Deliver Us To Temptation
Chapter 1: Boxes
Michael Vaughn stands before his nearly empty closet. As he glances around the room, the fact that he will no longer be located in Los Angeles finally starts to register. Boxes are strategically located at arm's length from closets and drawers; boxes that hold his clothing, decorative objects he doesn't remember buying, and his endless papers.
The last few days have been spent locked in the house, stuffing opened cardboard cubes with his possesions. Sunlight is shining through the windows of his bedroom, which is slowly becoming bigger than Michael ever remembered it being before. Sick of pretending to neatly place his suits in a box, he leaves the room that will no longer be his. The room that forces him to remember everything from the Joey's Pizza calls to the bodies entertwined on the bed.
He goes to the kitchen, knowing only a few memories lie there. All of the drawers are closed, but he knows they are full. Finally, a job that doesn't require any thinking. The first few junk drawers go by quickly. He gets into a routine by the third: pull it out, dump everything into the box in front of him, stick it back in its hole, next. The fourth drawer contains silverware. His mother is what comes to mind as he is about to flip it over; he places it on the counter instead. The fifth is once again full of odds and ends—thank god. Back to the routine.
He passes the stove and is almost at the refrigerator when he stops. Something metal and shiny just fell into the box; something distinctly key-shaped. Michael doesn't remember putting any sort of spare key in a drawer—but then again, who does? He kneels so he can dig into the box and finds it. He holds it up and it catches the rays coming through the skylight.
Suddenly, he remembers.
Michael pockets the key, wondering for only a fleeting moment what he's going to do with it. A receipt sitting perfectly on the top of the pile in the box jars his train of thought. He picks it up and reads it, realizing what it's for: that antique picture frame he bought so many years ago, with only one person in mind as he handed over the cash to the vendor.
He crumples it in his fist and throws it back in the box, too lazy to get up and find a wastebasket. At the top of the pile now is another receipt, this one for a dinner. In France. He shakes the box, shaking his mind with it. A sheet of paper flies out as he moves the cardboard pensieve. It's a reservation confirmation from the Bellagio of Las Vegas.
Complete darkness, her lips, his hands...
"What the fuck is this—the Sydney drawer?" Just saying the name makes him shiver. He stands and kicks the box away, watching it slide to a stop just before hitting the dining table.
"Something wrong?" Michael turns around and sees Eric Weiss in the doorway of the kitchen. He glances at the stove and looks back at his friend. "No," he replies, "just remembering something."
"Oh." Eric stands still, surely wondering if he should walk away like nothing happened or as what Michael was remembering.
Michael speaks quickly. "Listen, I'm just heading out to McDonald's for some burgers." He walks past Eric.
"Great, get some for me and Craig."
"Oh yeah," he recalls, stopping and facing Eric once more. "Could you guys bring the table to the front room? I forgot about it yesterday."
"Sure, man. We'll start moving some of the boxes to the front room, too."
"Good." He looks away and starts walking again. "Good." He can feel Eric watching quizzically as he fingers the key in his pocket.
Chapter 1: Boxes
Michael Vaughn stands before his nearly empty closet. As he glances around the room, the fact that he will no longer be located in Los Angeles finally starts to register. Boxes are strategically located at arm's length from closets and drawers; boxes that hold his clothing, decorative objects he doesn't remember buying, and his endless papers.
The last few days have been spent locked in the house, stuffing opened cardboard cubes with his possesions. Sunlight is shining through the windows of his bedroom, which is slowly becoming bigger than Michael ever remembered it being before. Sick of pretending to neatly place his suits in a box, he leaves the room that will no longer be his. The room that forces him to remember everything from the Joey's Pizza calls to the bodies entertwined on the bed.
He goes to the kitchen, knowing only a few memories lie there. All of the drawers are closed, but he knows they are full. Finally, a job that doesn't require any thinking. The first few junk drawers go by quickly. He gets into a routine by the third: pull it out, dump everything into the box in front of him, stick it back in its hole, next. The fourth drawer contains silverware. His mother is what comes to mind as he is about to flip it over; he places it on the counter instead. The fifth is once again full of odds and ends—thank god. Back to the routine.
He passes the stove and is almost at the refrigerator when he stops. Something metal and shiny just fell into the box; something distinctly key-shaped. Michael doesn't remember putting any sort of spare key in a drawer—but then again, who does? He kneels so he can dig into the box and finds it. He holds it up and it catches the rays coming through the skylight.
Suddenly, he remembers.
Michael pockets the key, wondering for only a fleeting moment what he's going to do with it. A receipt sitting perfectly on the top of the pile in the box jars his train of thought. He picks it up and reads it, realizing what it's for: that antique picture frame he bought so many years ago, with only one person in mind as he handed over the cash to the vendor.
He crumples it in his fist and throws it back in the box, too lazy to get up and find a wastebasket. At the top of the pile now is another receipt, this one for a dinner. In France. He shakes the box, shaking his mind with it. A sheet of paper flies out as he moves the cardboard pensieve. It's a reservation confirmation from the Bellagio of Las Vegas.
Complete darkness, her lips, his hands...
"What the fuck is this—the Sydney drawer?" Just saying the name makes him shiver. He stands and kicks the box away, watching it slide to a stop just before hitting the dining table.
"Something wrong?" Michael turns around and sees Eric Weiss in the doorway of the kitchen. He glances at the stove and looks back at his friend. "No," he replies, "just remembering something."
"Oh." Eric stands still, surely wondering if he should walk away like nothing happened or as what Michael was remembering.
Michael speaks quickly. "Listen, I'm just heading out to McDonald's for some burgers." He walks past Eric.
"Great, get some for me and Craig."
"Oh yeah," he recalls, stopping and facing Eric once more. "Could you guys bring the table to the front room? I forgot about it yesterday."
"Sure, man. We'll start moving some of the boxes to the front room, too."
"Good." He looks away and starts walking again. "Good." He can feel Eric watching quizzically as he fingers the key in his pocket.
