Inside the airport is dark and cold, as though they run the air conditioning all year round, here. Dim, fluorescent lights cast shadows on the floor of the empty waiting room beyond the gate, and even though there are no windows nearby, he can tell from the permeating gloom that it's pitch dark out. He tries to remember what the pilot said the time was, but he can't remember. All he can remember is the feeling he had entering the airport back in Australia, a mixture of determination and excitement. Impulse had brought him to the airport, and willed him on the flight to the United States; but, now that he was here, the excitement having abated somewhat during the flight, he could see flaws in his fun, spontaneous plan, and his excitement was slowly replaced with something like anxiety.
He looks down at the envelope clutched in his hand, worn and limp from all the times he had folded and unfolded it. Part of what he'd liked about the plan, back when he thought of it, was that, once he was on the plane, he couldn't back out of it. Now that he was here, his feelings having changed exactly to what he had expected them to change to, he couldn't turn back. There was nowhere for him to go, now, but forward.
He weaves between the rows of black leather armchairs, his boots padding lightly across the gray-flecked carpet, and exits the terminal. He's tired from the ride over, his feet feel like ten-pound weights attached to his legs, but some inextinguishable flame had been lit inside him; he finds himself still able to move, putting one foot in front of the other, until he's staring out the darkened picture windows framing the main exit. It's dark out, not even stars shine from the velvet sky, and tiny flakes of pale, white snow swirl dizzyingly in an invisible wind. He zips his coat up to his chin, raises the hood, and steps out.
Wind immediately whips his face and bites his cheeks. Snow coats the sidewalk and the parked cars lining it. A yellow taxi, headlights illuminating the falling snow, idles not far away. He signals it, and it pulls out of the line and rolls to a stop before him, the window sliding open.
"Harlem 125th street?" He calls over the roar of the wind.
The driver, a young Indian man with shiny black curls, nods, and he walks around the back and lets himself in; shutting out the sound as he shuts the door.
He looks out the window at the now silent fall of snow, and watches as it slowly turns into a blur of white as the cab gains speed. It takes him a moment to realize that the fire burning inside him is probably hope.
The address on the envelope turns out to lead to a dark, crowded street somewhere in New York City. Headlights constantly flood the street with light, and the neon signs shining from shop windows reflect back at him in the puddles on the street. The snow had turned to rain during the ride over, and now, as he looks up at the dark apartment building, he begins to feel the first tendrils of panic begin to tighten around his chest. He pays the driver and watches as it turns the corner, out of sight.
He climbs the steps under the darkened eaves of the building, and searches the call panel for a familiar name. What if she's not in? He worries. Or she is in, and you're just a burden sleeping on her couch? Or she's got a roommate, and she really doesn't like you? What if it's a boy? What if he's—
A man wearing a suit under his trench coat opens the door loudly, and bounds down the steps. His eyes follow the man as he jogs to the corner of the sidewalk, and flags down a cab, without a backward glance. Looking around to be sure no one's watching, he slides between the slowly-closing gap, and lets himself in.
There's nothing on the ground floor. A buzzing yellow light dangles from the ceiling a few floors above, revealing walls with chipping paint the color of desert sand; a concrete staircase with intricate metal railings, both of which are also chipping, lines the far wall, and he takes the stairs two at a time. Her room is on the top floor, and he can hear the pounding of the rain through the roof as he walks down the hall. His palms begin to sweat as he counts the numbers on the doors, and the tendrils wrapped around his chest pull tighter around him. Eleven. Twelve...
Thirteen.
He's there.
Without even thinking about it, as though all the worrying he's been doing, about her, about him, about the time and the place, since he landed just disappears from his mind, he knocks on the door. All he can think about is how she smells, and how she looks at him when he says something out of character, her eyes all wide and bewildered. He—
The door opens, and then she's there, standing in the doorway of a crappy apartment building just as he's seen her do countless times before. Her eyes are drooping as she opens the door, but when they land on his face, they open wide with shock. For a moment, one, horrifying, moment, his fears flood back to him, and he wonders if their reunion won't be the simple, wonderful thing he had hoped it would be. Then—
"Patrick!"
She throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his coat. Her hair's wet, and smells like citrus. He's glad that his hands are full of bags, because, if they weren't, he thinks he would have crushed her slight body from the impact of his embrace. He clears his throat, instead, not moving, and says, "What's up, Lily-pad?"
She pulls away, and he's relieved to see a smile on her face. "Oh, my Go—Pat!" She exclaims, straightening out his jacket, as if trying to undo the damage of what she's done. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I'm on vacation, now, and Australian Airlines offered me a discount on tickets out of the continent."
"So, naturally, you thought of me," she says, and there's a cocky swagger in the way her hands fall to her hips.
"Naturally," he smiles. He looks down at her, and notices that, for pajamas, all she's wearing is a white cotton sleepshirt. He can see the pattern of her underwear through the fabric.
Before he has a chance to blush: "Come in," she says, ushering him inside. "You have to spend the night. Hey, are you hungry?" She asks.
"Always," he smiles, looking around. Inside, the apartment is all white, and in surprisingly good condition compared to its decrepit counterpart, outside. The kitchen area is all white, too, except for a red, candy-shop bench attached to the far wall. "Your addition, I assume?" Says Patrick, gesturing to it.
Lily, already in the kitchen, and reaching into a cabinet over the counter, turns round to look at it, and nods, "Yeah... this place had no color. At all. Still doesn't."
"'S not that bad," says Pat, walking deeper in to see the living room. The far wall is a picture window leading onto a balcony, the bottom half of it hidden behind a scratchy grey couch. He looks at the handle of the balcony door, and sees that it's slightly open, a small breeze pushing it wider, ever-so-slightly. He looks back at her, and sees her setting a pot on the stove to boil, a familiar Styrofoam cup standing beside it.
"Cup of noodles okay?" She asks, turning to look at him.
He nods. His eyes fall to her hips, where her shirt's hiked up her side to expose her underwear further. He swallows and looks back at the balcony, "Were you just out there?" He asks.
There's a pause before she answers, "Yeah. When I say shower, I mean it literally."
He smiles, and looks over at her, surprised when he sees she's right next to him. "You'll catch a cold that way." He says it jokingly, but she knows he's serious.
"I like it out there. Besides, there's an overhang, so it's shaded."
"Oh." They look out it.
Suddenly, he feels her hand on his, and he looks down, hardly daring to believe it. And he doesn't. She takes the bag from his hand in two of hers, and smiles up at him, "You're my guest, so you can stay in my room."
Patrick's smile disappears. "No, Lily, I don't want to impose on you. I certainly don't want you to make a fuss, either. I'll sleep on the couch." He puts a hand on the handle, partly because he wants the bag back, partly as an excuse to touch her. After a very polite fight, Lily relents.
"Fine. I'll pull out the couch— oh!" She turns back to him, her eyes bright, "Want to make it like a slumber party? Tonight, we'll sleep in sleeping bags, and just catch up. How does that sound?"
He grins down at her, "You're a child, you know that?"
"I tell myself that every day."
He shakes his head, as she darts off, calling, "I'll get the sleeping-bags," over her shoulder.
He stands there for a moment, his eyes on the place where she'd disappeared, before the makings of a very irritating whistle bring his attention back to the kitchen; he drops his things on the floor, and walks into the kitchen, taking the water from the stove and pouring it into the cup beside it. He's grabbed a fork from the drawer next to the sink, just like in her old place, and has made a significant dent in it by the time Lily comes back with the equipment.
She's pulled on a too-large sweatshirt over her nightshirt, which sticks out beneath the hem, and a pair of green woolen socks. She's still not wearing any pants. She pulls herself onto the counter next to him, and he can't stop himself from looking down at gap between her thighs. Luckily, Lily doesn't seem to notice this. "I've got everything," she says.
He slurps his food and doesn't answer. A minute passes before she speaks, again. "This is taking too long. Come on," she hops down and takes the cup from his hand, so that he's left with a string of noodles dangling from his mouth and a fork in his hand.
"'Ay!" He mumbles, but she's already gone.
She disappears out of sight and he hears the rusted hinges of a door being pulled open. "Come on, Patrick," she calls.
A slumber party outside? He looks around for the microwave, and, staring at his reflection, fixes his hair and wipes his chin, before following her.
"You sure you want to do this? It was snowing when I got here, and—"
"My sleeping bag can survive temperatures of below zero degrees," she calls proudly. "New York slush doesn't compare to the horrors this baby has seen."
Sleeping bag? As in: one? Outside? He walks to the living room, and sees what she means. She's erected a tent under the overhang of the balcony, and laid open a sleeping bag and two blankets inside it. He walks round before the couch, and looks out, noticing that it's just tall enough to hide the tent from view, say, from a landlord visiting at the door. When he's finally outside, she's already sitting inside it with her knees tucked up to her chest. "Get changed, and then the party can start. My room's the first on the right past the kitchen."
Patrick is so befuddled at the sight, that all he can do is take up his things, and do as he's told.
He finds her room and enters. Like the rest of the apartment, her room is white, but covered, for the most part, from floor to ceiling, in posters. He recognizes most of them, some she even bought with him, but there are several others he's never seen before.
He strips down and changes into his pajama pants and a plain t-shirt.
He turns, and is startled to see movement in the dark. At first he think it's Lily, then, upon closer inspection, he sees that it's a mirror. Scared of his own reflection, he shakes his head to himself. Then he walks out the door, and leaves the dark room behind him.
Stepping on the balcony is like stepping into a cold pool, shocking and unpleasant. Wind whips his face, and he wonders at the lengths he will go to for a girl. He closes the door tightly behind him, and joins Lily inside the tent, taking care to zip the entire thing up, so no wind can get in.
"There," he sits back and admires his handiwork. With the door closed, the entire thing is almost pitch dark, and it is warm in there. He turns to look at her, but he can barely see her face. He's not sure if he prefers it that way, or not.
"Excellent job, Gulliver," she says pleasantly. "Cheez-It?"
He reaches blindly into the darkness, and finds her elbow. She's taken off the sweatshirt. He blushes in the dark, and uses her arm as a guide to the box, running his fingers along her skin until he reaches the cheesy center.
They chew in silence.
After a minute or so of contented munching, he hears a click, and the beam of a flashlight illuminates her face from the bottom up. "Now for scary stories," she says, making her best I-am-devil-child face. It doesn't work, though, he thinks to himself. She's still lovely.
"I'll go first," says Pat, taking the flashlight from her. "You're not as scary as you think you are."
"Bite your tongue," says Lily, aghast. "I happen to be terrifying."
"Of course you are, sweetheart."
She sticks out her tongue at him, and falls back on the sleeping bag, her raven hair fanning out around her face like a starburst. Her shirt hikes up her side, again, and he tries not to look as he begins the story. "In a flat, not long ago, two friends were having a slumber party in a tent out on the balcony..."
Lily, sitting up, now, dissolves into a fit of giggles and clutches her stomach. "The whole time?" She laughs.
"Yeah, the whole time," he smiles down at her, happy that he can induce such a reaction in her.
She falls backward and curls up on her side, facing him, her eyes drooping. Patrick's gaze traces the lines of her face: the hook of her nose, the angles of her cheekbones, the almond shape of her eyes.
He falls back on the blankets, too, and stares up at the ceiling. "How's the art thing coming along?"
Lily smiles. "I sold one of my paintings," she says. He looks over at her, his eyebrows raised, his expression blank. "And a gallery booked three of them in a showing they're doing this weekend. I was going to write you a letter about it tomorrow."
"Lily, tha's amazing," he says. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," she smiles and sits up, looking down into his face. He looks up at her, his gaze unreadable, as she stifles a yawn.
"Let's go to sleep, now, okay?" Says Pat, taking the flashlight from the corner. "You can tell me all about it tomorrow."
He clicks the button and plunges them into darkness.
"'Night, Pat," she says.
"'Night, Lily-pad."
He listens as she settles back on the blankets. Tension and awareness of her sing in his veins, as though she induces a reaction, a heat, in him that even sweltering, Australian summers can't compete with.
She rolls over, and her hand smacks into his.
"Sorry," she says, but she doesn't move it. He's fully awake, now, the tension waking his every nerve ending, putting every fiber of his being on edge. As the minutes pass, nothing else happens, even though Patrick's heart is still pounding like a jackhammer. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he wonders if she can feel it.
Suddenly, slowly, carefully, she gently intertwines her fingers in his. His heart, hammering against his ribs like a hummingbird on steroids, one second, abruptly skips a beat completely, and slows down.
All of a sudden, Pat's hand is holding hers tightly, and he's pulling their entwined fingers up to his face, breathing in her smell.
She inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything. His mind goes blank, a sudden fear that he's done the wrong thing seizes him, and he stops even his breathing; but, Lily not noticing this, presses herself closer to him. And, suddenly, his breath is in her hair, then on her cheek. He can see her vague outline in the dark, and he lowers his lips closer to hers; but doesn't kiss her, not yet.
She exhales shakily, and the soft tickle is enough to propel him into action. He lowers his lips to hers, again, and kisses her, lightly at first. Just as he begins to pull away, he feels her moving closer to him, as though their lips are magnetic.
He doesn't stop to think. He doesn't wonder at how blind he must've been all this time, if she were to react to him the way he wanted her to of her own accord; he just presses his lips to hers, again, forcing them open with his own, so that their hot breaths mingle together like an intoxicating drug. She slides her hand up his back, and pulls him so that he's, mostly, on top of her. He props himself up on his elbow, so that he's not crushing her beneath him. She pulls away from him for a second, and he hears that her breathing is as heavy as his is. He pauses, catching his breath, and when he feels her lips tentatively caress his, he kisses her again, sliding his hand up her thigh, underneath her shirt, veering off at her waist to pull her to him by the small of her back.
Their kiss becomes a rhythm, a ballad, and they're dancing to it.
He feels her pulling up his shirt, trying to pull it over his head, and he lets her, breaking away long enough so that she can remove it.
The pause is enough to get him to clear his head. He pulls away from her, and their rhythm slows down. He gives her one, two, three more warm, soft kisses.
Beneath him, Lily smiles, "All this time?" She murmurs.
"All this time."