with a welcome respite from the barrage of unpleasant thoughts that are constantly flooding your brain. And so, after a few minutes, you snatch the bottle up and store it away with magic.
"I know I'm being a pain..." Jane begins, when you come back inside.
"Yes, you are being a pain," you reply, automatically.
You have no idea what she was planning to say next. Mostly, you are hoping to distract her from the fact that you took far too long to dispose of the pizza box. You make your way into the living room and she follows close behind.
"Do you think that maybe I could turn up the heat?" she asks.
You recall her earlier assessment of it being freezing in here.
Before Erik relocated to the hospital, he preferred to keep the thermostat set at around sixty-eight degrees. Which wasn't necessarily ideal for you. But it was tolerable. Whenever it became too warm in the house, you would simply go outside. Unless it was night, in which case you closed the vents in your room and cracked open a window. Now that Erik is no longer in the house, you generally keep the thermostat set somewhere between fifty-seven and sixty degrees. Though you doubt very much that Jane would care to know such things.
"I'd wager that it's plenty warm wherever you live," you tease, sitting down on the sofa. You prop your legs up on the coffee table. "You should go there so you can enjoy it."
She folds her arms across her chest.
"You're not going to get rid of me that easily."
"You don't even have a change of clothing," you point out.
"I always carry an overnight bag in the trunk of my car."
"Sleep in many strange places, do we?"
"When you live off of research grants, you don't always have a permanent address. So...yes."
You nod. You aren't entirely sure what she means. But you would rather not probe for an explanation.
"I actually lived in an RV once," she adds.
"An RV is..." you prompt, with a wave of your hand.
"Technically it's vehicle. It's kind of like a little apartment on wheels. It's not much bigger than a bus."
You know what a bus is, at least. You've passed them before, while driving to and from the hospital. You could not imagine residing in such a small space. Even your cell in the dungeon was larger than that. Of course, you were also confined to it both day and night. You could not simply come and go as you pleased.
"So, you're just moving in here?"
"I'm not moving in." she corrects. "I'm visiting."
"And why is that?"
"Because you need me."
You find yourself laughing. Though there's nothing particularly amusing about this situation. While you do not agree with her assessment that you need her, you are feeling somewhat ambivalent at the moment. Even so, being in the presence of another person demands a certain degree of energy. And since Erik's departure, you've grown accustomed to being alone.
"I don't suppose I have any choice in the matter," you ponder, aloud.
You know full well that you could forcibly eject her from the house with little effort. And you suspect that she knows it too. You know not what's stopping you.
She regards you, coyly.
"You really want me to leave?"
You briefly consider telling her yes, that you would very much like her to leave. Wasn't it obvious? But there's something about the question that makes you feel incredibly shy.
"I don't care," you say, instead.
After she adjusts the thermostat, she sits down next to you on the sofa.
"I wanted to show you something."
She pulls her phone from her pock and swipes her finger across the screen several times. She swipes again and again, opening folders and scrolling through their contents. Eventually, she finds what she is looking for.
She hands you her phone.
"I found this the other day," she explains. "I thought you might want to see it."
You stare at the device in your hand. On the screen there is a picture of Thor. He is smiling. He looks happy, carefree. You know not when it was taken, although you can assume it was during the years he was on Earth, courting Jane.
You let your other hand hover over the phone. Slowly and carefully, you pull the image from the screen and craft it into a three dimensional representation. The Thor you see before you is not life sized. But he is posed exactly as the one in the picture. Your magic breathes life into him. He blinks, still smiling. A small noise of amusement escapes his lips. You gaze at him for a moment. As real as he appears, you know that he is only an illusion.
Seeing Thor's face after all this time, even if it is just a digital representation, evokes a torrent of deeply buried memories...not just of Thor, but of your parents, of Asgard. As far removed you are from the life you once knew, you are equally unprepared for such a blatant reminder. You find yourself unable to awaken the rage and spite that have always protected you from feeling things like sorrow and regret. And you don't like it. Not one bit.
"Why are you showing me this?" you demand, bluntly. You thrust the phone back at her. "Why would you think I'd want to see this?"
You are unnerved by your own candor.
Apparently, so is she. Because her brow furrows with concern.
"Are you alright?"
"I don't know why you keep asking me that," you snap.
"Because...I guess I'm hoping that you will eventually tell me the truth."
"I don't see why I should have to tell you anything," you return, loudly. "Who are you to me, anyway? No one!"
While your words are sharp, your annoyance is halfhearted. You're not angry. Though you so want to be. You so want to be on fire with rage, for it to course through you like a poison that you can draw forth and direct at others. You think perhaps if you want it badly enough, the fury will come. But it does not.
You know not what the truth is anymore. You grew up with one truth, only to later find out it was a lie. And while that realization shattered your world, it did not destroy it. Not completely. It was Thanos who did that. And then you were forced to build a new truth. But had you actually succeeded in doing so? Or were you merely waiting for someone or something else to come along and build it for you?
If she is offended by your outburst, she hides it well.
"You don't have to talk to me. But you should probably talk to someone."
"Like who, for instance?"
"I don't know...Steve?"
You chuckle at the thought of it. Steve is so very much like Thor, with his rigid, polarized view of the world. To Steve, people are either good or evil. There is no in between. And while you may have escaped incarceration for the time being, you are fairly certain that your moral ambiguity precludes you from ever being classified as good in his eyes. Despite his flaws, you suspect that Steve is probably quite genuine. But even if he wanted to understand you, his fixed mindset would never allow it. You could not imagine confiding in him about anything.
You don't want to think about this anymore. And you don't want to answer any more questions. Though you slept just the night before and took a nap hours earlier, you are longing for solitude. And you know the only way you will find it is by retreating to your room. You doubt you could make yourself sleep again so soon. But then, you recall the pills you recovered from the rubbish bin outside, and the warning on the label: may cause drowsiness.
"I'm going to bed," you declare, suddenly.
She looks at the clock and then back at you.
"It's only ten-thirty."
"Well, I'm very tired," you lie.
She raises her eyebrow, skeptically. You know that she probably doesn't believe you. But you cannot bring yourself to care.
"Goodnight, I guess," she says.
"And where exactly do you plan to sleep?" you inquire, casually.
She smacks the cushion beside her.
"Couch folds out into a bed."
"Grand," you reply, pleased to learn that she will be spending the night downstairs. You feared she might be intending to sleep in Erik's room.
You rise from the sofa. You make your way upstairs and into your own room, pulling the door shut behind you. Though you have not done so in quite some time, you secure it with a spell.
You sequester yourself in the adjoining washroom and summon the bottle of pills. You once again consider the appropriate dosage. Clearly you took far too many last time. It also didn't help that you consumed them with alcohol. You wish to be subdued, but not rendered incoherent. You dump a small quantity of the tablets into your hand, keep four of them and return the rest to the bottle.
After storing the bottle away once more, you pop the tablets into your mouth and wash them down with water from the sink.
You reach into the shower and turn on the water. Then you strip off your clothing and leave it in a pile on the floor. Perhaps you will tend to it later. Or perhaps you won't.
You remove the elastic band from your hair and shake it out. While you are running a brush through it, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. You gaze at yourself for a moment. For the first time, you notice that there are dark circles under your eyes. You know not how long they've been there. It's been six years since the war. But you appear to have aged by several decades.
Thankfully, the vapor from the shower begins to obscure your reflection.
Ordinarily, while showering, you prefer to leave the washroom door open and the door to your room ajar. With Jane in the house, you're not taking any chances. You don't mind the heat of the water coming down on you. Hot water can actually be quite pleasant, in limited amounts. But you do mind the steam that gathers…far too quickly. The washroom is such a small space, comparatively speaking, with only minimal ventilation. Washrooms on Asgard had walls of stone with high ceilings and clerestory windows, designed specifically to allow the steam to escape. You know that humans once utilized similar architectural elements. Though for some reason, they abandoned them long ago.
You step into the shower and press your hands against the tile on the wall. You stretch out your back and let the water run down your body. As good as it feels, you do not enjoy being naked for long periods of time. And so, you quickly wash yourself. You shut off the water and wring out your long hair. Then you get out and dry off.
Your pajama bottoms are a plain, black flannel material. Your long sleeved gray shirt has a peculiar texture to it…waffle weave is what Erik called it. You have a pair of pants that match the shirt. But they are far too form fitting, especially now that there's a lady in the house.
You get dressed. Even though your hair is still damp, you lie down on your bed and stare at the ceiling. It doesn't take long before you begin to feel drowsy. And you are relieved when sleep finally claims you.