She sat on the couch and curled into a fetal position. Art locked the door behind them and made straight for the kitchen to fetch two glasses of gin. He filled his two fingers' worth, and David almost a full glass. She probably needed this more than he. She said nothing when he handed her the glass, but gratefully brought it to her lips and took a long swallow.
Art was first to break the silence. "That was intense," he said.
David said nothing, but stared ahead blankly.
Art sat down next to her on the sofa, but kept a good distance. She was still unpredictable in her needs. She did not move closer nor further away, but sat like a mannequin.
Art tried again. "Are you okay?" he asked directly.
David did not speak, but nodded her head almost unperceptively. Then she shook her head softly from side to side. Shrugged her shoulders. Took another taste of gin.
Art wanted to hold her, stroke her hair, but he knew better. His longing for her was so strong, it made his chest hurt. He loved her. "How about a bath?" he offered Angie's suggestion. When he thought about it, he hadn't seen David bathe at all since she came, but that was the least of her mysteries.
David sat for a long while, contemplating the question. She finally spoke. "I am so sorry that I ruined your date," she said solemnly.
Art rushed to her. "Oh, no, no, no, you didn't ruin anything," he answered emphatically.
"If it hadn't been for me," she continued, "you'd still be out probably, maybe catching a late supper."
Art shook his head. "I had a wonderful first date, and I'm not letting you say any differently. You didn't ruin a thing; in fact, you were my savior."
David looked at him incredulously. "How could even a portion of that be true? I took you away from your date, and then she made us drop her at her flat."
"That's not what I meant," pleaded Art. "If it weren't for you, I'd one, never have met Angie; two, never had the nerve to talk to her; three, never invited her to the art exhibit; the list goes on, David. All of it, I owe to you."
"That sounds familiar," mused David.
"It was a perfect date," Art stated. "It really was." He thought back to kissing Angie on the stairway, the way they were completely caught up in the spontaneity of the moment, the way she felt in his embrace. He blushed.
David took notice and smiled knowingly. "Really?" she asked.
"Really," he answered. "Now how about I draw you a bath?"
David sighed and wiped her hands down her face. Some of the red makeup rubbed off on her palms and she looked at them for a minute before answering. "You know, that sounds great," she said. "Thank you, Art."
Art left David on the sofa and went into the bathroom to draw the bath. He looked at the tub and grimaced. He was not a slob, but not very meticulous about cleaning, either. He hastily scrubbed the walls and bottom of the bathtub with some powdered bleach and a sponge, and rinsed it clean. He wanted this to be special for David, a thank you card in a way. He searched through the linen closet for the best towels, which honestly were not that great, but the ones with the most fluff left in them. Rooting in the cabinet under the bathroom sink he found a sample of bath salts he had nicked from a hotel, sniffed the packet – lilac or lavender or something - and added them to the running hot water. He lit a candle stump he kept in the bedroom for power outages and placed it on the bath ledge. He wished he had a fluffy hotel robe, but only had an old flannel robe he never wore, with dust on the shoulders from having hung unused in the closet so long. He brushed off the dust best he could and folded the robe neatly, setting it on the closed toilet lid. He tried to think of what else David might like in the bath – music. He brought his old boom box into the room and plugged it into the wall, setting the box on the sink. He tuned into the classical music radio station and adjusted the volume. Something still wasn't right. He flipped off the lights. The candle cast a soft warm glow throughout the room. Perfect.
David was still sitting in the same spot, her glass in her hands. "It's ready," Art told her. "Let me know if you need anything."
"Okay," she answered, standing up slowly, her satin boots long since discarded in a pile by her feet. She walked over to Art and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for being so kind to me," she told him, then proceeded into the bathroom, untying her kimono and letting it drop to the floor. Art averted his eyes as she stepped into the tub, sat down in the water and let her entire body and head sink under the surface.
Art returned to the living room, picked up his drink and moved to the kitchen where he prepared himself a cheese sandwich and sliced up a red pepper for David. He sat at the small table and looked at his cell phone. He opened the text app and clicked on Angie's contact number. He wanted to send her a note, but had difficulty composing the words he wanted to say. He was still reveling in the high from their chemistry, and there was no way he could convey that in two succinct sentences. But he couldn't leave her with nothing after tonight. He drummed his fingers on the table, listened for David's movements in the bath indicative of life. His phone pinged. He looked down at it. It was a text from Angie. The relief that flooded through him was tangible. He read the text silently.
How's David?
Fine. Taking a bath like you suggested. Thanks for checking. How are you?
Good, thx. Glad to hear David is OK. Was worried.
Me too. Thx for your help. Despite that, I had a nice time. I'm sorry it was cut short.
Me too.
Art was at a loss now. His relief was so great that Angie not only reached out to him, but seemed, at least in writing, to have enjoyed her time with him as well. He didn't want to blow it, but so wanted to say something to make her feel the way she made him feel. Maybe not yet. Play it cool, Art, don't let on that this is your first date in decades.
I'd like to take you out again, with less drama.
He watched the text box next to Angie's name, watched the ellipses that told him she was writing a message. If he was a nail biter, he'd bite his nails.
I'd like that, too.
Art would have given anyone a high five, if there was a hand around to slap. Having none, he clapped his hands together loudly and whooped. He stood up and did an end zone touchdown dance. "Yes!" He exclaimed loudly.
He heard a splash from the bath and David calling, "Art, is everything okay?"
"Yeah," he called back. "It's great."
He picked up the phone again and typed.
Great, I will call you and we can set something up.
Sounds good. G-night.
Goodnight.
Art was elated. He couldn't help the smile that was plastered over his face, even though he knew he'd look psychotic alone in the kitchen smiling so broadly at nothing apparent. His heart beat rapid fire through his chest, blood rushing through his veins at a racehorse pace.
"Art?" David called from the bath.
"Yep?" Art answered, almost skipping toward her voice. "What can I do you for?"
"Can you bring me my gin, love?" she asked through the door.
Art found the glass on the coffee table and brought it back to the kitchen to refresh with ice. He brought it to the bathroom and rapped on the door with his knuckles.
"Come in," said David.
Art brought the glass in, keeping his eyes on the hallway behind him. He set it on the toilet seat next to the tub, on top of the flannel robe. "Is this good?" he asked. "Can you reach?"
David reached out a wet hand and took the glass. "Yes, that's perfect," she said.
"Okay," Art tried to say casually, still averting his eyes. "Take your time." He turned toward the door.
"Oh, do stay," pleaded David. "I hate being alone."
"Um, okay," said Art hesitantly. He leaned against the sink counter and stared at the wall.
"Sit," David commanded.
"Okay," Art said. He moved the robe to the sink and sat on the toilet lid. David had moved her drink to the bath ledge.
"It's okay," said David gently. "You don't have to look away."
Art blinked and looked David in her odd eyes.
"There, that's better," she said. "Thank you for the bath. It really is healing. And again, I'm dreadfully sorry about shortening your date."
"It's fine, really," said Art. "I spoke with Angie and she had a great time."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, we're going to make plans to go out again soon."
David clapped her hands together. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I just knew she'd love you."
"I wouldn't go that far," said Art, smirking.
"Well, I'm glad it worked out. And thank you for helping me get out of there."
"It must have been really scary for you," said Art.
David lowered her face.
"And surreal."
She nodded slightly. "All the nightmares came today," she said in a hush. "It was quite frightening."
"If I had known about the artwork," Art started, but David interrupted him with a wave of her hand.
"You didn't know. How could you have? Neither of us knew what to expect," David said. "I don't blame anyone."
"I shouldn't have left you alone," Art confessed.
"Left me alone?" David scoffed. "I'm fairly certain it was I who left you." She sighed. "I used to relish in the attention. I used to think this was what I wanted, people adoring you left and right, shouting your name. I'm not sure now that I do."
Art shifted his weight on the seat. He looked down at David in the tub, at her tattooed nipples and empty belly where a navel should be, her alabaster skin completely unblemished. She had her feet resting out of the water on the far end of the tub rim and quickly pulled them under when she sensed Art's stare, but not quickly enough, for he had seen her complete lack toenails on either foot. His stomach churned and he quickly had to settle it. He looked at her hands, her fingers. The bandage gone, it appeared as though her fingernail had mysteriously grown back. Art finally let his mind go to where he had been forbidding it since the day David dropped into his life. He thought of the writings, the milk, the nails, the tattoos. He cleared his throat, trying to draw up some courage with the phlegm.
"Um, David," he began, his voice wavering.
"Yes, love?"
"Where did you come from?"
"Brixton, England," she said simply.
"That's not what I mean," said Art. "I mean," he paused, searching for the right words. He couldn't help but stare at her body, the beautiful freak show underwater, like a Barbie doll in a plastic box. "What are you?"
David looked down at her body under the water, taking in all the oddities. She took her drink in her hand and looked at her fingers before swirling the gin in her mouth. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then looked Art square in the eyes. "I'm terrified," she said simply.
"Yeah, of course you are, I mean after the crowd and-"
"-Not that," she interrupted. "I don't know what I am. I'm so confused. I feel like, when I first saw you, that night in the woods, it was like the first day I was born. I mean, one minute, I'm lying in bed surrounded by my family, then the next, I was here, but," she looked down at her body again, "but like this."
"Did you come from Heaven?" Art asked. Then he laughed. He couldn't help it. It was absurd. Heaven, pshaw. Heaven. Heaven? Arthur didn't believe in angels any more than he believed in aliens, but the writings, the falling star, the abnormalities. He thought back to the night she fell to earth, appeared from the blackness in his desperate time of need. It did fit, in a parallel universe where Arthur Dottweiler believed in Heaven and Hell and angels it made sense. But this was...this wasn't the same Arthur Dottweiler who planned to take his own life that Saturday night. This was Art Dottweiler, Art Quagmire, Art Dogwater, Art Starfire who had been transformed over the course of two weeks into a person so much greater than the loser who had graced this planet for forty-two years previous. Art Starfire who kissed a woman spontaneously after making a scene at an art exhibit. Art Starfire who told stories with strangers every day, bringing joy to people who otherwise would sit in silence. Art Starfire the beacon calling forth an angel back to Earth. He stopped laughing. He believed. It was more than belief. It was if he were lucid for the first time in his life. "Were you sent here for me?"
"I believe so," David replied. "All I remember is you. There is nothing in between." She shrugged again. "It's all blackness." She sat up in the tub and took the towel from the towel bar. She stood up and wrapped it around her body.
Art held out the flannel robe. David took it and wrapped it around her body. She took off the towel, flipped her head upside down, and wrapped the towel like a turban around her wet hair. She returned upright and fiddled with the bath stopper, trying to unplug the drain. She couldn't get her fingers to cooperate, or didn't have the strength to remove the stopper and gave up with a huff. Art reached into the tub and yanked. The water sucked down the drain like a black hole. David stared at it with a faraway gaze. "Heaven," she said, "I think it swallowed me and spat me back out again."
Art stood up, but didn't move. He suddenly thought back to the alien autopsy video, and all of the movies he had seen over the years of oddities being captured and experimented on by the government. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his hands began to shake.
"I believe you, David," said Art, and he did. "I will keep you safe. You saved me. Now it's my turn." He took her wispy body in his arms and squeezed, feeling her heart flutter under her glass ribcage, her shallow, rapid breaths in and out of her lungs. She fell into his embrace like her life depended on it. "If you want to hole up here tomorrow, we'll cancel Mrs. Pritchard-"
"—No!" David cried urgently. "She's waited too long for this, and besides, I cherish her. She will do me some good. And we will do her good." She removed the towel from her head and tossed it over the edge of the tub, mussed her orange hair with her fingers. Several strands of hair came out and stuck to her fingers. She picked them off and threw them in the trashcan. She frowned, and, looking in the mirror, mussed her hair again. More strands of hair stuck to her fingers. Her eyes widened.
"What is it?" Art asked.
David looked at him in horror. "I'm not sure. I think...I think I'm falling apart." She collapsed onto the ground, head in hands. "Oh Art, no, no, it can't be happening. I don't want to die again."
Art knelt on the ground, cradled David in his arms. "You're not going to die," he whispered.
David's body shook with sobs. "I'm so frightened. I wasn't ready to go. I had so much to do. So much," her voice faded. "Sixty-nine years sounds like a long time, but it's not, oh it's so, so dreadfully short. I had so much more to give, so much more to live."
Art wasn't sure what to say, so he said the only thing he could think to make her feel better. "But you're back. You've been given a second chance."
It didn't help. David cried some more. "Can't you see what's happening? They screwed up! They sent me back, but I'm wrong! I mean, look at me! This isn't right. I'm a reincarnation gone bad and now they're trying to take me back to do it right. How long have I been back?"
Art thought back, tried to count, but his head was swimming. "Twelve," he said. "Twelve days." Only twelve days? It felt like twelve years.
"What if this time instead of sixty-nine years, it's just sixty-nine days?" David watched as several more hairs fell into her hands. She rocked back and forth, pitiful moaning sounds escaping her lips. "It's happening. I know it is."
"What's happening?"
"I'm being sent back."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, Art, Arthur, I can feel it. I can feel them pulling me back. Sixty-nine days, but there's so much to be done."
Art continued to hold her, rubbed her back with his coarse hand. "David, we'll get it all done. We can go out, and--"
She cut him off. "I can't go out there. Not now. Those people, they can sense it. You saw them. It's like Los Angeles all over again. If I go out with them, I fear I'll go mad."
"What if you went out in disguise?"
"Oh for Christ's sake," she sobbed. "I'm already in disguise! They see it, feel it, smell it on me. Look what happened at the art exhibit!"
Art couldn't deny what happened. The photographers and throngs chasing her, calling her name. David was right. The masses would rip her apart. "Then we'll stay in," he said. "I'll keep you here as long as you like, as long as you can."
"As long as they'll let me."
"And you can work on your art, on whatever it is you need to do before..." he paused. Before what?
"Sixty-nine days."
"Sixty-nine days." Art held her closely, felt her ribs under his fingers, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird in her chest.
She struggled to stand. Art helped her up. She looked in the mirror and wiped her face with her hands. She stared at her reflection.
"It's been a long day," said Art. "You really should rest. Do you think you can sleep?" Art blew out the candle. Turned off the radio.
David shrugged. "I don't know."
"You should try. Come on." They walked into the bedroom. David sat on the bed. Art sat next to her, removed his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt. He took David's ankles and gently placed her legs on the bed, pulled the blanket over her. He kissed her forehead. It felt cold despite the bath. Like stone. "Try not to think too much," he said. Art tossed his shirt to the floor and lay down next to David. Switched off the lamp.
She reached for his hand in the dark, and together they clasped each other and stared at the ceiling. He vowed he would hide her. He'd hide her where nobody would find her – in plain sight with a nobody like him.
Bowie, David. "Oh! You Pretty Things." Lyrics. Hunky Dory. RCA Records. 1971.