Finally, the move to the new apartment is complete. Plus the sun's come out!

If I may preface this with a brief comment: I'm currently rereading The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King. I've come to understand that I owe a great debt of gratitude to that man, for blurring the lines between poetry and prose. daf9 and RivErStaR have knighted me with the compliment of "a real talent for description." I owe it all to Mr. King.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Ten: We're Onto Your Same Old Trick

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Suddenly, everything had gotten irrationally boring. Bobby Goren was actually yawning in the car on the way to pick up Arnold Bettis for questioning, and his partner was practically asleep in her seat. Eames leaned her head against the window, so much so she thought it would give, and watched her eyelashes as her eyelids rose and fell with her struggle to remain awake.

"…This'll be over soon, I think…It all seems fairly…it seems solid at this point."

Eames jerked her head up and yawned. "No assumptions, Bobby."

"…Right," he answered with a small laugh.

A long silence drifted between them. Bobby would occasionally venture to glance at his partner, who was still fighting for a reason to stay awake, but beyond that his eyes remained on the road three seconds ahead of him. That is not to say, however, that the road was his primary concentration; he knew his exits, the pavement was smooth. He very systematically let his mind drift. It didn't get very far.

Beautiful boy,

no applicable power,

child of intellect.

Prodigal and sly, revelling in answerless dilemmas,

more fascinated by knots in wood.

You are a canker to mankind.

You are a shame, a waste, a snake.

Let's pretend that you and I are lovers.

Will you kiss my mouth? Or is that too obvious?

You will trace a trail around my breasts

with your extravagant hands.

You are well kept, honed, talented, glittering.

You will kiss my knees perhaps expecting me to shout to heaven,

never knowing

that you are not the only machine in this room.

Another Clare poem. Another Clare opus. Another Clare opus, the second of twelve, about Sam Bruyard. Bobby kept hoping that the poetry would help him help the case, but it never did. In fact, it only served to keep the worn-out detective cripplingly attached to the poor girl. Now, however, Bobby thought harder, splitting his thoughts between the road and poetry. The road was straighter now, and more idyllic. There were no exurbs, no pedestrians or stoplights, so his thoughts were free to wander within their confines. He thought back to some poems of Clare's that didn't quite fit her usual intense, fiercely sad nature. He could only remember it in snatches – he had regarded it only briefly while flipping through "the box" just the day before – but he knew for certain that it was a love poem.

So maybe there's not something wrong after all,

Not outside that place,

That place where you freed me.

* * *

There are not enough words, I say,

Not enough words in the language
To say the things that language was made to say.

It is the fault of language and it is the fault of blood

And it is the fault of all those forces over which we exert no force.

It is the fault of time that no one can keep your hours,

And no one can keep your hours.

* * *

We were two green ambassadors of a fledgling generation.

And that is the end of the story.

She had clearly loved Adam. Adam had been to her, as Goren had read somewhere else in here oeuvre, "like a fox through a forest / like one light in a city of lights." But it had only been in her later poems that this had shown itself.

When Clare loved, Goren decided, it was completely and without doubt. Her love was, apparently, also above physical contact. Goren felt sad, then as this brought about thoughts of his own experiences: sex without joy, mirthless, angry physicality. That is…was…what Clare and Sam had. It was ugly, yes, but it had its purpose. Goren's mouth set itself as he thought. There are parts of ourselves, he resolved, that we simply cannot show to the people we really love. When one keeps secrets, the last thing one wants to be is naked.

"Keep it doooown," Eames groaned, her head still against the window. Her lack of decent sleep was catching up with her in the form of unconstitutional boredom, and the silence in the car was oppressive.

Bobby furrowed his brow. "…I…wasn't saying…anything."

"I can hear the gears in you head clicking away. If you going to think, just…no, actually, don't think. Just stop it. Stop doing that thing you do with your brain."

Goren almost pulled a muscle trying not to laugh. His partner seemed serious enough, so he decided not to push his luck.

"…Sorry…We're almost there anyway."

Eames lifted her head from the window, trying to remember exactly where it was they were going. To her, this case seemed like a series of hops and jumps from stones of misery to misery to greater misery; feeling particularly poetic, she thought she would just as soon fall into the river. No matter what came next, Eames knew she wasn't looking forward to it. For the briefest flickering second, she thought maybe it really would be the end of it; this case really would be as simple as it seemed. It'd had its cinematic twists, its routine deceptions and irritations and apprehensions, but now they would be able to swagger in, spout a scripted quip, and book 'im.

"…but I can only hope it'll be as simple as that."

Oh, shit. Goren had been talking for God know how long.

"I'm sorry," Eames grogged. "I haven't heard a damn word."

Her partner let out a small laugh. "…That's fine. You look tired. I was just hoping that this case'll…end right now. It'll be…cleaner that way…" He trailed off.

Eames rubbed her eyes, simultaneously reawakening herself and steeling up for the approaching meeting.

"Bobby," she sighed heavily, "if you have one of your theories, please, please, please keep it to your god damned self! I don't care if this man is obsessive compulsive or erotomaniacal or has fucking syphilis and that's why he did what we think he did. If he did it, he did. If he didn't…we're on to the next. Could we keep it that simple?"

Goren smiled thoughtfully. "…What if I'm right?"

"Well, then you can…beat me with a baseball bat. Until then, though, let's keep it professional. No lying, no evidence tampering. I'm getting tired of that crap. It gets the job done, but it does it wrong."

"There were…so many grammatical problems with that sentence, Alex."

"Shut up!" She almost stopped her laugh, but decided against it.

"…Professional…I can pull that off, I think…"

"Good deal. We're here."

A quick image flashed before Eames' eyes, a picture she had seen in a magazine she had flipped through at the Supersaver a few weeks ago: a woman pushing a man down with her foot and flexing her arms like a muscleman. IT'S THAT SIMPLE!, the article's headline had proclaimed, with the subtitle, How To Keep That Guy Hot For You Forever. Eames had laughed derisively when she had seen it, but now that was how she hoped this confrontation would end: for once with her on top.