**
"Right up here . . . on the left."
He pulls up smoothly in front of my apartment - my mother's apartment now. If she's home there will be a big fight and I don't want Harry to hear the insults she'll hurl right at my head.
"You stay here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I answer with an amount of fake nonchalance. "I can handle everything. You just stay *here*. I'll be right back."
**
Stay here . . . she's been up there for fifteen minutes so either she can't handle everything or her mother is there . . . She wanted me to stay here but I don't think I can leave her up there like that.
She's going to be pissed.
I get out of the car and walk up to the building, and enter the door Dana disappeared into. It's dark and it takes a moment before I can adjust my eyes to see the staircase in front of me. I climb the steps that take me above the dry cleaning business and knock on the door.
It opens to a less than pleased face.
"I knew you'd come up."
"And leave a lady in distress stranded?"
"And follow directions?" she matches.
With a shrug, she walks off and I go to follow, but before I can she's dragging a massive suitcase toward me with her good side. It's set at my feet and she puts her hands on her hips, a sweet look properly positioned for all her suckering-in needs.
"I assume I'm supposed to take that down?"
"And they say you aren't perceptive."
She smiles as she turns and heads back to what I presume is her bedroom. It gives me the opportunity - even if she didn't want to give me it - to take a look around. The living room is before me with overstuffed blue couches that have seen much better days - like I have room to talk. Simple dark wooden tables are positioned on the right of each and a matching coffee table completes it. The pictures are old-fashioned painted views of bridges, but they still don't look horrible on the plain white walls. Among them are pictures of Dana growing up, it doesn't seem there are any more taken after a school picture of her bright face with the words '7th Grade ROCKS' on those ugly 'artistic' backgrounds they stick kids in front of.
I don't go through the doorways beyond me but instead pick up the suitcase off of the brown carpet and take it to the car.
**
The little ballerina is broken on my music box and they lay next to each other on the floor. She was looking for money. I gather up what jewelry I have left, all the gold and most of the silver gone. I place the music box back on the dresser and put the little ballerina inside, gently and along with the memories of the present in sixth grade. When Mom was still Mom and Dad had just left.
I bring a paper bag over to the dresser and start putting in the clothes I couldn't fit into the one suitcase. Some are missing but I don't care, either gone out the window when she was angry or what, I still don't care. The small book of classic quotes gets a place among the cloth and so does the unbroken bottle of perfume I found on the floor. She did find my diary, it's torn and I doubt she even read it because it's piled with other books and I take a couple of the sappy romantic ones and a couple of the sad ones too.
The diary gets a second look and I can't help but worry that Harry or my mother might see it and all the things I wrote about him, during infatuated moments and pissed alike. Thinking well I tear out the pages from the rose- print binding and rip them until I can't anymore. I still try anyway.
"Hey."
I look over to see him in the doorway staring carefully.
"Hey," I say.
"You need any help?"
I look at the room and laugh without an inkling of joy or happiness in it. It's then he notices the messed state it's in, and with my destructive display, he probably thinks I did it.
"No, I don't need any help. In fact, I'm ready."
I put the pieces on the bed and put a bag in his hands. He gave me an encouraging grin before heading to the car and I turn to give my room one last look. It's actually pink and perceptively sweet looking. It looks like my past. I go back and gather up my destroyed diary and take it to the wastebasket. Separate the pieces I tear them up - it takes longer than I'd like but it's worth it.
On the way out, I pick up another bag I stuffed with things and stop just before the door. Next to it on my wall is a slightly dusty picture of me at a fifth grade production of 'Dorothy and the Wizard'. I was a munchkin. It was taken afterwards and my hair is in tiny curls I remember my mother carefully putting in before being swathed in a hideous polka-dot dress. My father is holding me and my mom is leaning on his shoulder, all of us smiles and happiness. Genuinely happy.
Happy behind the cracked glass, I hope my mother didn't hurt herself if she broke it with her fist.
I take it away from its place and put it in my bag. Least one happy memory can be enough.
**
"Home, sweet home!" I announce as we come through the door. I drop a light bag full of clothes and books to the floor before hefting the suitcase up and dropping it onto the couch.
BAM!
We both look at the now broken couch with some measure of silence. Slowly, very slowly, I bring my gaze to Dana who seems not nearly as surprised. The bag she held is now clutched to her chest and her face is holding a look that could only be described as 'Oops'.
"Did I forget to explain about the couch?"
"Yes, yes, you did."
"Okay, would you like that explanation now?"
"I think I would."
"Well, I tried to fix it."
"You broke it."
"No, fix it. But, um, when I pulled out the spring I noticed that it sagged there a little and I . . ."
"And you what?"
"Decided to put a piece of wood there so it wouldn't. You know, sag."
"Keep going."
"I got the wood, scrap wood from the garbage bin beside the building. They had this big wooden box so I hit it a couple times and it broke up. I brought it back up and found some nails where I had found the hammer and I went and ripped up the covering thing a little so I could get it in place and I did. That's when I put that nail right there," she says nodding to the couch. "And BANG. And then there was a crack."
"Crack?"
"A loud wood-breaking kind of crack."
"Oh."
"Yeah, so I put the cushion back and thought I'd explain later and, um, now it's later."
I looked at the couch and then her. "I guess we'll have to make a new one."
" . . . Make?"
**
"That isn't a couch," I tell him with a laugh.
"It was a couch in college and it's a couch now," he states as he puts the old couch pillows over five plastic crates. The real sofa is behind the ridiculous 'furniture'.
"You must have been thoroughly drunk through-out college."
"Pretty much," he says as he carefully climbs on the structure and precariously lies down. "See? Works."
I laugh at the sight of him. "That's horrible!"
"It isn't the Queen of England's throne, but it isn't bad," he protests.
"Then you sleep on it."
"I didn't say I was sleeping on it."
"I'm not. Shoulder," I protest, rubbing it with a pout. His face changes and I can tell I shouldn't have said that. He doesn't want to joke about that.
He's sitting up and coming over to me. And when he's looking down on me, his hand slides up my arm. I try and joke, try to cover the stirring the touch creates and how it's like he touched me more intimately, more . . .
"I was kidding, but its, its fine. My shoulder's fine."
His hand slides up my arm and turns in slightly to seek my shoulder, inadvertently brushing against my breast on the way. I don't know if he meant that but it - No, of course he didn't mean to. But it felt so . . .
"I'm glad it's fine," he says caressing it through the cotton.
" . . . Me too."
So intense, his eyes are so intense as they stare down and now he's moving closer, filling the gap between us as his lips move closer.
He's going to kiss me.
No.
"No." I jerk away and stare at him; my heart is beating a mile a minute before I try to cover. "No way am I sleeping on that. Are you thirsty? I'm thirsty. I'll be right back."
**
I'm a fucking moron. I almost kissed her, as if she'd want to be touched after what she went through last night. Like I should be the one touching her.
I grab my keys from the table and head for the door, don't look back, and don't be stupid.
"I'm going," I yell.
"Wait," she calls running back from the kitchen. She stops like she doesn't know what to say.
I can relate.
I nod a good-bye in the quiet of the room before I open the door and leave.
"Right up here . . . on the left."
He pulls up smoothly in front of my apartment - my mother's apartment now. If she's home there will be a big fight and I don't want Harry to hear the insults she'll hurl right at my head.
"You stay here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I answer with an amount of fake nonchalance. "I can handle everything. You just stay *here*. I'll be right back."
**
Stay here . . . she's been up there for fifteen minutes so either she can't handle everything or her mother is there . . . She wanted me to stay here but I don't think I can leave her up there like that.
She's going to be pissed.
I get out of the car and walk up to the building, and enter the door Dana disappeared into. It's dark and it takes a moment before I can adjust my eyes to see the staircase in front of me. I climb the steps that take me above the dry cleaning business and knock on the door.
It opens to a less than pleased face.
"I knew you'd come up."
"And leave a lady in distress stranded?"
"And follow directions?" she matches.
With a shrug, she walks off and I go to follow, but before I can she's dragging a massive suitcase toward me with her good side. It's set at my feet and she puts her hands on her hips, a sweet look properly positioned for all her suckering-in needs.
"I assume I'm supposed to take that down?"
"And they say you aren't perceptive."
She smiles as she turns and heads back to what I presume is her bedroom. It gives me the opportunity - even if she didn't want to give me it - to take a look around. The living room is before me with overstuffed blue couches that have seen much better days - like I have room to talk. Simple dark wooden tables are positioned on the right of each and a matching coffee table completes it. The pictures are old-fashioned painted views of bridges, but they still don't look horrible on the plain white walls. Among them are pictures of Dana growing up, it doesn't seem there are any more taken after a school picture of her bright face with the words '7th Grade ROCKS' on those ugly 'artistic' backgrounds they stick kids in front of.
I don't go through the doorways beyond me but instead pick up the suitcase off of the brown carpet and take it to the car.
**
The little ballerina is broken on my music box and they lay next to each other on the floor. She was looking for money. I gather up what jewelry I have left, all the gold and most of the silver gone. I place the music box back on the dresser and put the little ballerina inside, gently and along with the memories of the present in sixth grade. When Mom was still Mom and Dad had just left.
I bring a paper bag over to the dresser and start putting in the clothes I couldn't fit into the one suitcase. Some are missing but I don't care, either gone out the window when she was angry or what, I still don't care. The small book of classic quotes gets a place among the cloth and so does the unbroken bottle of perfume I found on the floor. She did find my diary, it's torn and I doubt she even read it because it's piled with other books and I take a couple of the sappy romantic ones and a couple of the sad ones too.
The diary gets a second look and I can't help but worry that Harry or my mother might see it and all the things I wrote about him, during infatuated moments and pissed alike. Thinking well I tear out the pages from the rose- print binding and rip them until I can't anymore. I still try anyway.
"Hey."
I look over to see him in the doorway staring carefully.
"Hey," I say.
"You need any help?"
I look at the room and laugh without an inkling of joy or happiness in it. It's then he notices the messed state it's in, and with my destructive display, he probably thinks I did it.
"No, I don't need any help. In fact, I'm ready."
I put the pieces on the bed and put a bag in his hands. He gave me an encouraging grin before heading to the car and I turn to give my room one last look. It's actually pink and perceptively sweet looking. It looks like my past. I go back and gather up my destroyed diary and take it to the wastebasket. Separate the pieces I tear them up - it takes longer than I'd like but it's worth it.
On the way out, I pick up another bag I stuffed with things and stop just before the door. Next to it on my wall is a slightly dusty picture of me at a fifth grade production of 'Dorothy and the Wizard'. I was a munchkin. It was taken afterwards and my hair is in tiny curls I remember my mother carefully putting in before being swathed in a hideous polka-dot dress. My father is holding me and my mom is leaning on his shoulder, all of us smiles and happiness. Genuinely happy.
Happy behind the cracked glass, I hope my mother didn't hurt herself if she broke it with her fist.
I take it away from its place and put it in my bag. Least one happy memory can be enough.
**
"Home, sweet home!" I announce as we come through the door. I drop a light bag full of clothes and books to the floor before hefting the suitcase up and dropping it onto the couch.
BAM!
We both look at the now broken couch with some measure of silence. Slowly, very slowly, I bring my gaze to Dana who seems not nearly as surprised. The bag she held is now clutched to her chest and her face is holding a look that could only be described as 'Oops'.
"Did I forget to explain about the couch?"
"Yes, yes, you did."
"Okay, would you like that explanation now?"
"I think I would."
"Well, I tried to fix it."
"You broke it."
"No, fix it. But, um, when I pulled out the spring I noticed that it sagged there a little and I . . ."
"And you what?"
"Decided to put a piece of wood there so it wouldn't. You know, sag."
"Keep going."
"I got the wood, scrap wood from the garbage bin beside the building. They had this big wooden box so I hit it a couple times and it broke up. I brought it back up and found some nails where I had found the hammer and I went and ripped up the covering thing a little so I could get it in place and I did. That's when I put that nail right there," she says nodding to the couch. "And BANG. And then there was a crack."
"Crack?"
"A loud wood-breaking kind of crack."
"Oh."
"Yeah, so I put the cushion back and thought I'd explain later and, um, now it's later."
I looked at the couch and then her. "I guess we'll have to make a new one."
" . . . Make?"
**
"That isn't a couch," I tell him with a laugh.
"It was a couch in college and it's a couch now," he states as he puts the old couch pillows over five plastic crates. The real sofa is behind the ridiculous 'furniture'.
"You must have been thoroughly drunk through-out college."
"Pretty much," he says as he carefully climbs on the structure and precariously lies down. "See? Works."
I laugh at the sight of him. "That's horrible!"
"It isn't the Queen of England's throne, but it isn't bad," he protests.
"Then you sleep on it."
"I didn't say I was sleeping on it."
"I'm not. Shoulder," I protest, rubbing it with a pout. His face changes and I can tell I shouldn't have said that. He doesn't want to joke about that.
He's sitting up and coming over to me. And when he's looking down on me, his hand slides up my arm. I try and joke, try to cover the stirring the touch creates and how it's like he touched me more intimately, more . . .
"I was kidding, but its, its fine. My shoulder's fine."
His hand slides up my arm and turns in slightly to seek my shoulder, inadvertently brushing against my breast on the way. I don't know if he meant that but it - No, of course he didn't mean to. But it felt so . . .
"I'm glad it's fine," he says caressing it through the cotton.
" . . . Me too."
So intense, his eyes are so intense as they stare down and now he's moving closer, filling the gap between us as his lips move closer.
He's going to kiss me.
No.
"No." I jerk away and stare at him; my heart is beating a mile a minute before I try to cover. "No way am I sleeping on that. Are you thirsty? I'm thirsty. I'll be right back."
**
I'm a fucking moron. I almost kissed her, as if she'd want to be touched after what she went through last night. Like I should be the one touching her.
I grab my keys from the table and head for the door, don't look back, and don't be stupid.
"I'm going," I yell.
"Wait," she calls running back from the kitchen. She stops like she doesn't know what to say.
I can relate.
I nod a good-bye in the quiet of the room before I open the door and leave.
