Trouble In Shangri-La

The Nightmare

Stevie stood in her kitchen, cooking bacon she didn't want to eat, as well as an omelette for each of them, knowing Lindsey would be getting up and ready for the day soon. She could hear him upstairs, his footsteps heavy, determined and angry. She knew she would have to pay for that little stunt she pulled in the bedroom but tried to push it from her mind, turning up the radio. When the food was nearly finished, she heard him on the staircase and instantly tensed up. He lit a cigarette with a match then blew it out, shaking it in midair before placing it down on her pristine white table cloth.

She turned to face him, smelling the smoke. She tried her best not to make a face, as that was sure to make him even more angry with her.

"Breakfast is ready, honey" she says, forcing a smile.

"What, no orange juice?" he asks as she places the plate in front of him.

"I'm sorry, I haven't poured it yet."

"Whatever." He says, digging into her meal before she had even sat down. She rolls her eyes as she turns around but he pulls her back. "Don't fuck with me again."

"What?"

"What you did upstairs wasn't funny. Never, ever do that again."

"Yes, Lindsey." He let her go and she went back to the counter, pulling a glass from the cabinet and the carton of juice from the refrigerator. She poured two, one for each of them, then handed his to him first.

"Sit" he told her and she nodded. She put her food on her plate and took it and her glass to sit next to him. She played with the food, not having much of an appetite. "Well? Are you going to talk or just sit there?"

"I don't know what to talk about"

"How is your album coming?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Good." There was silence again, only filled by the scraping of silverware on china. "Have you seen any good movies?"

"Only what I've seen with you"

"Any new songs?"

"Only what I've heard with you" she says and he slams his fork down.

"Jesus Christ, you used to be interesting!"

"You used to be kind" He tapped his ashes on her table cloth and she became angry. "No smoking in the house, remember?" she says, never forgetting how angry he became when she was caught smoking out an open window upstairs.

"Do as I say, not as I do" he tells her, getting up from the table. She watches him, eyes wide with both fear and surprise.

"Where are you going?"

"Out- and no, I don't need a fucking chaperone"

He grabs his jacket and shoes, slamming the door on his way out. "Fuck you" she says when he's out of earshot. She gets up and tosses the plates in the sink, food and all. She hears the car pull out of the driveway and watches it become smaller and smaller as it makes its way down the long driveway.

She goes upstairs to occupy herself now that she is free of him for at least a while. What shall she do? She is bored of her books in her room, going to his library only to find the door locked. "Asshole" she says to herself. She goes to her music room and decides to play her piano. Her fingers find a melody and she likes it. Something clicks, her eyes lighting up instantly and she switches on her work tape.

"Thrown down through the arms of sleep, she fell through ivory morning...." she began. She moved her fingers along the keys tentatively, almost unsure if she wanted to continue. She felt afraid, as if she were being listened to beyond the tape she had turned on herself. Somehow he always knew what she was doing, how she was feeling and what she was thinking. He read her so well and it made her uneasy. She sang quieter, almost in a whisper as she found words. "Deep into the waters of the one she called love. She paled in the wake, of what some call a dream. But you cannot know a dream, til you know the nightmare..."

She doesn't know how long she's been sitting there, singing the words over and over, reminding herself of the placement of the notes she played on the invisible staff. She switches off the tape, vowing to finish it later. She hears his car in the driveway again. She wipes away tears she didn't realize had fallen and checks her appearance, making sure she was presentable. She trudges down her staircase, waiting in the formal sitting room for him to come in. She tries to look casual, cool and uncaring.

"Be strong" she tells herself.

Lindsey finally lets himself in, smelling like a brewery midday and walks right past her without a single glance. Another cigarette as he sits down at the opposite end of the brocade sofa, slouching forward.

"Stay off my case. I know I'm not supposed to be smoking in here."

"I wasn't going to a say a word."

"Good, you're learning" he says, taking another drag. It's quiet and she's left alone with her thoughts.

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch" he says, snorting at his own clever joke.

"I was only asking because if it's lunch time, I can make you something"

"You're no chef, Stevie. If I wanted to be poisoned, I'd cook for myself"

"I'm sorry I'm not up to your standards." she says.

"Eh, well...can't always get what you want, right?"

"But if you try sometimes you just might find, you got what you need" Stevie replies and he smirks.

"Yeah, I haven't got that either." He gets up from the couch, tossing his cigarette to the floor and stomping it out on the expensive, hand picked Persian rug.

"Lindsey, we have a shoot coming up. Please don't burn the house down before the photographer even sees it"

"Don't bitch, Stevie. I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay" she says simply. He walks up the stairs, 'accidentally' knocking over a sculpture. She heard him laugh, knowing it was most likely her favorite of the trio she had brought back from France. She stands between the two staircases, looking at the chalky white debris. Sure enough, it was her favorite. A goddess wrapped in ivy, unique and beautiful. She frowned, a fire being ignited inside of her. "Two can play this game, Lindsey" She went to his bedroom, seeing his jeans on the floor in a heap with his other clothes. She hated how messy he could be. She found his keys and unlocked his library. She stepped inside without a sound, looked over his shelves to find her victim and zeroed in on a signed baseball in a little glass case. An evil smile played on her lips as she slipped the ball out of its case. She closed her eyes and tossed it as hard as she could. She hears something break but she's too scared to look. It sounded like glass but it wasn't a window. She wished it would be his crystal decanters of alcohol that sat on a silver trolley. She laughs and leaves the room again, locking it back up tight. She put the keys back in his pocket, tiptoeing downstairs to wait for the fallout.