Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Tastes like trouble: IV

She avoided my questions in a way that made it seem like it didn’t matter. She dismissed the boat story, and explained the hospital scrubs I had been wearing as something she must have brought home from work. To her, I was exactly where she left me when she left for her twelve hour shift, just worse off.

We couldn’t find any of my cloths among her things, so she put me to bed naked. Exhausted and feeling completely exposed I asked her to take us someplace where we could think everything through.

“Think what through?”

My being pulverized and her apartment being smashed to bits? She is right it must be a coincidence. So that's what I told her. She laughed, then moved around the room talking with her hands. “It’s this neighborhood! Some meth-head or something. Don’t get all conspiracy on me. Some junkies probably broke in here, fucked you up.” Her tone changed and she sat on the edge of the bed, the denial fell away and her sincerity felt like a feather pillow top, “I am sorry you got fuck up, baby. But you’re probably just concussed.”

She got up and slung her giant purse over her shoulder. She had the hippy/shabby chic thing going on. She was a nurse, a force of nature. Life was the tail to her comet.

“I am going to go buy you some cloths, and jell-o. When I get back we can call the cops and report this…” She searched for the right word but in process realized saying nothing was a big enough descriptor. With a wave of her hand she was gone.

I stayed in bed and watched the ceiling. I let my eyes play tricks on me and focused on the ‘floatys’ that swam across my field of vision. The fan in the living room was moving papers around. I could hear them shuffling across the floor.

My papers shuffling across the floor?

My thesis shuffling across the floor… I cringed. And then cringed again as I put my feet on the floor. It was time to play fifty-two card pick-up with a hundred thirty-seven pages, (and counting) of historical data and analysis.

I limped around the corner. He was standing in the doorway to the apartment, trying to re-hang the door. He looked more eclectic this time; he had added a tweed sports jacket to his ensemble. His back was turned to me, and I could see that his tattoos worked their way up the back of his neck into his hair. When he turned around he seemed as surprised to see me as I had been to see him. I covered my inheritance. Had I been famous we were in a six figure snap shot.

“Dude, really?” He itched his head under his hat. “What the hell did you come back here for?” He paused for a moment, obviously rethinking the situation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his little note pad. “We have to talk.”

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