Seconds tick away before she answers. Seconds that stretch minute-like as she regards him. "You were on the porch," she says finally. Lana removes a tab from a Listerine Pocket Pak and places it deliberately in the center of her outstretched tongue. She inhales.
The man considers. "I don't... I don't think I have any place else to go." There's a moment before he extends his hand. "My name's Paul."
Lana blinks. She places a second tab on her tongue. Sucks on it. She extends her hand as well. "Miranda. You're more than welcome to stay here if you'd like."
His face brightens, though he doesn't smile. "Are you sure?"
"No. Not really," Miranda-Lana says curtly. "You can take the bed. You're too tall for the couch."
The man peers into the bedroom. The bed is neatly made, full of throw pillows and care. It looks like something from a magazine. Inviting – and utterly unused.
"I've got work in the morning." Lana turns and heads into the bathroom. The man nods slowly.
He ambles into the bedroom, removing his jeans and tee as he crosses the floor. He folds them neatly and places them on the bottom of the bed. He places the throw pillows in a nearby chair and turns the sheets and comforter back. He sprawls on the king-size mattress and is asleep instantly.
Lana stands, blinking away tears as lukewarm water spills from the showerhead. Her body heaves soundlessly as she sucks air and tries to breathe.
Breakfast is a cup of Folger's Instant (black). She checks and sees he's still in bed, occupying as much space as his will body allow. She sips coffee as she studies the gentle rhythm of his breathing. It's barely discernible.
He looks tranquil.
One of them should. He probably deserves it more anyway.
She writes a number hurriedly on a slip of paper and places it by the phone. "In case of an emergency." She leaves change and writes almost illegibly. "Phone doesn't work." She dashes out, mug in hand.
He isn't sure how to pass the time. He finds a wrench, fixes the shower's hot water knob.
He watches Oprah.
He finds the laundry room (in the back of the building, down the stairs) and does laundry.
He sleeps some more.
When she returns, he opens the door eagerly. "How was work?"
"Work." she says simply as she enters the bedroom, removing her shoes and dress without breaking her stride. When she reemerges, she's wearing low-slung jeans and a crocheted top. The bell sleeves flutter as she adjusts her hair.
Lana looks at his feet. "We need to get you some shoes."
"Right."
Lana checks her purse. She retrieves keys, unearths a credit card. "I'll bring the car up the drive."
He nods and she disappears. Outside, he hears the hum-roar of an engine. He steps out of the apartment.
She unlatches the passenger door. He climbs into the old Toyota, folding himself into the front seat. She almost smiles. "You can adjust the seat. There's a handle..." She reaches between his knees. The seat slides back unexpectedly. He shifts, startled, regaining faulty balance.
He looks cute, she thinks. He always looked cute. Ok, hot. Damn hot. Geekier in high school to be sure, but always... "Put on your seat belt. Don't wanna get a ticket."
"No," he says, "That'd be bad."
"And bad's not good," she says, backing the car out of the driveway.
"Bad's not good," he repeats.
"Right's right, wrong's wrong," she says, her voice edged with unintentional sarcasm.
"Right," he says simply.
"Right."
She peels out of the driveway, cutting off another driver as the Toyota's tires squeal. "That, she explains, "Was wrong."
Melrose Avenue.
Lana parks the car and heads into a shoe store. Paul starts to follow. She turns sharply on her heels. "Uh, no shoes," she says, indicating.
Paul resituates himself. "Right."
She continues inside.
Lana selects a pair of Doc Martens (shoes, not boots) – chosen for their durability and quasi basic ness. And socks. He needs socks. Clark would never have worn these shoes. But they'll look good on the stranger in the car.
The man who says his name is "Paul."
Lana pays for the shoes with a credit card. "Are these returnable?" she asks as she pushes the box toward the clerk. "I'm not sure about the size." This is a lie. She asks because she's not sure he'll like them, much less wear them. She knows who he was, not who he's become.
The clerk scans the shoes and socks. "Usual drill," he explains. "Long as they're not worn."
The clerk bags the items. She collects the drawstring pouch and leaves the store.''
She stands at the car. "Try these," she says, pulling the shoes and a pair of socks from the bag.
He stares at the shoes.
She thinks he hates them.
Paul turns them over in his hands. "Kewl," he says, sliding the socks on, then the shoes. He swings his legs out onto the pavement, climbs from the car, steps jauntily, walking away from the car. He bounces back toward her.
She expects a smile.
He merely asks, "What's next?"
"I'm thirsty," she replies. What she thinks is: "I need a drink."
She climbs into the car quickly, followed by Paul.
The decor of the Dresden Room speaks the patois of Old Hollywood. It's what she likes about it. The clientele is strictly young, the cheap drinks and bar food keeps it that way.
Lana selects a booth. Paul follows, not with the puppishness of Clark, but with a man's uncertainty.
The waitress stops at the table. "Vodka martini – dry – three olives." She turns to him. Paul says nothing. "Could you bring us two?"
"Martinis?" asks the waitress.
"Martinis," repeats Lana.
"Both with three olives?"
"Sure. Why not?" Lana says. The waitress disappears.
The martinis arrive. She sips, nibbles on an olive. He tosses the martini back. "Whoa," she cautions, though not sure if caution is really necessary, "You might wanna slow down there, Paul. Have you eaten?"
"Nothing in the fridge."
"True enough." Lana catches the eye of the waitress. "Can we get an order of calamari. The waitress nods, scribbling as she disappears. "And some Tabasco?"
The alcohol burns. He doesn't remember that particular sensation. He doesn't remember drinking. He doesn't remember much at all really, just enough to get him from here to there. His mind feels empty, hollowed out; the alcohol warms and fills him. He stops the waitress, ordering another and finishing it while the woman who bought the shoes is in the bathroom.
She orders another round when she returns.
The calamari and Tabasco arrive as Marty and Elaine begin their set. Paul and Miranda share the calamari. A giggle escapes Miranda as the Elaine launches into a lounge version of "Staying Alive."
Miranda takes Paul's hand, leading him out onto the sidewalk.
She unlocks the passenger door. He climbs in, leaning over the seat to unlock the driver's side. She slides behind the wheel, starting the car. The Toyota pulls into the flow of traffic, disappearing from view.
She stops the car in front of the apartment. "No space. I'll have to park up the street." He starts to open the door, then stops. He turns to her.
She feels and meets his gaze. The air grows thick, weighted by the unspoken.
Lex's voice rises, striking a Jiminy Cricket pose inside her head.
She says nothing.
He says nothing.
She refuses to acknowledge it, the longing she feels, sitting so near a stranger with a familiar face.
Paul leans in. Miranda follows suit.
The kiss is slow and deliberate.
He smells nice.
But not like Clark.
He kisses well.
But not like Clark.
The kiss continues. Unknowing. Exploratory. Unrecognizable but pleasant.
Pleasant yields to a slow build of heat and hunger as his hands caress her face. She leans closer, taking his head in her hands, running her fingers through his hair.
The kisses grow greedy, fevered, plentiful. She bites his lip gently as she pulls away.
Miranda puts the car in gear. She drives up the street, finds a space, parks.
The duo exits the vehicle.
Paul's head hangs low. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Sorry? For what?"
"The..." He tosses his head. The gesture is foreign, but she understands.
"You've got to be kidding." She steps closer, twists his shirt in her hand. "Never, ever apologize for taking what's offered willingly." She pulls him down, close enough to feel that the softness of his lips against hers as she speaks. "Never." She kisses him again, making his space her own.
She doesn't know if she's doing the right thing. The concept annoys her presently. What she's doing feels right. It feels good. Not that she hasn't been with other men since... But there's something about the unfamiliar familiar that makes her want him. Damn the consequences. Selfish, thoughtless behavior. Some would say it's her specialty.
He pours vodka from the freezer and watches the clear liquid pool in her navel. He leans in, lapping first, then sucking the soft contours of her abdomen, tracing circles with his tongue. He breathes slowly, the warmth of his exhalations a stark contrast to the chilliness of the liquid. He leans further, alternately suctioning and licking the small hollow that is her belly button. He lingers here, planting kisses from navel to breast.
The shower runs, water misting on and around them. Paul stands behind her, watching as the water falls and clings to her skin. He takes the plastic bottle in hand, flipping the top, unleashing the subtle, relaxing aroma of plumeria and ginger. He squeezes body wash onto a large sea sponge, and proceeds to draw the sponge down Miranda's back. His touch is delicate and meaningful.
Miranda turns, pressing herself against him as she takes the sponge in one hand and his ass in the other. The sponge traces arm and forearm as her lips find him.
She guides him gently, the spray of water redirected by his height. Thick hair hangs into his eyes, tickles her face as he folds himself toward her.
Morning. She's up and dressed and out the door before he even notices.