Michael
Life was never all that he had hoped for. It never is, he thought. Alive and surviving was good enough, he thought as well. Yet, deep down, in a lost forgotten corner in his heart, he knew that being “not miserable” would never suffice, and that if he left this world being ordinary, he might as well had never lived.
While taking in another long and frustrated breath, he stared at his art. Paint to paper, nothing more. He had seen the paintings of the greatest, he had been to museums, and comparing made him feel small. He painted landscapes, but the one he was looking at that day was of a café in the rain. So cliché, and not much to his liking, but the image was hunting him like a maddening song stuck at the back of his head on repeat.
Michael tucked the brush over his ear, paint accidently mudding his jet black strands. “I’m coming,” he said, before looking once again at his art and sighing.
He walked to the door, but the knocks were relentless and almost unnerving. “I said I’m coming!” He raised his voice, hissing as he shuffled around to find a towel to hold the knob with rather that just smearing paint all over it. He looked around himself a few times, almost as if he was chasing his tail before giving up. In his defense, the knob was already half smeared, and if his mother was going to complain about it yet again, he was going to confront her. Yes, yes! He was a 30 year old and he didn’t need his mom marching into his place and telling him how to run his life as if he was still in diapers!
He whipped the door open, just about leaving burn marks on the ground, but no one was there. The surprise was enough to pull him outside his mind, and the fits of angered courage that nearly never left its confines.
“Hello?” He walked out and looked down the corridor.
When no one answered, he shuffled back inside. He blamed it on the neighbor’s kids. That kind of thing was happening a lot lately, and he had made the decision to complain to the mother very sternly; or perhaps, just point it to her attention, if he happened to meet her, and if she looked like she was in a good mood… cop out.
He then lowered his eyes to the knob, and began wiping it with his sleeve. He might not be ready to confront his mother after all. Right at that moment, as if on a queue, the phone began ringing, and then her voice message played. He ignored it and began to brush the bristles back across paper, in small shy strokes.
“Michael, are you there, honey?”
“Pick up.”
“Pick up.”
“Pick up.”
“Your father is worried about you.”
“Is it too much for your poor mother, who gave all her life to you, to ask you to comfort her and pick up your phone?”
He frowned. She had him whipped, he grumbled. He reached to answer the phone, but only found static at the other end. He pressed the flash button a few times, yet the line never connected.
“Odd. It was just working fine.” He hung up, before huffing. “Great, now I’ve got paint on the phone too. Just great.”
He should call the phone company; he made a mental note, before deciding that it might be a good excuse to keep out of his mother’s reach for a few days. It wasn’t like he had anyone else to call or receive calls from. Time to get ready.
A few minutes later, he was standing in front of his door, and wrapping scarf around his neck. Black, red, and blue paints were still lodged beneath his nails, and on a few strands of hair, like acupuncture against his skin. His boss was going to complain again.
‘Michael, you have to take this seriously. You’re not better than this job,’ he’d say.
“Michael, Michael, Michael. Give me a break,” Michael griped, before noticing the time, and whining even louder, “Seriously?!”
He tucked his feet half in his shoes, before opening the door and running across the hall, down the stairs, and across the suits in the streets walking back to their homes. As he sat panting on the subway, he noticed a girl across of him. Blond hair, blue eyes, unapproachable, and just his type. He stared, he knew he shouldn’t, but he did. She never looked at him though. A few stops passed, his eyes pinned on her through out. Finally, he smiled at her and said, “Hey”.
She didn’t answer. He glimpsed at her ears checking if she had headphones on, but she didn’t.
“Did I see you before?”
Still no answer. He waved his hands at her, but when she didn’t even blink, he sighed and looked away. “There are nicer ways to turn a guy down,” he whispered.
He got out, one stop before his. He was already twenty minutes late to work, and the manager was already preparing the speech in his mind, so he might as well have a few minutes to himself. It was raining, and he liked walking in the rain. The way the air would feel almost heavy, and the way everything was crisp after.
The minute he walked up the stairs of the subway, he whispered, “I’m an idiot.”
‘Is it too late to go back? It’s too late too go back.’
He was going to get fired. Great, another bad decision. It was as if he incapable of making a right choice.
“I’m an idiot. I’ll crawl back to mom begging for money. She is going to gloat. Idiot.”
He looked to the left where a man had paused to ogle at him talking to himself. He stared at the man back, for a second, torn up between ignoring him or snapping. The man shook his head and tottered away.
Suddenly, something felt missing. Something important. Where was his umbrella?
“Idiot!”
A drenched Micheal walked around the counter leaving a trace of wet prints and water droplets and he talked at his employer, who was in turn actively ignoring him. “I won’t be late again,” he said.
“I know you are going to say that you gave me too many chances already, and you think I don’t want this job, but I do. I know I’m always late but I had an emergency. I had to take my mom to the doctor, and she had to get a new prescription-”
The employer waved his hand as he kept his back facing the drenched painter.
“Mr. Ahmed, at least give me week notice first- don’t walk away,” he followed after the man, who headed for his office and closed the door. He banged his fists in the air a few times stopping right before hitting the door, before glaring at it. “How am I supposed to pay for my rent?”
His back fell against the wall and his fisted his hair like a mad man. He began walking away, standing at the door and watching the hustle in the dining room. It was Saturday night and everyone was pacing around.
“I guess it’s not a goodtime for goodbyes either,” he whispered as he stood by the exit, and watched buckets of rainfall in front of him by an inch waiting to engulf him and send him home with a cold. It was passing the point of just raining and started to look more like the wrath of God hurled at him. At least it couldn’t get any worse, and right as that thought flashed across his mind, lightening flashed like cosmic irony in a sit com.
He pulled his coat over his head, and dashed down the street, the rain pounding against his back like sticks to a drum and the wind was starting to feel like a transparent door. He tightened his scarf as it fluttered around his neck, which was threatening to make an escape towards a rooftop or a chimney, before walking into the first dry place he could find.
He sniffled, as beads of vindictive water streamed down from his hair and down across his back, and of course, his scarf was magically gone. He took off his coat, and walked over to the casher, almost day dreaming of smoldering coffee against his lips and down his throat.
“Black coffee, large.”
The casher smiled at him widely, and giving him an odd look.
“Black coffee.”
“Yes,” the casher said.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Yeah,” the casher chuckled, his eyes finally unlatching from Michael. “That will be 2.15.”
He handed him the money silently, before walking over to the side to wait for his order. Heat was seeping back into his bones, and the blue hue was fading from his lips. He turned around trying to spot a seat, and thinking he wouldn’t find any with his luck. The café was small and packed, and almost like a winter cottage with red bricks, snug brown chairs, wooden floor that creaked with each step, and a homely aroma that felt like caresses against his skin. Maybe things were finally looking up for him; there was a chair right at a table across of him.
The barista handed him the drink, also looking at him oddly. He managed to ignore the look, and walk over the empty seat. The table had an odd bunch on it; A blond kid choking her teddy with hugs, a girl around 18 -19 who would make an old man feel like a pervert, a nerdy teenager boy- obviously not her brother- looking like a pervert because of her, a woman typing on her phone, and a man who looked out of place.
“Is anyone sitting here?” Michael asked.
“Are you here for the meeting?” the man asked.
“The seats are reserved for the meeting,” the girl said.
He scanned the place around quickly. No seats were in sight. “I’m here for the meeting.”
He gulped as the girl eyed him, suspecting how she thought he looked like someone with no moral compass. Which he was not, but under the on-going conditions…
Morals don’t keep you warm, okay.
Jenny
Once again, she was at that part of YouTube. The weird part that demanded she plugged in her headphones or kept the volume down. Sometimes, she would find herself wondering off there, inside of the little screen, and sometimes those videos were not enough to entertain her during the long spells of boredom and emptiness. But, she had plans for that night at least. She was going to make a new account on a popular gay chat website, perhaps using Papa-bear as her screen name this time around. She just had to wait a little longer just until the Oompa Loompa left.
The roommate put on her lipstick with loud popping sound.
“Bright red”, Jenny mumbled under her breath before closing her laptop, “as if your mouth needs a welcome banner.”
The roommate flinched, “Jenny, you bitch! You are ruining my life.”
“It’s not like you had much potential to begin with. Don’t be a drama queen.”
“Give me a break and leave!”
“Go to his room.”
“I don’t want to do it in the boys’ dorm again. It’s disgusting,” she whined as she shoved lipstick into her bag. “You drive everyone away! I’ve to beg him to come here.”
“Good! I don’t want him here. He keeps tossing condoms at me.”
“I want to leave this room. I just want to have one night without your crazy ass loitering around.”
“The college housing questionnaire was spot on, wasn’t it?” Jenny opened her screen again, “Fine, I’ll go out tonight. Stop flipping out.”
The roommate sped towards the desk, and smacked the screen down, missing Jenny’s fingers by less than an inch, before storming out.
“And I’m the crazy one,” Jenny sputtered and opened the laptop yet again. “Now where should I go tonight and who should I be?”
“’Lesbian & Bisexual women who Love Japanese Culture & Cuisine’,” she read. “Gay nerds. Next.”
She clicked the bottom of the page to see more listings. Craig’s list was a gold mine sometimes. “’Are you a creep?’ Next.”
“Life after sexual addiction,” she hummed as her eyes strayed towards her roommate’s closest. “Do I dare? But the café is just around the corner, and really when will I ever find another AA group meeting on a Saturday night in a public place. It’s probably a joke by a really sick person. Admirable.”
She hopped up, and began rummaging through the closet.
One hour later, she was ready in a hot skirt and tight shirt, and a coat to keep everything covered until she reached her target. She looked down and started chuckling, “Where did you girls come from?!”
With one swift move, she pulled the umbrella off the hanger, and slid outside of the dorms.
When she hit the streets, the wind hit her in turn like a typhoon. The coat flipped up, and so did her skirt, letting the gusts burn her thighs with frost and her cheeks with shyness, and even her hands pressing down were not enough to keep the fabric from rising. Walking in her roommate’s outfits needed some practice to look graceful, but then again, that skirt couldn’t look graceful even if she was treading down a runway.
She walked into the café, and steadied herself. After one deep breath, she took off the coat as if she was taking off a bandage, smiled, and scanned the room for the group. No one looked suspicious enough. Actually, everyone looked suspicious. Everyone looked perverted to her. She loved how each person there must have had dirty little secret that he kept hidden beneath the tiles or in secret rooms. She couldn’t wait to dig around and watch, and that was her secret.
“I think you’re looking for this table,” a barista walked up from behind, face like stone.
“How-” She opened her mouth to ask how she knew, but figured the woman must have made the connection between her outfit and the nature of the meeting. Although, she would have thought it would be the opposite. Someone who is recovering wouldn’t be wearing something outrageous, and that was the only reason she had the tiny damn thing on.
Regardless, she strode towards the table, straightened her back, lifted her chest up, and tried to look as sexy as she could master. A guy, about her age or just younger, was the first to notice her. In fact, she could feel his eyes burning through her top like Cyclops with nerd glasses. But he quickly lowered his gaze, and looked towards the man to his left as if his face was the most interesting thing to ever exist.
‘He is sex addict?’ She found the idea odd. ‘He looks like a virgin. Is he addicted to his hand? Maybe he’s sick of molesting socks.’
“Hi,” she sat down as her eyes zoomed onto the older man. Golden curls with a few stands threatening to shine in grey, eyes that an angel must have been attacked and robbed of them, rough large hands, beady beard, and just a few rare wrinkles. He must be 45 years, she estimated. Was it getting hotter in that cramped up café? She gulped as she became more aware of her skirt. She pulled it down.
“Hey,” he smiled at her softly, giving her a quick look.
‘That’s it?!’
“Is this the-” She froze mid sentence, suddenly remembering why she was there. He was an addict?! But he was so… “Ehm, Craig’s list?”
“Yes,” he smiled at her again.
“Great,” she pursed her lips. “I’m Jaden.”
“I’m Mathew, and this is,” he pointed to the boy was still avoiding all eye contact with her in an almost comic way.
“Liam,” the boy finished with an accent, but she couldn’t pin the origin of it.
“Is this the first meeting?” She addressed Mathew.
“It’s my first time,” he answered.
“I-it’s my first time too,” Liam almost stuttered, as he added his answer like an after note. “Do you want to drink something?” He got up almost knocking the chairs over. “Hmm, sorry.”
“No, thank you.”
Jenny gave him an odd look as he sat back down, before quickly shifting her attention towards Mathew again.
“Sit right here and I’ll be back with your juice.”
Jenny stared at one of the employees as she led a little girl by her hand towards the table. She blinked a few times, waiting for the synapses to fire and make the connection.
“Excuse me, lady, I don’t think she should be here,” she said to the employee as she was walking away.
“This is the only table with empty chairs.”
“But this is a s-” she eyed the little girl who was ogling right back at her with a blank expression. “It’s inappropriate. Move the chair elsewhere. C’mon, where is her mom?!”
The employee gave Mathew an uneasy look, and he smiled softly at her. He turned to Jenny and said, “It’s okay. It’s just for a little while.”
Her eyes widened at his comment. ‘What kind of pervert is he?!’
“Whatever,” she looked away.
Mathew
Mathew smiled at his girl who was half -hiding under her Buzz Light comforter. He could see her ogling at him from the wrong side of bed, “It’s past your bed time.”
She let out a yelp before covering her face with the fabric.
“Do you want to hear a story?” He turned on the revolving night-lights, before sitting at the edge of the bed, and tickling her from over the sheets.
“Daddy,” she peeked at him before pulling the comforter off her face and speaking with an adorable lisp. “You’re back.”
He took a deep breath. Perhaps he had been spending too much time at work lately, leaving the girl for his parents to care for, he thought.
“Do princess sleep side ways?”
She got up and moved towards her pillow.
“Good night princess.” He laid a soft kiss on her forehead, before flicking her nose and making the sound effect, as if pressing an off- switch.
She immediately closed her eyes.
“Time to recharge. Let me plug you in,” he pretended to put the imaginary cord into the plug, before hearing her giggle.
He walked out of the room, but hear her say, “Don’t leave, daddy.”
“I’ll be here in the morning.”
He stared for a moment at the wallpaper, with his hand clutched over his heart. His wife chose it four years ago, regardless of his protests. He should change it. Tear it down and put up another one he liked.
He walked towards his room, passing the by Kitchen where his parents chattered in muted voices. He took the car keys into his hand, and let the metal sink into his skin before gathering the energy to head for the car.
The minute his back touched the chair, his head slumped back, in a haze. His feet hurt, his hands hurt, his back hurt, everything hurt up to his hair and nails. Everything was aching as if his age was multiplied by hundred. He closed his eyes and…
He opened his eyes and began rubbing his face. He looked out of the window at the raging siren and saw one his neighbors run outside and scream at the teenager who had just rammed into his parked car. Fifteen minutes had passed. He must have dozed off, and now he had a headache as well.
He looked at the house, tempted by the bed inside. He shouldn’t, but it was so tantalizing. As he got ready to exit the car, his eyes fell a photo of the woman tucked underneath the CD player. He pulled it out and squished it inside his hands before falling back into his seat, holding his hands out and onto the steering wheel, and turning the engine on.
Twenty minutes later, he was walking down the street searching for the café and staring at his phone’s GPS. He rubbed his forehead, before shoving it back into his pocket. Never mind, he could find it the old fashioned way. He looked up and saw the drab clouds form.
He was left with one choice, asking around, but before he stopped an old man in his way, he caught a sniff of a sugary tang. His feet led him the direction of the source, and less than thirty seconds later, he was inside of the café, smiling and letting his dimples sink in front of the employees.
He looked at his watch. Early as usual. No groups seemed to be around, but he spotted a pale man who sat across of the cashier on the table with six chairs. His common sense steered him towards the table.
“Excuse me.”
The man looked up at him, his blank face turned frozen as if they were playing status, and drained of blood. His eyes widened, and Mathew suspected the man had stopped breathing as well.
“Are you okay?”
The man stood up and his knees were knocking together. He took a step back away from Mathew. “I’m going now.”
“Am I bothering you?”
The man sped out of the café, bumping into a few tables and turning a few heads, leaving Mathew watching him trail away with a stumped expression. “Sorry…”