All The Nice & Lovely Things

4 - The Christophers

 Chapter Four

The Christophers

Armed with a black polo neck and a rainbow of pens, Jemma’s list of essay titles was removed and the lesser of sixteen evils was chosen.  A homage to Donne waited on her desk, in the form of a feint-lined blank page, which sung out its emptiness every time she entered the room with lukewarm cups of tea.  The dishes piled up on her window seat as the days passed, hands cracking tension from joints and pens used to scribble her name on the underside of her desk.

The page remained clean and tidy, a shining beacon when the sun caught it.  The following Monday, she gave up, threw the page out.

She sought refuge in the lower story, firing on the T.V. and lodging herself on the sofa once again in a tired daze.  Sleep came and went, but didn’t hover.  The slightest thing lifted her from it.  In her day dreams, she saw cookies and muffins.

For no apparent reason at all, she stood and walked to the kitchen, a foot inside the room when she realized she wanted to eat.  Cookies and muffins.  Didn’t have any.  Usually did without.  Appetite and hunger were two very different things, and she ate now to live.  She stayed both off with coffee.  She didn’t want coffee now; she’d forgotten to buy any, and she didn’t want to leave Beck’s house.  The curtains in the rooms she would visit were closed again, and the doors locked.  Knives and forks were placed in around the house.  She was in, and staying for the time being.

Kere had a tepid relationship with cooking; she put on her chef’s hat only to keep her hands busy, but most of the time, she harmed herself.  She’d been told once to only cook in an emergency, so that she could make whatever pale in comparison.  She rarely followed the recipes, as she usually got excited with the deed of creation.  Ironically, she was terrible with improvisation, so her exploits didn’t succeed.  She’d made an assortment of snickerdoodle shortbread once by heart, and it was so far her best result, but only because no one had died yet.  She decided to make something.

The weather had held up, and a week of beautiful heat was behind them.  She’d darkened, even behind the curtains.  The wind had picked up, but only to dry the sweat.  The garden had flourished, vegetables and yellow roses rising to the clouds over rattan pergola to touch the sky.  Kere had the windows open behind the blinds, with the showers set to cool.

Firing as much cocoa as she could it could hold into a small duty saucepan, she detonated the heat, began stirring.  The smell arose, strong, and she worryingly added milk, which began to boil too quickly.  Then sugar, which frizzled and spat.  See?  Next, she hammered together butter, brown sugar, eggs and a small nation of vanilla extract until they were screaming and the mixing bowl became chipped, then tipped a bag of chocolate chips.  Then, the melted chocolate was added, and the mixture was done.  Glaring, she enthusiastically added her love.  Lethal and sloppy, she poured teaspoon-shaped globs without thinking to use a teaspoon onto a dry tray - grease was for yo momma! - and rammed it into the oven, sliding the dial to a random number.

She set the egg timer for ten minutes, then waited.  The worst part about cooking.  Or anything, in general.  She began to clean.

When the cookies were done, she ate them with milk.  They were disgusting.  She tasted her love, and it was painful.  Rinsed it out with salt and water.

She went back to the essay and drew out another blank page, picking up a purple fountain pen with the intention of creating a masterpiece.  All she got was her name, and she misspelled it.  She realized she’d forgotten the title of the paper.

Discouraged, she tried to dance it out, but no.

She stomped downstairs and threw herself on the sofa again, plumping the scatter cushions into a stage.  A corner of a lime green bolster to chew on, she screamed when a Sex and the City just disappeared into a break, and she began to goad the T.V. through the channels.  The pewter clock knocked on noon, and the sound of a vehicle outside drew her to the bright window.  She recoiled.  This was it; death.  You just knew these things.  Intruders.  The mob in a silver Citroën.  She could feel it.  All she needed to do was wait for them to bear the door down.  Continued recoiling.  Got bored, back hurt, went to investigate.  The car glared from the front street, the driver hidden behind a stiff map, the windows down.  Kere didn’t bother getting up; she’d sat at the window for the past few days, waiting for them, her finger directed toward the fields beyond, an uncomfortable expression on her face.  She braced her fingers on the wooden rim of the couch, but didn’t move.  She gazed out the window, but it took the driver only a second to locate the Gap and be off again.  Ah.  Awkward.  Her death arrived several times a day, and left shortly after.