Better Than Burroughs

One Week Later
Marina

Things have been great. Fabulous actually. Callum and I have fallen into a pleasant routine. I always wake before he does, something that didn’t surprise me. It took me a couple of days to feel comfortable in the flat but now I feel like it’s my home. When I realized that yesterday, I was completely shocked. I lived with Felix for much longer and his apartment never felt like home. It took me five days to feel at home here. I don’t feel uncomfortable helping myself to the refrigerator, the biggest and most pleased about development.

We may not see eye to eye on everything, but at least he’s honest. He doesn’t smooth things over and I think I’ve needed that. We got in an argument over his smoking, which I had only seen him do twice before the argument. I think he’s doing it now just to annoy me. He doesn’t have all the signs of a heavy smoker. Holes in the sheets, burn marks on the couch, ash trays, burn holes in his clothes, et cetera. My dad is a heavy smoker; I know what it looks like. Which is probably why I don’t like it. Also, smoke hurts my throat.

His drinking is a problem though. I’ve always known Callum to like alcohol, but I never knew to what extent. I have no idea what it would take for him to get drunk, but I assume it would take a lot. His tolerance must be insanely high. I’ve only seen him drunk once and that was a while ago. He showed up at Felix’s in the middle of the night, waking us up by pounding on the door, and started to sing when the door wasn’t opened quickly enough. I remember his yelling at me after I asked him if he was alright. I was so angry that he did that. I don’t know what he had wanted that night, but he got so angry that he left. I don’t think I want to see him drunk again.

Having just got back from the laundry mat, I quickly put my clean clothes away and grab some socks. I’m freezing. Even though the weather has been wonderful lately, my toes always end up cold. My room looks more filled now. Emma helped me get some of my stuff from home. Not having moved everything of mine into Felix’s apartment, I left a lot of my stuff at my parents’ house. I had gone to get my small CD player, a lamp, my TV, alarm clock, and random things that I needed. My dad barely even noticed that I was home and my mom wasn’t there. Not wanting to seem like an immature brat, I left the number to the flat on the refrigerator and even wrote down the address. I had wanted to tell them that I was going to be taking my car back but I decided to do it at a later date since my mom wasn’t home. I left my car at home after I moved in with Felix. It just ended up not being needed and there wasn’t any room for it in the lot. They were very anal about cars. My parents didn’t mind my leaving it in their garage, which was very strange but I never looked into it. At times not having my own car was a bit of a pain but I soon forgot I even had it in the first place. It wasn’t until Emma brought it up that I remembered.

The front door opens and out of the corner of my eye I see Callum. Quickly slipping my socks on, I walk out to tell him about my new job. I answered an add in the newspaper. An older woman was looking for someone to drive her to doctor appointments, the store, or wherever else she needed to go. I think it’s mainly about companionship and remembering my grandparents, I just had to reply. I’ll probably feel guilty taking her money, but I can’t wait to meet her. I talked to her briefly on the phone and she seems really sweet. She never had any children and her husband died ten years ago. Having her license revoked, she can no longer drive herself places. I don’t know how long I’ll do it for, but I don’t think I could develop a relationship with an old woman and just quit on her. She said that it wouldn’t take up much of my time and that she would inform me a week early, at least, of all appointments and times she would need me.

“Closed already?” I ask, walking closer. His pants are made up of thick black and red stripes, stripes that are almost too thick. They border on jester stripes. His shirt’s plain white with a rip across the side. Looking at me, he shakes his head absently. His brows are scrunched together and he looks annoyed. He has the look he gets when he’s been dealing with extra frustrating customers. Perfect. I’ll take his mind off it with my new job and afterwards he’ll forget about being upset. I’m sure that my hanging out with an old person will just brighten up his day.

“So guess what?” I ask, smiling widely. His eyebrows arch, appraising me with a smile. He rubs his eye and I remember that I wanted to ask him if I could shave shapes into his facial hair. I need to remember that for later.

“You’ve discovered that loose floor board?” he asks. Loose floorboard? What? I glance around and his arm moves around my waist to lure me away from where we were standing.

“Never mind,” he says insistently, frantically shaking his head and I know he’s kidding.

“I got a job,” I announce, take a step away from him. He doesn’t say anything for a minute and his face is blank. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“So do I…” he says slowly. My smile drops. I can’t believe he’s not happy for me. He could at least pretend to be happy for me. Turning around, I intend on going back in my room but he stops me, his hands grabbing my waist and spinning me back around, “I was only playing Marin. Congratulations.”

His smile is small and lopsided, his eyes bright, making it apparent that he’s telling the truth. And thank god, because that would have been just mean. His hands are still on my waist and I can feel their warmth through my shirt. We seem to notice it at the same time because he drops his hands immediately and steps away.

“So what’s the job?” he asks, turning around and heading into the kitchen. Following after, I say, “Offering my services to an old woman.”

“Driving Miss Daisy around?” he asks with a barely concealed smirk. "Or are we speaking of more intimate services?"

“Muriel and no,” I correct. I know the job isn’t all that glamorous or really anything special, but it’s perfect for me. I’m not one for the office and this isn’t really like having a job. It’s like hanging out with a grandmother.

“You don’t have a car,” Callum points out.

“Actually I do. I left it at home when I moved in with Felix. Tomorrow I’m going to pick it up. It’s okay right? Parking it in the lot?” I ask, hoping he won’t mind if my car’s in his store’s lot all the time. He nods his head and looks at me like I just asked a ridiculous question. It probably was. I’m living here after all.

Turning, he moves to the refrigerator and opens it, taking out the carton of orange juice. A beverage I’ve discovered he drinks a lot of. He drinks it all night. Either he doesn’t sleep, or he constantly wakes up, because I hear him in the kitchen multiple times every night and in the morning the orange juice is just about gone. I wonder if that’s healthy. Excessive amounts of orange juice? But at least it’s not alcohol so that’s something. I wonder if kissing him would taste of oranges.

Shaking the carton, he frowns, “Bloody hell.” Pulling out a glass, he pours the rest of the juice in it, only filling it up three inches. Tossing the carton in the garbage under the sink, he quips, “So this crazy old bint is going to pay you to do this? Unfuckingbelievable.”

Watching him lean against the counter and slowly sip at his juice, I can’t help but smile. Living with him has been interesting. He’s not who I thought he was. The smallest little details amaze me. Like how he’s sipping the juice right now and not just downing it quickly. Or that he bothered to poor it in a glass at all instead of just drinking out of the carton. I laughed when I found his razor in the bathroom. I just didn’t expect to find one since he rarely shaves. I like the scruffiness though. It suits him. When his face is smooth he looks like a different person. His hair is getting even longer and I wonder if he’d let me cut it. I cut my own hair and it always works out decently.

“Would you let me cut your hair?” I ask, wanting to know and thinking that this could be a fun way to bond. See if he trusts me.

“Should I take this to mean I look like shite?” he asks, quickly rinsing the empty glass out and leaving it in the sink.

“Of course not, I was just wondering.”

He begins pulling at his hair, I assume assessing the length and looks me up and down. Tilting his head to one side, he says, “No thanks. Ruby would be heartbroken.”

“Ruby?”

“My hairdresser.”

He has a hairdresser? I find this insane. How often does he see her? Once a year? If that. I guess the look on my face communicates enough because Callum tells me to get fucked with a smile on his face. I don’t take offense.

“Right. I’m leaving,” he says, walking past me and quickly making his way upstairs into his bedroom. I hear him rummage through his drawers before he walks back down, shirtless with a new shirt in hand. I drop my eyes, not wanting to stare at his torso because I know that I would end up doing just that. He doesn’t seem to notice because when I look back up he’s already buttoned the new shirt and is running his hands through his hair. The shirt is much nicer than his pants and I love that he combines old with new. It’s endearing. At least they match, being that the shirt is red.

“Work?” I ask.

“No, I’m closing up on my way out.”

He heads for the door and I quickly ask, “Where are you going?”

“I’m due for a superior fuck,” he throws over his shoulder.

“How charming. What a way to win the ladies over,” I say sarcastically, not knowing if he’s serious or not. He smirks and I assume he was kidding. I ask him when he’ll be back but he doesn’t answer, instead just leaving and throwing the door shut behind him.

This shouldn’t bother me but I don’t want to be alone all night. I’m going to be beyond bored. Emma has plans with Dwight, they’re looking to be quite serious. I’m happy for her. She’s never really settled down with one guy and Dwight seems great. My first impression was a little odd, but I like the guy. He’s genuinely sweet. He dotes on her, just what she needs. Lots of attention. Sighing, I turn around and stare at the empty flat. I really need to get myself a life.


Callum

“What time is it?”

Jessica rolls over before answering, “Half past ten.”

“Ten thirty?” I ask. Just fucking say the time. No need to dress it up you silly daft twit. I just fucked a girl who says half past ten. Twice. How bloody nauseating. I kick the sheet off and the cool air hits the sweat on my body. It’s freezing. It’s perfect.

I watch Jessica get up, pulling the sheet with her and wrapping it around her naked body. Why must women insist upon doing that? It’s a sin. She wasn’t bashful during the previous activities and I highly doubt there’s anything I did not see. Second the sex is over, they’re blushing virgins again. If there’s one thing Jane Austen got right, there’s nothing like watching a beautiful woman walk around a room. If they would just drop the damned sheet.

“Do you want some water?” she asks, stopping in the doorway to her bedroom. She lives with a roommate. She wanted us to be quiet. I don’t tolerate silent sex. I don’t think she can honestly hold it against me. I get the feeling that she wants an excuse to get out of the room so I nod my head. She’s too shy to be naked in front of me but she’s quite alright with walking around the apartment she shares, with nothing but a sheet on, advertising the sex she just had. Women are all raving fucking loons.

I don’t want to stay the night here. I don’t want to go home. I’m fucked either way. This just isn’t working. I just about had to force my body to cooperate earlier. Not that Jessica isn’t attractive, she’s bloody adorable, I just couldn’t get into it. It’s all Marina’s fault. She’s all over the place. I can’t get away from her. When I do, I want to be back with her. It’s all giving me a god-awful migraine.

Jessica walks back in, two glasses of water in hand, and hands me the taller of the two. Taking it, I want to ask her for something a little heavier but I don’t. I don’t want to get pissed here. This is the worst part. Jessica perches on the end of the bed, her back is rigid and I almost pump my fist in the air out of sheer relief. She wants me to leave. She’s uncomfortable with my being here, with having sex with a stranger. Thank Christ she has a conscience.

I set the water down on her nightstand and stand up. It takes me less than a minute to get dressed and she’s beginning to relax her shoulders. I almost don’t want to leave anymore just because she obviously wants me too. Save that for another night. Digging in my pockets, I find her receipt from Borders. I don’t know how I got stuck with her trash, but it’s a great store to meet women. After locating a pen hanging from a wall calendar, I write my number down on the back of it and kneel down in front of her, sliding the paper beneath the clasped hands on her lap. I doubt she’ll ever call, but she’s sweet and I don’t want her to feel like a complete whore in the morning. Her eyes are bright green and I’m horrified that I hadn’t noticed before now.

“You’re beautiful,” I say quietly, placing my hands on either side of her face. I pull her in for a kiss and I can feel her smile. Kissing her forehead next, I stand up and walk out. Telling a girl that she’s beautiful doesn’t help my soul get into heaven in the end, but why would I want to spent my afterlife somewhere that casts out suicides?

Instead of going home, I stop by a bar with the full intention of drinking myself unconscious. I can’t go home yet, not while she’s awake and I doubt she’s asleep yet. It’s not even eleven. I just can’t walk in that door and see her. What does she do while I’m gone? All girls are nosey bit parkers.

------

It’s not even one and I’ve already left the bar. Alright, gotten kicked out of the bar. He fucking started it. Did he hit me? I feel my face and my fingers come away free of blood. I could have sworn he hit me. Fuck it. I hit him. Why did I hit him? Whatever. He was a fucking wanker. Rotten bleedin’ music playing in that shit hole too. What happened to that bottle? I should have fucked Marin tonight. Not that other girl. I should be put down. I don’t deserve to have a cock. Fucking moron. I shouldn’t drink anymore. I’m pissing myself off. I could be drunker. I’m sober enough to know that much.

Working my way into the store, I slowly find my way to the stairs in the dark. A bright man would have turned a light on. A smashed man, he stumbles. Once I get in the staircase, I’m golden. The walls are a godsend. He sent me these walls to support myself on. At least he did something. He didn’t fucking do shit for me as a kid. What’s his bloody problem with suicides anyway? His sodding fault they were depressed in the first place. Cause of his sorry arse they had to leave their kids behind. Fuck God. I’m hungry. I want apple pie.

Opening the front door, I feel like I’m being attacked at all angles. The music is deafening. Looking up for the source, I can’t hear it anymore. I can’t fucking move. Marin is dancing. She’s facing the book shelf and she’s dancing. Oh god I can see her thighs. Shorts are glorious. I force myself to look up and I get stuck at her shoulders. She leads with her shoulders. I’m struck with an image of Pat Benatar. Blondie. Every 80’s rock chick. Marina could be the singer of a punk band with the way she moves her upper body. I don’t recognize the music but suddenly it’s not so bad. The singer is a woman, she has an accent I can’t discern and it’s impossibly upbeat. Fifty bucks says I can guess their influences. I probably just listed them.

She hasn’t turned around. She’s picking through my books slowly, her singing barely audible over the music. Her hips are rolling and I suddenly feel drunker than I actually am. I can’t watch this. Why the fuck isn’t she asleep already? Why the hell is she dancing like a fucking minx in the middle of the night? We need to set some rules. Obviously. I fucked the wrong woman. Hell, aren’t I always with the wrong woman? She’s wearing a tank top, her shoulders are bare and I want to smooth my hands over them to get her attention.

Shaking myself out of it, I locate her CD player on the desk to the right and turn the music down to a more pleasing level. She immediately swings around, the dancing put on hold.

“Callum!” her mouth works for a bit before able to say anything else. “How long have you been here?”

“What is this shite?” I ask, messing with the volume a bit. She shrugs and her shoulders are beautiful. Walking towards her, I notice tiny dots littering her tank top. Purple fucking dots. Start wearing purple. Start wearing purple for me now.

“The Sounds,” she says and I don’t know what she’s talking about. She points to the CD player and I remember the question. I think I’m a little foggy in the memory...arena. I keep walking towards her and don’t stop until I just about slam into her. Oh the mental image is torturous, something to wank off to before passing out. She looks up at me and her eyes squint.

“You’ve been drinking...and smoking."

It’s so obvious that I laugh. Have I been smoking though? I actually don't think so. I was just in a bloody bar in which no one takes the laws to heart. She frowns and I don’t even care. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I have not been smoking and I’m perfectly sober.”

She doesn’t believe me and thank god for that. How fucking gullible would she have to be? Besides, I’m only a little smashed. She steps away from me, moving around me and I sway forward towards where she was just standing. I swear the air is still warm.

“Why do you drink so much?” she asks from somewhere behind me. The music stops and the silence mocks me. I can’t have this now. I ignore her question, I fucking hate that bloody question, and kneel down in front of my records. She mutters something and I’m not going to ask what. I don’t want to know. Although in the mood for some rambunctious gypsy…Russian…whatever the bloody hell they are, music, I don’t think my head will be able to take it after one song. Choosing instead an old dependee, I put on No More Shall We Part and lay back on the ground. Why does my back hurt?

“Did you get in a fight?”

Opening my eyes, it takes me a moment to realize why I can’t see anything and that’s because she’s leaning over me, blocking the light. I flinch when she lays a hot wash cloth over my forehead. Sitting up, I pull it off. She just takes it from me and begins rubbing my temple with it. The pain is startling.

“Bloody fuck, get off me woman!” I fear she takes it more seriously then I meant when she immediately does as told. I’m a bastard. I smile and try to smooth it over but I don’t do very well. I knew I got hit somehow. I must have missed the temple. I run my fingers across my hairline and feel the cut. Fucking git. Hauling myself up off the floor, I feel like a drunk buffalo. Taking the wash cloth with me, I go into the bathroom and turn the light on. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wipe away the dried blood. It’s not bad. Leaving the cloth in the sink, I walk out to see her standing against the couch, arms crossed. I’m in trouble now. I can feel it. Crossed arms are never good. Not combined with that head tilt and those eyes. Actually it’s just the eyes. Eyes are amazing. Her’s are brilliant.

“Go raibh…thank you,” I say, catching myself before I completely revert to Gaelic and pointing at my head. “I forgot about it.” I sound like a moron and the alcohol is loosening my grip on language. Fabulous. Splendid.

“You shouldn’t drink so much. It’s not good for you, you know.”

“I’m Irish! It’s what we do.” Great excuse. I probably shouldn’t encourage stereotypes but they get you out of a lot. I rather enjoy them. I almost go as far as to tell her to kiss me, the standard American come-on. Kiss me, I’m Irish. I can do better. If you’re going to use it, don’t speak English.

“I thought you were British?”

Right. Forgot about that. Fucking alcohol. “Yeah. I am. Well…yeah.” That sentence was exhausting and I walk around her to sit back on the couch, shutting my eyes. Countdown to her asking for clarification. Countdown to my not being able to shut my fucking mouth. Countdown to the fucking end of hiding.

“You just said you were Irish.” The couch dips and I know she’s sitting beside me. Opening my eyes, I roll my head to the side and I can’t lie to her. Her eyes are so brown and her lips are parted and she clearly looks interested. At least it’s off topic from my alcohol abuse. That’s something right? Sure.

“I never claimed to be born in Britain.”

She doesn’t say anything and I can see that she’s thinking back to every time the issue of where I’m from was brought up. It’s the truth. I never said I was born there. People assume and I’m fine with that. I’ve just said I was from there and I am. And Ireland before that.

“When did you…why…” she trails off and I feel bad for her. She wants to know but doesn’t know what to ask. I’ve been there before. It’s the alcohol’s fault but I don’t want to fuck with her. I’m too tired to use that kind of will power.

Looking back up at the ceiling, I say, “I was born in Dublin. Moved to London later on.”

“So your parents are Irish?” she asks and I know that she’s going to be fine now in the questions category. Why are parents so damn fascinating to women? Who the fuck cares where I came from?

“Not my mum, she was born in London.” I get the mental picture of breakfast with my parents and I feel sick to my stomach. Evening out my breathing, I try the in through the nose, out through the mouth bit but it doesn’t help. God I want to tell her everything. I suddenly want to cry just so I’ll know if she’d wrap her arms around me. I won’t volunteer. If she asks, I’ll tell her everything. I need to tell her.

She looks back at my book shelf, asking, “Is that where you picked Gaelic up? From your dad?”

I nod, “Learned it with English.” Thankfully I’m not completely plastered cause I doubt I would have the good sense to stick to English right about now. I make such an effort to never speak it normally; I’m fucked in an intoxicated state. A good orgasm has the same outcome. Fits of rage as well. Beauty also has the outcome. I want to woo her with words she won’t understand.

“So are your parents still in Ireland?” she asks. I shake my head and glance over at her, not really even sure why I’m still talking about my family.

I can predict her next question and cut her off before she gets it all out, “They both passed.”

She shuts her mouth immediately and I’m sorry for it. She begins to say that she’s sorry and I cut her off again, “Don’t say you’re sorry.” I shouldn’t interrupt her this often but I can’t take people apologizing. I clear my throat and I want something to drink. I need lots of water.

She doesn’t get upset with my bad manners, smiling at me instead. I feel like she’s forgiving me of everything. Absolving me. Her hand falls on my arm and I can’t look anywhere else when her thumb begins moving along my skin. She asks me what happened and I’m fucked because I told myself I would tell her.

“They had a car accident. My father didn’t last long and my mum moved me to England. Being in Ireland was too hard for her. She lasted…three years without him. After which, she took pills,” I spit it all out, getting it over with, not wanting to give myself the chance to lie to her.

When she doesn’t say anything, I look up at her and see her eyes welling. I can’t make her cry. If I see her cry, I’ll cry and once that starts, I’m lost. I force a smile and work on detaching myself from what’s in my head. From memories.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen for my father…seventeen for me mum.”

There. It’s all over with and I’m alive. I even feel better. Marina doesn’t wipe away the tears that escape but I don’t want to see them. Reaching up, I wipe them from her cheeks and she lets me. Why is she looking vulnerable when I’m the one who just spilled my family secret? Why does it have to be such a bloody turn on? I want to kiss her, any part of her, but the moment is spoiled when she speaks.

“No wonder why you drink.” She smiles and I start laughing. I wouldn’t have expected a joke from her, not now. I’m glad she did it. She doesn’t know how right she is.

“So what’s your tattoo say?” she asks, her finger poking into my arm. “And how do you say it?”

“Éireann go Brách,” I say it slowly so she’ll be able to reproduce it. It’s not difficult. She repeats it softly to herself and I don’t expect my reaction. I don’t expect a lot. I’m glad she can’t speak Gaelic. Watching her lips form the words that meant so much to me as a child is almost too much.

“Ireland Forever,” I say when she looks up at me. She smiles acceptingly. I want to whisper all the things I feel in her ear. I want to kiss the backs of her knees and find out if she’s ticklish. I don’t even want to fuck her. I just want to touch her freely. I don’t want to fuck her? Of course I want to fuck her. I need a bath and some scotch.

She seems content not to ask about my family any more and I don’t know if that’s what I want. I want to tell her everything. She just has to push for it. I want her to push for it. I need someone to fucking care enough to push. Great combination, alcohol and Nick Cave. The title track starts up and I want to sleep forever.

“Do you have any more tattoos? I’ve always wanted to get one but I’m not one for voluntary pain. Besides, I would have no idea what I’ll still like in two years.”

Kicking my shoes off, I pull my legs up and sit facing her. Taking my socks off, I hold up my left foot in display. Her finger traces the small crude X on the inside of my ankle and if it’s possible to swallow my tongue, I almost just did. Her finger moves away from the X to absently circle my ankle bone. That fucking bone that hurts so much to hit. She quickly moves back to the mark on my ankle and looks up at me, “Not to sound insulting, but was the guy who did this drunk?”

I laugh, shaking my head, “Actually, I was quite sober.”

“You did it yourself?”

“I was pissed at the world. I was in a train station and bored. I entertained myself through self-mutilation.” It was actually right after my mum left me. I took off and didn’t know what to do. Classic case of wanting to see something real. It didn’t hurt like I thought it should. I did that for a few years, marked myself in some way. Most people don’t notice cause most of them weren't deep enough to scar. Besides, people only notice the professionally done tattoo anyway.

Her hand is still on my ankle and I pull my foot back, tucking it underneath my other leg. She’s still smiling, small and sweetly.

“That’s a pretty sensitive area. It must have hurt.”

“Not a whole lot. This one hurt a little more,” I say, holding my left hand up and showing her the black dots between my thumb and finger. The skin is so thin that I remember sticking the needle clean through. Not for piercing purposes, just because. I had wanted there to be red dots in-between but all I had was black ink. It was quite the disappointment. At the time, I only had time to do the four. I had this brilliant idea to do them all the way up the side of my finger. Thank god I didn’t. I would have hated it now. Four is just enough to go unnoticed when my hand is relaxed.

“How have I not noticed these?” she asks, bringing my hand up to her face. There she goes again with running her fingers across my skin. She’s trying to seduce me. Her breath puffs out against my hand and a little closer, my thumb could touch her lips.

“Are there more?”

I shake my head. There is more but I don’t want to show her anymore. She’ll keep touching me and they begin to appear in an area I don’t want her touching. Nothing too complex. I kept it simple with tiny circles, some filled in, some not. It all depended on the time I had available. Honestly, there’s only one more area that I scarred. My pelvis bone. Fuck it. I’m showing her. I’ll blame it on the alcohol later. Unfolding my legs, I stand up in front of her and begin unbuttoning my pants.

“What are you doing?” she asks, throwing her hands up in front of her eyes. How fucking virginal. Unzipping, I pull the right side of my pants down until I find the circles. With my other hand, I pull her hands down away from her eyes and wait for her to open them. She does slowly and sighs when she sees that I’m still clothed. She leans forward and stares at the show and I can’t ignore how close she is. I figure I have maybe thirty seconds before my body begins responding to the image. I have pretty good control but sometimes I just can’t be bothered. I think this is one of those times. I’m not going to blush over a hard-on. They happen. Quite often. And I definitely have nothing to be bashful over. Or it’s something not to be bashful over. I like the second one best. It doesn’t hint that I have nothing.

She touches me again and I step back before she can move her fingers across my skin. Now that, I can’t take. That’s just too much. Zipping my pants back up, I don’t bother to button them. I don’t fail to notice that she hasn’t looked up at me yet. Her body shakes slightly and I wonder if she’s cold. Looking at her arms, I see goose flesh and ask if she wants the heater on. She shakes her head and laughs nervously. It’s not the temperature of the room. She’s turned on. She’s getting warm for me.

“Don’t get a tattoo, I won’t allow it,” I say, sitting back down beside her.

“You won’t allow it? Since when do you get to allow things?” she asks without looking at me. She busies her fingers with the hem of her tank top, pulling at a loose thread.

“I haven’t seen it, but I image your body being perfectly tasty and the thought of a sodding tattoo fucking it up makes me want to vomit,” I answer truthfully. I’m not the only one being thrown tonight.

“How do you do that?” she asks, finally looking at me. I don’t know what she’s talking about and stay quiet, waiting for her to explain. They always do when they actually want an answer.

“Hide endearments among curse words and a casual vomit reference?”

“It’s an art. I studied for years. Trained for longer. It’s a gift.”

She accepts my sarcasm with a laugh and I don’t think I’ve heard her laugh as often as I’ve heard lately. Did Felix get this? Did she laugh for him? I want to know but the answer will just irk me if it’s not what I want to hear. I’m not stupid enough to ask questions if I don’t want to hear the answer. Like all those action men who want to know how many men their girlfriends have slept with. Lie to them. Every fucking time. They don’t want to know the truth. And for the love of cock, don’t tell them it was good. The story is, you never came. Not like you do with action man.

“Well don’t worry, I’ll never get one. And anyway, my body isn’t perfect.”

I don’t bother arguing with her. She knows it’s bullshit.

“There’s no such thing as perfect, remember?” she points out and it’s a fucking lie.

“Who the fuck came up with that shite?”

“It’s true. People shouldn’t try to conform to society’s view of perfection. It’s not right.” Her voice is strong and I don’t disagree. She’s right. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

“Society’s view? Is that the only view? What about culture? No two people will agree on what perfection is in a partner. Everyone has their own idea of the word. Of course it exists. You can’t argue with my definition of perfection. I could get a hard-on for a hook nose and you can’t argue with a hard cock.”

When she doesn’t answer, I feel the need to continue and can’t stop myself, “This music. To me, Nick Cave is perfect. This is the definition of music. It’s love and hate and everything that falls to the sides. All the Bob Dylan nutters preaching his utter genius can kiss my white arse. I don’t mind the guy, he’s great in his own way. It Aint Me Babe is a fabulous song. Although I do prefer Cash and Carter’s cover. It works better as a duet don’t you think?”

I wait for an answer but she merely shrugs. She probably doesn’t think it was a question looking for a response. Hallelujah is just about finishing, going into the final verses with those adorable women and I have to listen to it. It’s hard sometimes to uphold a conversation with certain music playing. It’s just too commanding.

“Yes, so. You have a perfect body. Don’t fucking argue,” I end with, not really remembering where it was I left off before Bob Dylan. My point has been proven enough. She’s looking at me like I’m insane and I don’t blame her. Hanging my head, sharp pain shoots through my neck and I want that bath. I wonder if I smell like that girl? I suddenly feel disgusting. Coming home from being with another woman and not bothering to shower immediately. Why should it matter?

“I’m taking a bath,” I announce, standing up and walking over to turn the music up higher. I want to be able to hear it in the bathtub.

“Are you going to sleep anytime soon?” I ask, looking back at Marin on the couch.

“No. I’ll probably watch some TV.”

“Do me a favor? If I’m not out when the record ends, could you restart it?”

She agrees and I head for the bathroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. Stopping, I turn back around and ask, “Actually, when it runs up, make sure I haven’t passed out?”

She agrees again, this time looking a little worried. I doubt I’ll fall asleep or pass out, but I definitely don’t want to die in my bathtub.

Marina

I’m not sure how long ago the record quit, I sort of zoned out during an infomercial for BareMinerals makeup. I hate informercials. I'm fully convinced that I need that makeup now. Resetting the needle, the music starts back up and I look to the bathroom. He hasn’t come out yet, what if he actually did pass out? Oh god, he could be dead and it would be all my fault. Walking up to the door, I lay my ear against it and listen for movement. Hearing none, I knock softly, “Callum?”

No answer. Worry begins creeping up and I knock again, louder, combined with calling out his name again. Still nothing. Reaching for the knob, the door swings open before I can even wrap my hand around it. Looking up, Callum has a cocky grin plastered on his face. What a bastard.

“It’s been a good five minutes since it ended, love. I could be dead right now,” he says in a scolding manner. Yeah well, he could have died twenty minutes ago too. His hair is sticking up all over the place, having been rubbed with a towel. Speaking of towels, I’m very relieved to see that he did not come out wearing one. He’s wearing his robe, which I plan on stealing whenever I move out. It’s huge and hangs down to his calves. Black, blue, and white cotton plaid. There’s a long tear down the side’s seam and another hole on the right shoulder, also open at the seam. It must not have been an expensive purchase. How do you tear a robe though? How often would you have to wear it in order to do that? And where are you wearing it to?

He slides past me and I notice that he definitely looks better. The bath really helped. No matter how many baths he took though, I doubt it would do anything for the constant glimmer of pain on his face. He always seems to look a little worried, a little upset. Before I had no idea why he would look like that, not knowing anything about his past. Now, I’m sure he has plenty of things to look sad over. I want to talk to him about his parents. I want to know why he ran away. Where he went. If he has any more family and why he didn’t go to them. I want to know if he was close with his parents. I just want to hear him talk about it. When he was talking earlier, I wasn’t sure if he wanted to be talking or if he was just waiting for me to shut up. I was shocked he said anything at all, I still am. I can’t even fathom what it must have been like to loose both parents in the span of three years. While I never got along too well with mine, I needed them. I still do to some degree. They’re my parents. How did Callum get here?

I’m not sure if his drinking is a self-destructive thing or not. He gets in fights and doesn’t even notice when his head is bleeding. It makes me worry about him. I don’t want him getting hurt. He owes it to himself to take better care of himself and to stop drinking so much. I realize that he has a high tolerance for alcohol, which makes me wonder how much he actually drank tonight to get even a little tipsy. I’m glad that he doesn’t drive. And why doesn’t he drive? Does he even have a license? Is he a citizen?

“Are you feeling better?” I ask, shutting out all of my other questions, and turning around to find him laying back on the couch.

“Much, although not completely. Your dancing just may well tip the scale,” he says invitingly. I’m so glad he’s reminding me. I wanted to forget about that. I don’t mind people seeing me dance, just not when I don’t know they can. I’ve got to censor myself a little and not look like a complete spaz. I don’t even want to think about what I must have looked like. I didn’t think he’d be coming back so soon, if at all. I shake my head and he looks disappointed. Good.

“Would you sit down already, you’re making me nervous. Shut the light off before you do though, it’s giving me a headache.”

“You want to sit in the dark?” I ask, not really expecting an answer since the question was pointless. Shutting the light off, I’m glad to see that the flat isn’t thrown into complete darkness. The lamp on in my room manages to barely light the living room. I sit down at his feet, folding mine up in a mock meditation pose. I don’t want to leave him just yet. I’ve found that I crave his company. I love being around him. With his hands beneath his head he watches me with half shut eyes. Strangely enough, I don’t feel uncomfortable.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” he says quietly, almost to himself as if he just realized it. The only thing he could be talking about is his parents. He hasn’t told me anything else warranting such a comment. I keep quiet in hopes that he’ll keep talking. It looks like he needs it.

“Morrissey’s newest comes out the fourth. You thrilled?” he asks. I resist babbling about just how thrilled I am and just nod.

Leaning my side against the back of the couch, I return his watchful gaze and long minutes drag by without anything being said. I can’t take it anymore and ask, “Do you want to talk about them?”

He blinks a few times in hesitation. When he answers, he breathes in so deeply I fear that there may be nothing left for me, “Yes.” His answer is so frank and honest that I want to cry. It was so vulnerable and desperate, but at the same time strong and patient.

Now that he’s given the green light, I feel much more comfortable asking questions. I know that he wants them. “Were you close?”

He nods, looking off to the right, “We had our own little bubble, nothing could touch us….it doesn’t exist anymore.”

“What doesn’t?”

“That sense of security. Looking back, I don’t even know how we managed it for as long as we did. They were so fucking in love. Do you know what it’s like to be raised by people like that?”

“No,” I say. I wish I did. My parents couldn’t stand each other, they still can’t. They rarely speak, they just float through life in the same house.

“It’s amazing. You’re so…it’s staggering. It wasn’t until I started spending time at my mates homes and seeing their parents that I realized what I had. I lost it too soon.”

Thinking for a moment, I slowly ask, “What happened…after your dad?”

“My mum never forgave herself. She adopted the idea that it should have been her. Why did she live? Why didn’t she die in his place? She just couldn’t…deal with any of it. My father dying was incredibly painful for me, but watching what happened to my mum afterwards was indescribable. She cried every night. I used to put on these plays for her. Stupid fucking acts. I was an idiot and I thought it did something. They always loved Oscar Wilde so I’d act out Earnest. She always said that she was destined to be with my father, an Earnest. Like a bleedin’ git, I acted that out for her. So she made it three long years and gave up. I came home from school and I wasn’t allowed in my own home.”

His eyes slide shut and he stops talking. His brows furrowed and his jaw tense. I want to hug him but I settle for laying my hand down on his calf. I get the feeling that he’s done for the night. I scoot forward and lay back against the arm rest, my legs between him and the couch’s back. He pulls a hand out from under his head and grabs my ankle, pulling me down on the couch further. He doesn’t remove his hand and I don’t want him to. His fingers begin trailing up and down my ankle and I suddenly think of Felix. When was the last time I thought of him? I don’t even know. Being here, living with Callum, is beginning to erase Felix from my memory. I’m not even angry anymore when I think of him. There’s just nothing left for him. I’m disappointed. Besides regret, that’s all I can find within myself. This makes it clear that whatever I thought we had, I was sorely mistaken. I don’t even know what I thought we had. I always knew that I didn’t love him. Not the way I always thought love should be. I’ve always had this idea that love should be passionate, a torrent of every emotion imaginable. It should be painful and beautiful all at the same time. It was never both with Felix.

I remember when I first met him and how Callum looked at me. Why wasn't he interested? I wonder how different everything would be if he had shown the slightest curiosity. I shouldn’t think about it. This music really is relaxing. Callum’s right. Cave really does command your attention. Maybe it’s his voice. I can’t not listen to what he’s saying. Looking at Callum, his eyes shut and his breathing deep, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. He should go up to bed. I should go to bed too. Not yet though. Not until he does. If he is asleep, I’d wake him up by getting off the couch. He really is attractive. All rough features. Everything about his body is hard. His unshaven face and shaggy hair. The tattoos he did himself, something I can’t even imagine doing, and the Gaelic on his arm. His calf is hard under my hand and I wonder if he works out. I’ve never seen it but there’s no way he looks this way by accident. I think of the Sistine Chapel cartoons and the Vitruvian Man and I get a mental image of Callum in a similar pose. Granted I haven’t seen the entire package completely expose, but considering what I have seen, his body is the kind that Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo recreated.

With his eyes shut, he sleepily mutters suddenly, “Tá tú go h-álainn…and I’ll take you to see Mozzer.”

I have no idea what the first part meant but I feel warm and fuzzy regardless. Just the way he said it.

AN: Thank you as usual to everyone for reading and especially those of you who bother to review. I love the comments. And I wanted to make sure that the cartoon comment about the Sistine Chapel is understood. By cartoon, I mean a preliminary drawing, not something in league with Garfield. Just in case someone doesn’t know. That would bug me if I read it and didn’t know.
And also, it is clearly past April fourth, which means that Morrissey’s newest record Ringleader of the Tormentors is already out. When I wrote this chapter, it wasn’t yet. I’m not bothering to change it.

Music:
No More Shall We Part – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
“Hallelujah” – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

The Sounds

“It Aint Me Babe” – Bob Dylan. Song was also covered by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash.

Plays:
The Importance of Being Earnest – Oscar Wilde

Gaelic to English translations:
Éireann go Brách (pronounced: erin guh brawk) – Ireland Forever
Tá tú go h-álainn (pronounced: taa too gu haa-lin) – You’re beautiful