Part Five
It's amazing how draining your emotions can be. As I drive through the small streets of Roswell, I feel like my stomach has retracted into my backbone. Of course, I don't remember the last time I could stomach a good meal, which is probably why I feel so tired and spent.
But oddly I'm not unhappy. I feel unhealthy physically, but some of the cloud that was following me has blown away. Mentally, I feel a little better, like recovery isn't such an unachievable task. I know I have one person to thank for that.
I pass the Crashdown and don't even turn my head to look at it. There's nothing of interest in there for me anymore. Instead, I look at the UFO Center and slow down when I spot Milton unloading more boxes of information for his "files" from the trunk of his car. I tap the horn and it gives a weak 'meep', causing the aging man to look up. His smile is genuine and I know he'd wave if he had a free hand. I wave for him, then continue down Roswell's main drag. I make a mental note to stop in and see him. Quirky as he was, I always liked Milton.
I pull the Explorer to a stop in front of Maria's shop and cut the engine. The midmorning sun is hitting the windows and I can't see inside; but the "open" sign is on the door, so I assume she is there. She has no other employees.
I find her perched on her stool behind the counter, a letter in her slim fingers. There's an amused smile on her face as she flips the paper over and continues to read. I lean my elbows on the glass of the counter.
"What are you reading?" I ask softly so as not to startle her.
She glances up and smiles a little wider. "I got a letter from Kyle."
"Really?"
She nods. "Yeah, he's in Venezuela now."
I laugh. A few weeks ago she thought he was in California, and somehow in the time that has passed he has ventured way south of the border. "What's he doing in Venezuela?"
"Getting tan, apparently." She passes me a picture of Kyle and one of the locals and he is indeed quite bronze. I haven't seen him since I left Roswell and I'm struck at once how much he looks like a younger, tanner replica of his father.
"You're not kidding," I say to Maria, my eyes drifting to the pretty Venezuelan girl with Kyle.
She folds the letter along its preformed creases and starts to put it back into the envelope. She stops mid-motion and gestures toward me with it. "Did you want to read this?"
I shake my head and give her the picture.
"He wouldn't mind," she offers a second time.
"No," I say, smiling at her. "It's yours."
She nods and pushes the letter all the way into the envelope, follows it with the picture.
I look down at my nails, pick at one of my cuticles. "Look, Maria, I just wanted." Why is it so hard to speak words of thanks when that is really what you feel inside? Or is the thanks part not what is hard, but the admission of your true emotions? I meet her gaze and she looks very patient, her green eyes searching mine. "I wanted to thank you," I finally say. "For the other night."
She waves a hand. "It was nothing, dude."
I don't want her to make light of it, to brush it away to ease my discomfort. "Yes, it was. I meant everything to me."
She's serious again. "You'd do the same for me."
I bit my lip and give a little shake of my head. "Just let me thank you, okay?"
Her lips spread into a smile. "Okay."
"I was feeling pretty alone," I continue, looking back to my fingernails. No one likes to admit they're lonely. "And then you were there. And you didn't judge my feelings or tell me you told me so. You just let me hurt and you were there for me." I have to look at her when I say this. "So, thank you, Maria."
Her smile is genuine. "You're welcome, Max."
I grin back, then stand up straight. "Cool. So, let me take you to lunch."
"That's not necessary."
"I know, but I want to."
"It's too early for lunch," she points out.
I glance at the clock, then my shoulders sag. She's right. "I don't have anything else to do," I admit.
She studies me for a moment, then leans across the counter in a conspiratorial way. "What are you going to do, Max?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, like a job? Or go back to school? Or were you planning on crashing on Isabel's couch for the rest of your life?"
She's got a point there. Iz got Michael a job cooking at the hospital - those patients will think all of the rumors about hospital food being inedible are an urban legend of some kind because he's a terrific chef. So, I guess he's staying for awhile. Me, I'm not so sure.
"I don't know," I confess to Maria. "I don't even know if I'm going to stay here."
She looks taken aback, but her mask of non-reaction quickly covers her emotions and I'm not sure if I saw that initial reaction or not. "Where would you go?"
I shrug. "I'm not sure. There are plenty of places I've never been that I'd like to see." I glance at the letter on the counter. "Maybe even Venezuela."
She laughs lightly. "Are you planning on leaving immediately?"
I shake my head.
"Then why not work here?"
I glance at my surroundings. What would all of those aliens I sent to their graves think if they knew that after I killed them I ended up selling perfume?
My expression must reveal all of my thoughts because Maria suddenly howls with laughter. I look at her, startled.
"I know what you're thinking," she laughs. "It's not as foofy as it seems, Max. There's a real art to aromatherapies and herbal supplements. It's not at all girlie."
I laugh in embarrassment.
"Come on," she says, half whining. "Have you had any better offers?"
I haven't. So I become Maria's stock boy and counter-watcher when she needs to do things, business-related and otherwise.
Life falls into a routine. I sleep on Isabel's couch, I work at the store, I enjoy my boss's company. Occasionally, I eat dinner with Isabel or Michael or both. My thoughts turn to Liz less and less, my dreams hardly ever. And I am thankful for that.
One morning the closing of the bathroom door awakens me and I crack my eyes open long enough to see Michael emerge, a towel tied around his waist. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but the door opens again and this time I see Isabel, wet from the shower and wearing her white robe. I don't know if I drifted off or not and I didn't think to look at the clock when Michael came out, so I get the impression that they were in the shower together, although I can't confirm that.
I don't want to think about it. I love Isabel. I love Michael. I just don't want to think of them loving one another.
Another day at the store. You would think I would be bored with this job, but I'm not. I actually look forward to delivery day - it's like Christmas. There are a dozen boxes from UPS in the storeroom, all begging me to open them and reveal their contents. I go about cutting open the boxes with a razor as Maria rearranges things on the shelves in the storefront.
I'm squatting on the floor looking into a small, oddly-shaped box when she comes into the stockroom. She stands for a few moments with her hands on her hips, her eyes surveying the surplus supplies on the shelves. Then she steps back and looks all of the way up toward the ceiling. It never fails that the thing you want is just out of your reach.
I watch her struggle for a few moments, standing on her tiptoes, her calf muscles straining in an oddly provocative way. When she her fingers graze the jar of cotton balls used for sampling cosmetics that she is trying to get and pushes it even farther out of her reach, she swears softly to herself. I snicker quietly and get up to help her.
Standing behind her, I reach up, my arm just outside of hers. "Let me help you," I offer.
I struggle to reach the jar and as I do so, I lean forward into her back, accidentally pushing her into the shelves. Our fingers meet briefly as I pass hers, reaching for the bottle. And that's when I feel something strange in my body, some sort of awakening. The whole world stops.
Though she is not breathing loudly or heavily, I can hear every wisp of air as it escapes her lungs. I look down at her hair, golden, as the sweet aroma of her shampoo drifts to my nose. I swallow hard, realizing all I want to do is bury my face against her neck, kiss her there on that sweet spot.
Her head turns slightly toward me and I can see something uncertain in her eyes. It's no wonder why - I'm pressed against the whole length of her, my weight trapping her against the shelves. But she hasn't tried to get away. And neither have I.
My stomach does a little flip and I feel my heart start to beat a little quicker. It almost scares me. Maria has never solicited such a response from me. Maybe it's because I've been alone for so long.
Suddenly she wriggles against me, twisting around so that she is facing me. Her green eyes are wide and intense, her chest starting to rise and fall a little faster because of our proximity. I can't help but look at it, at the curve of her breasts just visible along the neckline of her light, soft shirt. Then I look to her lips, full, parted slightly and I almost cringe with the ache of wanting to taste them.
"Max." her voice is soft, barely there, as it comes out in a gasp.
I don't know what to do. I know what I want to do, but that isn't necessarily the right thing. I'm rebounding still. This isn't fair to her. I can't hurt her - she's been too good of a friend to me.
So I wrap my fingers around the jar and hand it to her as I back away. "Here are your cotton balls."
The hurt and rejection is so apparent in her eyes that I immediately feel like the world's largest asshole. Amazing how easily you can achieve exactly what you set out not to do.
It's amazing how draining your emotions can be. As I drive through the small streets of Roswell, I feel like my stomach has retracted into my backbone. Of course, I don't remember the last time I could stomach a good meal, which is probably why I feel so tired and spent.
But oddly I'm not unhappy. I feel unhealthy physically, but some of the cloud that was following me has blown away. Mentally, I feel a little better, like recovery isn't such an unachievable task. I know I have one person to thank for that.
I pass the Crashdown and don't even turn my head to look at it. There's nothing of interest in there for me anymore. Instead, I look at the UFO Center and slow down when I spot Milton unloading more boxes of information for his "files" from the trunk of his car. I tap the horn and it gives a weak 'meep', causing the aging man to look up. His smile is genuine and I know he'd wave if he had a free hand. I wave for him, then continue down Roswell's main drag. I make a mental note to stop in and see him. Quirky as he was, I always liked Milton.
I pull the Explorer to a stop in front of Maria's shop and cut the engine. The midmorning sun is hitting the windows and I can't see inside; but the "open" sign is on the door, so I assume she is there. She has no other employees.
I find her perched on her stool behind the counter, a letter in her slim fingers. There's an amused smile on her face as she flips the paper over and continues to read. I lean my elbows on the glass of the counter.
"What are you reading?" I ask softly so as not to startle her.
She glances up and smiles a little wider. "I got a letter from Kyle."
"Really?"
She nods. "Yeah, he's in Venezuela now."
I laugh. A few weeks ago she thought he was in California, and somehow in the time that has passed he has ventured way south of the border. "What's he doing in Venezuela?"
"Getting tan, apparently." She passes me a picture of Kyle and one of the locals and he is indeed quite bronze. I haven't seen him since I left Roswell and I'm struck at once how much he looks like a younger, tanner replica of his father.
"You're not kidding," I say to Maria, my eyes drifting to the pretty Venezuelan girl with Kyle.
She folds the letter along its preformed creases and starts to put it back into the envelope. She stops mid-motion and gestures toward me with it. "Did you want to read this?"
I shake my head and give her the picture.
"He wouldn't mind," she offers a second time.
"No," I say, smiling at her. "It's yours."
She nods and pushes the letter all the way into the envelope, follows it with the picture.
I look down at my nails, pick at one of my cuticles. "Look, Maria, I just wanted." Why is it so hard to speak words of thanks when that is really what you feel inside? Or is the thanks part not what is hard, but the admission of your true emotions? I meet her gaze and she looks very patient, her green eyes searching mine. "I wanted to thank you," I finally say. "For the other night."
She waves a hand. "It was nothing, dude."
I don't want her to make light of it, to brush it away to ease my discomfort. "Yes, it was. I meant everything to me."
She's serious again. "You'd do the same for me."
I bit my lip and give a little shake of my head. "Just let me thank you, okay?"
Her lips spread into a smile. "Okay."
"I was feeling pretty alone," I continue, looking back to my fingernails. No one likes to admit they're lonely. "And then you were there. And you didn't judge my feelings or tell me you told me so. You just let me hurt and you were there for me." I have to look at her when I say this. "So, thank you, Maria."
Her smile is genuine. "You're welcome, Max."
I grin back, then stand up straight. "Cool. So, let me take you to lunch."
"That's not necessary."
"I know, but I want to."
"It's too early for lunch," she points out.
I glance at the clock, then my shoulders sag. She's right. "I don't have anything else to do," I admit.
She studies me for a moment, then leans across the counter in a conspiratorial way. "What are you going to do, Max?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, like a job? Or go back to school? Or were you planning on crashing on Isabel's couch for the rest of your life?"
She's got a point there. Iz got Michael a job cooking at the hospital - those patients will think all of the rumors about hospital food being inedible are an urban legend of some kind because he's a terrific chef. So, I guess he's staying for awhile. Me, I'm not so sure.
"I don't know," I confess to Maria. "I don't even know if I'm going to stay here."
She looks taken aback, but her mask of non-reaction quickly covers her emotions and I'm not sure if I saw that initial reaction or not. "Where would you go?"
I shrug. "I'm not sure. There are plenty of places I've never been that I'd like to see." I glance at the letter on the counter. "Maybe even Venezuela."
She laughs lightly. "Are you planning on leaving immediately?"
I shake my head.
"Then why not work here?"
I glance at my surroundings. What would all of those aliens I sent to their graves think if they knew that after I killed them I ended up selling perfume?
My expression must reveal all of my thoughts because Maria suddenly howls with laughter. I look at her, startled.
"I know what you're thinking," she laughs. "It's not as foofy as it seems, Max. There's a real art to aromatherapies and herbal supplements. It's not at all girlie."
I laugh in embarrassment.
"Come on," she says, half whining. "Have you had any better offers?"
I haven't. So I become Maria's stock boy and counter-watcher when she needs to do things, business-related and otherwise.
Life falls into a routine. I sleep on Isabel's couch, I work at the store, I enjoy my boss's company. Occasionally, I eat dinner with Isabel or Michael or both. My thoughts turn to Liz less and less, my dreams hardly ever. And I am thankful for that.
One morning the closing of the bathroom door awakens me and I crack my eyes open long enough to see Michael emerge, a towel tied around his waist. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but the door opens again and this time I see Isabel, wet from the shower and wearing her white robe. I don't know if I drifted off or not and I didn't think to look at the clock when Michael came out, so I get the impression that they were in the shower together, although I can't confirm that.
I don't want to think about it. I love Isabel. I love Michael. I just don't want to think of them loving one another.
Another day at the store. You would think I would be bored with this job, but I'm not. I actually look forward to delivery day - it's like Christmas. There are a dozen boxes from UPS in the storeroom, all begging me to open them and reveal their contents. I go about cutting open the boxes with a razor as Maria rearranges things on the shelves in the storefront.
I'm squatting on the floor looking into a small, oddly-shaped box when she comes into the stockroom. She stands for a few moments with her hands on her hips, her eyes surveying the surplus supplies on the shelves. Then she steps back and looks all of the way up toward the ceiling. It never fails that the thing you want is just out of your reach.
I watch her struggle for a few moments, standing on her tiptoes, her calf muscles straining in an oddly provocative way. When she her fingers graze the jar of cotton balls used for sampling cosmetics that she is trying to get and pushes it even farther out of her reach, she swears softly to herself. I snicker quietly and get up to help her.
Standing behind her, I reach up, my arm just outside of hers. "Let me help you," I offer.
I struggle to reach the jar and as I do so, I lean forward into her back, accidentally pushing her into the shelves. Our fingers meet briefly as I pass hers, reaching for the bottle. And that's when I feel something strange in my body, some sort of awakening. The whole world stops.
Though she is not breathing loudly or heavily, I can hear every wisp of air as it escapes her lungs. I look down at her hair, golden, as the sweet aroma of her shampoo drifts to my nose. I swallow hard, realizing all I want to do is bury my face against her neck, kiss her there on that sweet spot.
Her head turns slightly toward me and I can see something uncertain in her eyes. It's no wonder why - I'm pressed against the whole length of her, my weight trapping her against the shelves. But she hasn't tried to get away. And neither have I.
My stomach does a little flip and I feel my heart start to beat a little quicker. It almost scares me. Maria has never solicited such a response from me. Maybe it's because I've been alone for so long.
Suddenly she wriggles against me, twisting around so that she is facing me. Her green eyes are wide and intense, her chest starting to rise and fall a little faster because of our proximity. I can't help but look at it, at the curve of her breasts just visible along the neckline of her light, soft shirt. Then I look to her lips, full, parted slightly and I almost cringe with the ache of wanting to taste them.
"Max." her voice is soft, barely there, as it comes out in a gasp.
I don't know what to do. I know what I want to do, but that isn't necessarily the right thing. I'm rebounding still. This isn't fair to her. I can't hurt her - she's been too good of a friend to me.
So I wrap my fingers around the jar and hand it to her as I back away. "Here are your cotton balls."
The hurt and rejection is so apparent in her eyes that I immediately feel like the world's largest asshole. Amazing how easily you can achieve exactly what you set out not to do.