Chapter Four: Light My Candle
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT.
Okay, so I'm sitting in the loft, trying my best not to freeze to death (not as easy as it sounds) or think about the fact that my love life could very well e forcibly jumpstarted by Candle-Girl, when all of a sudden, there's a knock at the door.
Please be Mark, having somehow lost one of the seven keys that he carries around, in case he sees someone that he just randomly feels the need to give the key to (which happens much more often than you'd think). "What'd you forget?" I demand.
It's not Mark. Damn. It's her. And she looks very confused. "Got a light?"
Oddly enough she is not talking about smoking, like the question implies, but she is talking about literally lighting an honest-to-God candle, which she is still toting with her. Hm, does she have some sort of fetish or something?
"I know you, you're—" I start to say, but realize that Candle-Girl is probably not her given name. Well, at least I don't think that it is. Fangirls have been known to possess names of that caliber and stranger. "You're shivering." I say instead. Which seems rather obvious, considering I had to go up to the roof to save my guitar once it got frostbite. Of course SHE'S shivering, I'm wearing a leather jacket and I'm cold, she's only got that damn candle for warmth.
"It's nothing, they turned off my heat," she explains, as if the heat weren't off in the whole building. "And I'm just a little weak on my feet." I did not notice that. Oh God, this isn't going to turn into an excuse for her to fall all over me, is it? I hate it when they do that… "Would you light my candle?" she held it out.
Great how she just assumes I have matches. I mean, I do and all, but why would she just knock on some random guys door and demand matches? For all she knows, I could be a murderer, or a kidnapper, or a rapist, or even gay! And trust me, I know this from seeing attempts fail countless times on Collins: No matter how hot the girl is or how much she flirts, it is simply not possible to turn a gay man straight. And again, I'm not, but I could be!
Come to think of it, she wants a candle so bad, why doesn't she have her own damn matches? And why does she want that candle, anyway? She can't be THAT desperate for heat that she'd really on that flimsy candle, and it doesn't do much in the way of lighting.
"What are you staring at?" Candle-Girl asked abruptly, playing with her hair almost as soon as I'd lit it.
"Nothing," I reply. It's called, we're having a conversation. It is usually considered "good manners" to look at the person you're talking to, not staring. And so what if I'm not blinking as much as I normally would? There are icicles forming on my eyelashes and thus it hurts to blink.
And she's STILL playing with her hair. Well, it's obvious what she wants to hear. "Your hair in the moonlight." Moonlight. You know, as in, an alternative to candlelight that doesn't involve you coming up here and bothering me. "You look familiar."
And…now she's falling. But backwards, not forwards, so I'm safe for now.
"Can you make it?" I ask, genuinely concerned. If not, then she'll expect to spend the night here and then Mark'll come back and she'll claim we did it and I'll NEVER here the end of it. I put my jacket on her to warm her up and restore the circulation to her legs. So she can leave.
"Just haven't eaten much today at least the room stopped spinning, anyway," she said, spinning around. Um, Candle-Girl? Perhaps the room isn't spinning, YOU are spinning. Just a thought. And not eating for one day doesn't cause random near-collapses. It has to be a pattern.
"What?" She demanded again. Oh, that's rich. So basically, this random girl comes barging into MY apartment and then is accusing ME of stalking her? Typical. I smell a lawsuit…We really should meet that lawyer girlfriend of Maureen's, Joanne.
And I look at loads of things every day without being obsessed with them! This girl needs to get over herself. That's it! I'm officially changing her name from Candle-Girl to
Me-Me.
"You're smile reminded me of—" I begin, but Me-Me interrupts me. How rude. Don't ask a question if you don't care about the answer!
"I always 'remind people of.'" Well, no duh, Me-Me. The first time you meet someone, people have a tendency to compare you with people they already know. It's called CONNECTING with people. Even I can remember that back from my pre-Emo-Hermit days. Speaking of which, she is totally ruing my Emo-Hermit image for me! LEAVE NOW! Or I will assault you with the power of crappy manuscripts! No, wait, can't do that, we burned them earlier. It was very dramatic, but what I wouldn't give to be able unleash the full power of "Furbies of DOOM!" onto Me-Me.
"Who is she?" she asked, totally blowing out the candle. I mean, come on, I'm a bit socially challenged at the moment (but nowhere near as bad as Mark is, trust me), but I'm not a bloody idiot!
"Her name was April." Now, never, ever repeat that ever again. Because the minute you leave, I'm going to go find that hypnotist who lives upstairs so I can completely forget her name again. It annoys Mark, but my inability to remember A-names always amuses Collins. Well, when he's not dating guys with A-names, anyway.
"It's out again!" Me-Me exclaims, as if she just discovered this. She better be acting. If not…Hm, I wonder if she's using the candle for drugs and has suffered some brain damage from it? Ah, well, it's not like I'll ever see her again after tonight.
"Sorry 'bout your friend." Yeah. Right. FRIEND. As in girlfriend, do you mean? Because that's really the more accurate term. "Would you light my candle?" Again with that damn fetish! How does one come to develop a candle fetish anyway?
I lit it again. "Well?" Why are you still here?
"Yeah?" She asks expectantly. Is she really going to make me kick her out? That would make me feel mean. And maybe a bit guilty. But I'd do it anyway.
Suddenly she jerked. "Oh! The wax. It's—dripping." Hah, serves her right for invading my personal space and not worrying about her stupid candle. Crap, could this mean she's developing an Emo-Hermit fetish? I hope not, or I'm in trouble. Ah well, maybe Benny will evict her and all my problems will be solved.
Unless Mark, ever the bleeding-heart camera-man, invites her to move in with us. And she steals my room. And makes me sleep on the couch. CURSE YOU BENNY! I'm actually not really sure why, at the moment, but I'm sure he's just done something corporate and soulless to screw us over.
"I like it between my—" Now she is REALLY invading my personal space. And wrapping her fingers around my hand, as if she never, ever intends to let me go. Ever again. Nuh-uh. No way. I'm not giving up without a fight!
"Finger," I supply. "I figured." But if she really did, then why'd she complain it hurt? Is she a masochist or something? I hop not. The last girl I dated who was a masochist kept getting turned on by my attempts to break up with her. Which was great for my sex life, but horrible for my efforts to move on.
Guess she really is waiting for me to kick her out and won't leave until I do? Fine. "Oh, well, good night."
She walks away, swinging her hips far more than is necessary on the way, let me tell you, when all of a sudden she stops at the door. Now, despite the fact that she is still technically IN THE ROOM and my attention is focused on her to make sure that she leaves without planting a hidden camera in my underwear drawer or shower or something (which has been known to happen on numerous occasions), Me-Me feels the need to KNOCK. Three times.
"It blew out again?" I ask sarcastically. I TOTALLY say her blow it out on the way to the door.
"No, I think that I dropped my stash."
Oh, God, she IS a junkie. Not good, not good, not good…Have to think of a way to get rid of her, fast. "I know I've seen you out and about when I used to go out." Hah, that oughta do it! When I USED to go out, implying that I no longer do and am now no fun and she'd probably have been luck getting Mark out on the party scene. "You're candle's out," I add as an afterthought. So she was lying when she said it didn't blow out. With her help.
"I'm illin', I had it when I walked in the door," she explains. Oh, the withdrawal explains the shivering that it would be perfectly natural for her to be doing even if she wasn't an addict! And what's that supposed to mean, she had it when she walked in the door? Does she think I stole it or something? "It was pure!" Now, if she really does think that I stole it, that bit of information would make me about ten times less likely to give it back. "Is it on the floor?" she bends down and starts looking.
"The floor?" I ask. I can understand the basic I idea of that and the logic behind it, but how does she expect that it ended up under the table? Perhaps she has a thing for tables. I knew a girl once who had sexual relations with a table. I think she's still in rehab…
"They say that I have the best ass below fourteen street. Is it true?" Me-Me suddenly asks, wiggling her but and promptly abandoning her search.
"What?" Why would I know? Doesn't she get that I don't go out anymore? And doesn't she have some sort of mirror she can figure it out herself with?
"You're staring again." You're wiggling your ass. You can't tell me you mind.
"Oh, no. I mean, you do have a nice—" NO! What am I doing? Rule #37 when dealing with fangirls: Never, ever compliment them under any circumstances ever. Otherwise, they will invariably take it as a sign that you want to get hitched. "I mean, you look familiar." I bent down and began looking for her stash so she'd hurry up and leave. You know, I bet she planted it so she wouldn't have to.
"Like your dead girlfriend?" How rude. But at least she's acknowledging we dated.
"Only when you smile, but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else." Unfortunately, all the fangirls tend to run together in my mind.
"Do you go to the Cat Scratch Club?" Doesn't Me-Me mean, DID I go? When I still left the house? "That's were I work, I…dance." Well, that's certainly one word for it.
"Yes, they used to tie you up."
"It's a living," she replied, annoyed. Well, if she didn't want to talk about it, maybe she shouldn't have brought it up. Ah, well, I plan on milking this for all it's worth. Although I do wonder what it'd be like to date an exotic dancer.
"I didn't recognize you without the handcuffs."
She ignored me, however, and held her candle out to me. "We could light the candle. Oh, won't you light the candle?" Oh great, now she's REALLY shaking, she has to use both of her hands to steady the candle. And where is the 'we' in me lighting her stupid candle? Wait…is this some sort of a euphemism for 'let's get high'?
"Why don't you forget that stuff? You look like you're 16." I am TOTALLY not falling for that again. 'Just one time,' my ass!
"I'm 19," she retorted, climbing to her feet, indignant I thought she was jailbait. Still, while 19 is legal, it's only just and a bit too young for me. "But I'm old for my age," Me-Me hastened to add. "I'm just born to be bad."
"I once was born to be bad. I used to shiver like that-" I began, but was again interrupted.
"I have no heat, I told you!" Not like that would matter. The fact that I have no heat is more relevant at the moment because she is in my flat.
"I used to sweat."
"I got a cold." She better stay away from me then, diseases are dangerous.
"Uh-huh. I used to be a junkie."
"But now and then I like to feel good." Unbelievable. How can she be talking about how great heroin makes her feel when she's in the throes of withdrawal at this very moment?
Found it! Jackpot. "Oh, here." I say, picking her heroin up.
"What's that?" Me-Me asked, entirely too eager for my tastes. Something tells me I'm going to regret this as it may very well keep her here longer but somehow I just can't give it back. Besides, I haven't fed the toilet in awhile, ever since Mark bought that better lock, and I think that it needs the drugs more than she does.
"Candy-bar wrapper."
"We could light the candle." But why would she want with the candle without the drugs? I light it, but quickly put it out when she's not looking. "Oh, what'd you do with my candle?" Oh, so it's perfectly plausible it blows out three times in two minutes for her but it can't blow out one more time? Typical.
"That was my last match," I said, plopping down on the sofa so she wouldn't see her stash sticking out of my back-pocket. Too late do I realize my mistake, that's as good as an invitation for her to sit down as well. WHY WON'T SHE LEAVE?!?!
"Our eyes'll adjust." So she really doesn't care about the candle? Then why bother me? Stupid fangirl. "Thank God for the moon," she said, no doubt referencing my earlier comment about her hair. Oh God, the last thing this girl needs is encouragement.
"Maybe it's not the moon at all. I hear Spike Lee's shootin' down the street."
"Bah humbug. Bah humbug," she says, reminding me irresistibly of Scrooge just then. And NOW SHE'S PLAYING WITH MY HAND! DEAR GOD, WILL IT EVER END?!?!
"Cold hands." Translation: Get them off of me.
"Yours too." Translation: Make me. "Big. Like my father's." Oh, ew. What kind of thing is that to say to someone you're hitting on? Comparing their hands to your fathers? I don't think I even want to know. "Do you wanna dance?"
Without even waiting for an answer, Me-Me pulls me up. Still, I try anyway. "With you?"
"No, with my father." AGAIN with the father parallels. This is starting to get creepy. And while I'll probably regret this in the morning, I've got to dispel the notion that I am like her father, and as I'm pretty sure mine is not a Hispanic name…
"I'm Roger."
"They call me, they call me," Me-Me said, dancing all around me and taking her stash back. "Mimi." I knew it!
She waved it in my face and leaves. FINALLY.
I'm going to have to start making people give the password before letting them up here.
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