LILY

Reality Checks

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee beckoned me out of bed replacing the sickly yet sweet musk of our lovemaking. I opened my eyes with a begrudged groan and sat up slowly, the sheets tangling about me as I moved. I struggled with them before swinging my feet to the cold hardwood floor and casting them aside. I glanced towards the bed as I groggily made my way into the bathroom.

Blood had stained the sheets lightly which didn't alarm me but for a moment I pondered exactly why it didn't. Perhaps it was just the nature of our intensity together that clouded my clarity. I shivered as I stood over the toilet, an uneasiness under my skin as I thought on it. I distanced the thought as I finished and by the time I started to wash my hands and face, the worry faded completely. My back was sore and the scratches there were tender to the touch. I grinned somewhat as i rubbed my shoulders and walked past the bed again. This time, I noted how a few of her flowers seemed to be framed by the red stains as if paying tribute to our strange and passionate lovemaking. I smiled even wider at that idea and yawned as I made my way into the kitchen.

Pouring myself a cup I sleepily rummaged the fridge before noticing that Lily had made some toast as well. I took the plate with me into the living area and sat at the typewriter. There wasn't a note left this time, but a withering lily left on the keys reminding me of my goals ahead. I reached across the mahogany desk towards the lamp and switched it on. My cell phone lay abandoned underneath the shade and I thumbed my way through the messages.

Twenty three unanswered messages and phone calls. I realized I hadn't exactly been a good little social butterfly but that seemed excessive even for Mort. I shook my head and laughed before dialing his office number and tasting the slightly burnt breakfast my lover had left. The coffee was still hot and I swallowed quickly as I heard the sound of Mort's voice greet me in a less than business-like fashion.

"Byron? What the hell? I've been trying for days to reach you. Everything okay in New Orleans?" His voice was a little worried, but I guessed it was mostly due to the lack of updates versus of my actual well-being.

"Yes, Mom," I said with a laugh. "Jesus, Mort. The overacting Academy Award goes to..." My voice trailed off as I finished the first slice of toast. "I'm fine. Everything's as good as can be with me anyway. I trust you got that wickedly morbid manuscript. Well, what did you think?"

"Honestly, Byron... it's disturbing. I mean, a man making love to his dead wife is no joking matter. I could feel the vibe you were going for with all that anxiety and romantically worded shit and I'm sure the readers will love it, twisted little fucks they are. But, as far as me liking it? Personally? You handled it beautifully and all but I was disgusted. Are you sure it wasn't-"

"Hitting a little close to home?" I interrupted him as I lit my cigarette. I took a deep breath and began playing with Mina's keys, turning the dead flower in my fingers as I thought about the scene I had written. "To be completely truthful I actually found it to be a tad cathartic. As I was writing it I had hoped the readers would understand their favorite author a little more than before, as well as the protagonist. I think it's a bit grotesque but I felt better after writing it. Ironic goodbyes and all that shit."

The conviction in my voice was not quite authentic but hopefully would fool Mort. I took a few more drags from the cigarette before tossing the white blossom over my shoulder to the carpet and arranging a sheet of paper in the blue Olivetti. My hands started their morning trembling ritual again as I drummed the desk nervously. I told myself that the drink could wait at least a few pages and took a gulp of the coffee instead.

"Well, have you at least enjoyed the sights some more and taken in some of the local flavor? I keep telling my wife we should take a trip there but she doesn't seem into it," he said. "How's this for an idea? We can use your book, once finished, as a reason to drag her there. Maybe do the start of the tour there... 'WHERE THE AUTHOR ACTUALLY WROTE HIS NEWEST BESTSELLER'... the advertising writes itself! Byron, you mentioned a small bookstore there, right? Think of how great that would be, really show your affection for the small-time shops and kick it off in a humble fashion. Man, this is great! Plus, I get to drag my stubborn wife with me. Everybody wins."

The excitement in his voice was jarring considering how I had ended my visit to the bookstore. I finished my toast, Mort's breathing barely audible on the other end of the phone as he waited for my response.

"Mort, that may not be the best idea. I was a bit drunk the other night and may have upset the owner of the shop somewhat."

The words felt honest, even if I had downplayed it some. I began to share the events leading up to last night, conveniently dodging some of the more surreal and unnerving moments between Lily and I. I hadn't even forced myself to. I naturally avoided the topic as if they had never happened. Mort was intrigued, but mainly because there were two women involved.

"You lucky bastard. Been there a week or so, already got two gals fighting over you," he said with a guttural laugh. "Find yourself another redhead and you've got the trifecta.... Sorry, Byron. I didn't mean-"

"How many times, Mort? I'm fine. Moving on," I interrupted. My voice was curt and the words a lie. My hands had begun their nervous twitch again and I repeated them not just for his understanding but for their sake as well. "I am fine. The past is that. Let's focus on the book some more."

Mort obliged. We discussed the plans for release, the paperback rights and some cover details. The boon to being a bestselling author is that they actually listen to your ideas. They don't always do as you ask but they consider it, considering the last thing they want is you to do is stop writing or worse, take your writing elsewhere and rework contracts with lawyers. Mort and Dark House had been good to me even if my jadedness had me thinking otherwise somewhat. After the business talk, I admitted something towards the end of the conversation that was jarring.

"Mort, it's dawned on me that you might actually be my best friend lately. Well, beside Blue Mina and the bottle. I'll have a more complete manuscript in the coming months. Do you want updates every few chapters or are you going to take me on my word this time?"

"Ha. Just update me every once and while, buddy. You know, stay in touch. Work and otherwise. And try not to get into any scandals while out there. Stop throwing bottles of liquor at old ladies and don't try to juggle two women. Take it from me, it's more difficult than you think."

"Yes, guess I'll have to discuss that with your wife. I suspect the only time you've juggled two women was the day you received two adult magazines in the mail on the same day."

"Yeah, those were the days," he joked.

We both laughed at that and hung up. The fact that Mort was actually my friend weighed heavily with me. It never had occurred to me just how reclusive I'd become since New York. It wasn't that he was a horrible guy, honestly. It was just my skepticism, knowing our working relationship. Finishing my cup of coffee I leaned forward and began tapping Mina's keys quickly. The craving in the pit of my stomach demanded it almost as much as my heart and mind. As my fingers raced across her keypads, I began to feel more at ease.

"Three pages done," I muttered to myself and started to go into the kitchen for my reward. I sat there, staring into space and leaned forward in earnest. I continued typing some more instead. Page after page, I stopped only long enough to consider a wording occasionally before hunching forward and starting again. After thirty two pages I leaned back, satisfied.

When you're writing sometimes, time either slows to a crawl or shuttles along at breakneck speed. Today, the writing had been a roller coaster threatening to derail only when I thought of the liquor just a few feet away. The twists and turns of the track remained solid as I garnered speed before finally hitting the inevitable wall of my addiction. Sometimes you cried from excitement along the way, while other times you screamed for it to stop. When the brakes engage and the ride is over, familiarity becomes necessity by default, if not inherently by design.

I was proud of myself and began reading over the pages as the sun shifted behind the blinds. The morning was now a memory and a coherent one at that. The afternoon started with a sip of my flask as a reward for my sobriety. The irony of that alone should have hit me. Unfortunately I was too busy congratulating myself to notice. My mind wandered as I fleshed out the characters in my novel, trying to piece their histories and nuances together.

'Write what you know' is an old adage used by many authors and I always did try to relate it in my work, to varying degrees of success. I began reminiscing on the things I did know and continued drinking. Naturally, Megan came rushing back to me, vivid and alive in my mind.