Learning To Fall
By Allison E.L. Cleckler
The weeks passed and the two roommates settled into what was, for Morris at least, a comfortable relationship. Allison did her best to ignore him and he took great delight in pushing her buttons, learning which ones would really make her fly into a temper. (Her crush on Dr. Stewart was a particularly volatile topic.) Often they would end up arguing for an hour at a time, shooting barbs back and forth over even the most inane subjects—goading Allison over a beer became Morris's favorite way of unwinding after a long shift. He found her habit of sniping viciously at him with the littlest provocation to be vastly entertaining.
He doubted she enjoyed the verbal sparring half as much as he did, though, if she enjoyed it at all. His insults, for the most part, were all generally meant in good fun; hers, on the other hand, seemed to be very much genuine. After their first meeting she had never again even halfway smiled at him, and she didn't even bother hiding her derision towards him. To her, he seemed to be an annoyance she had no choice but to put up with.
Morris hadn't really expected her to like him anyway. He liked her, despite the way she treated him. She was pretty, and smart, with a vocabulary like a dictionary; she reminded him of Neela Rasgotra in that respect. She seemed to have a good head on her shoulders and she could take care of herself. But he supposed what he thought didn't matter and never would. She was just another small failure in a lifetime of them.
He'd get over it. He always did.
So having resigned himself yet again to being nothing but a loser in someone's eyes, and more or less content to continue their ongoing battle of wills without change, he was wholly unprepared for the sharp turn their relationship was about to take.
It was a Wednesday evening and after working a day shift, Morris was at home working on the residents' schedules for the next two weeks. Ray was the only one who had asked for a specific time off due to some gig he had lined up with his band, so he was taking that into account; that and the fact that he was still peeved at Abby for calling him an asshole. He decided to put her down for two twelve-hour shifts in a row.
Suddenly the door banged open and Allison stormed in, walking so rapidly through the living room and into her bedroom that Morris barely had time to catch sight of the tail end of her scarf disappearing around the corner into the hall.
"Hi honey, I'm home," he called after her, one eyebrow raised.
There were more banging sounds from inside her room, as though she had yanked her bag and shoes off and thrown them at a wall. Morris shrugged to himself and went back to his timetables.
Then she came banging back out of her room and into the kitchen; looking up again, Morris was mildly taken aback to see that her face was flushed and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her braided hair was disheveled, she'd undone the first couple buttons of her shirt, and her entire demeanor screamed 'extreme distress'. Yanking a Sprite out of the fridge, she tried several times to pop the lid, but her hands were shaking and she swore loudly.
"What's up with you?" Morris asked, watching her with interest. "Did your doctor guy stomp on you?"
"Shut up, Morris," Allison muttered, still struggling with the Sprite. Swearing in frustration, she stopped and stared at it for a moment, then put it back in the fridge and grabbed a beer instead. The lid popped on her first try. Holding the can up in a mock salute, she declared, "Here's to getting absolutely plastered," and tossed back a huge gulp.
He snorted, still watching her, as he turned a page in his binder. "Real classy, Al. Seriously, what's up?"
"None of your fucking business," she sputtered, choking down the beer, and glared at him as she savagely wiped tears from her eyes.
"Sor-ry. You want to try sipping that?" Morris glanced up at her, saw her wiping the tears away, the glare on her face morphing into an expression of sheer misery. Something had to have happened with that doctor. He couldn't think of anything else that would make her so upset. Not like he knew a ton about her in the first place. "He stomped you, didn't he."
Allison took another enormous gulp of the beer and exploded, "Yes, he stomped me! Someone must've told him how I felt about him because he confronted me about it—he—he laughed at me. Said I'm way too young for him, that I'm just a kid. Just a stupid kid." She slumped against the countertop, running her hands over her face and adding bitterly, "Why is it so funny? Why did he have to laugh?"
Morris set his paperwork aside and leaned back on the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. This was a new dimension to the nature of their running arguments. She had never opened up to him before about anything she considered important. "Maybe because it is kind of funny? And weird. You've got a crush on some guy twice your age who's a total brain case. That's not normal."
"Thanks so much for your vote of confidence," Allison muttered, rubbing at her eyes again before picking up the beer and coming into the living room. She dropped heavily onto the opposite end of the couch from Morris with a ragged sigh.
He considered her for a moment before reaching out to pat her leg sympathetically. "I'm sorry, really."
Allison flinched but kept her eyes trained on the beer can in her hands. "Why do I somehow doubt you."
"What, that I'm not sorry?" He was sorry, truth be told. Besides the fact that he actually liked her, he felt bad for her that she'd been disappointed so badly. He could sympathize somewhat. Reaching over to flick his fingertips against her forehead, he added, "Well, I'm not now."
She flinched again, recoiling, and eyeballed him. "I don't think you have any capacity for anything approaching real sympathy or affection or any of that gushy shit. I bet you said you were sorry just to try and get in my pants." She tossed back the remainder of the beer, looked at the empty can for a moment, then jumped off the couch, heading for the fridge again.
Morris watched her go and tried not to be stung. "You're so not my type. And I did mean it."
Swiping another beer out of the fridge, Allison turned on her heel to face back towards Morris. "And now just why the hell would you be sorry? Do you even know what it's like to really care for someone? Besides, I thought your mission in life was to nail every woman in your line of sight, which right now would consist of me."
She popped the lid on the can and took another long pull; Morris nearly spat out his own mouthful of beer. "What? No. You keep accusing me of wanting to sleep with you, but I think it's the other way around." Allison rolled her eyes, plainly telegraphing her opinion of that, and Morris took his feet off the coffee table. "And for your information," he continued snottily, "I do know how to care for people. I've had relationships before."
"That were about more than the sex? Right." She rolled her eyes again, exaggeratedly, and Morris began to wonder how much of a lightweight she was. "And you want to know why I keep accusing you of that? Because your attitude seems to imply you'd sleep with me because I exist." Taking another swig of beer, she added, "Well, I won't. You're not endearing."
That did sting, and this time Morris didn't even really try to pretend that it didn't. His attitude? Where was she getting her signals from? Sure, he appreciated a good-looking female like any other guy, but it wasn't like he'd been openly ogling her with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Or anyone else, for that matter. Scowling, he got up and went into the kitchen, taking the beer out of her hands. "Who says I'm not endearing?"
"I do, Mister Male Chauvinistic Pig," Allison replied emphatically, snatching the beer back and poking Morris square in the middle of the chest with one long finger.
Morris made a face at her and turned to get another beer out of the fridge; his was warm and nearly finished anyway. "I have no interest in sleeping with you," he repeated, though if he were being honest with himself, he would have to admit that wasn't entirely true. But she was his roommate. And she hated him. "You'd probably just imagine I was your old doctor guy and scream his name anyway. Then I'd have to throw up."
For a moment the thought did make him want to hurl, and he masked the sudden bad taste in his mouth by popping the lid on the beer and taking a long gulp.
Finding her own can empty, Allison's faced drooped in disappointment before she decided to relieve Morris of his almost before he was done swallowing; he sputtered as she drained another quarter of the contents and then handed it back. "Why no interest, huh? Am I just asexual? Or not loose enough? What is it?" She poked him in the chest again, defiantly, staring him down.
Maybe it was the light, but Morris thought her eyes looked slightly unfocused. And their game of insult tennis was beginning to make him feel slightly uneasy. It wasn't the nature of her insults, not exactly—it was more the undercurrent of emotion he sensed beneath them. The tone of her voice was becoming almost desperate in a way, needy. It was something entirely new from her and he didn't know how to deal with it.
"You aren't asexual, not with the way you lust after your old doctor guy." Deciding to go with 'situation normal', Morris jabbed her back.
"You once said I was, jackass," she snerked nastily.
"And," he continued, keeping a tight grip on his can of beer in case she decided to try and steal it again, "I'm not interested because you're my roommate and things would just get awkward. Sorry."
Yep. That was about what it boiled down to. A partial truth that she would never recognize for what it was. Story of his life. Maybe he just ought to start speaking the whole truth and see where it got him. Probably slapped a lot.
Apparently having finally decided that he really meant he wasn't interested in her, Allison crossed her arms across her chest and looked away sourly. Her posture radiated defeat and, oddly enough, disappointment. "Wow… I must be some horrible disgusting mutant for you to not want to nail me. Great."
At that, Morris felt something inside him snap. Suddenly the ribbing wasn't so amusing anymore; suddenly it wasn't a game. Suddenly he was just sick and tired of it all—sick of being hated for no good reason, sick of being accused of being a man whore, sick of actually taking it personally. Sick of lying to himself. "Shut the hell up, Al," he snapped, slamming his beer can down on the counter. "Why would I want you? You're always talking about how horrible I am and how you have the hots for someone else!"
And then without even thinking, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the lips.