Coffee Filters and Cryptography

Coffee filters with buildings sketched on them had been taped up all over the red brick walls of the apartment. The draft from the windows that wouldn't quite close fluttered them faintly, like soft giggling. When he was struck by the mood--visited by a muse, he liked to say--he had to draw, there were no two ways about it, and it didn't matter whether he had any paper in the house. And so the coffee filters.

He liked the slightly rough texture, the roundness, the pleats like a sunburst around each sketch. And when the muse came, he didn't need coffee anyway--it was power, like the caffeine from a thousand cups, coursing through his veins. His best work--all his work, in fact--was done during those flashes of inspiration. That's why he wouldn't let them medicate him. No point, if he'd lose the drive to make art, his livelihood.

Now, the muses were quiescent, and he paced the wide planked floors with nothing in particular on his mind.  He watched her, curled up in the blue velvet wing chair, watching him. They had met at that gallery that always smelled a bit like hummus at the opening of one of his shows a few weeks ago, and she had been in and out of his apartment, his bed, and his life since. Her eyes were astute, made him think of owls. The way her coppery hair rested against the curve of her cheek was perfect--he had drawn it over and over, on real paper. And she looked quite appealing in his Art Institute sweatshirt. Quite appealing indeed. The rumor of a smile was beginning to form on her narrow lips, and he knew where that was headed, or rather hoped he knew where that was headed. Back to bed.

But moments drifted past like cumulus clouds and still she said nothing, and so he shifted the path of his pacing closer. No reaction--she still followed him with her owl eyes.

There were numbers behind her eyes. He couldn't see them, but he knew. She worked like he did, when the muse came, but it was all equations. Pages and pages of equation--taped on the walls of her house, he had been delighted to find. Cryptography, something for the government. She was all puzzles and numbers and energy and he loved the way she watched him like he was another puzzle, someone to be decoded.

Her equations were beautiful, more beautiful than she was. When she spoke them, or wrote them out in that light, looping script, or described them in intimate detail, whispering their properties and usages into his ear as she lay next to him on crisp cotton sheets.

But she was leaving Washington tomorrow, going somewhere to meet with some military consultants. He would miss her and her numbers, and was starting to already, but didn't know how to ask. Didn't know quite what it was he wanted to ask. When she got back to D.C., would she call him? Would this, whatever it was between them, continue? He had never been particularly good at holding onto people, but this one, he wanted to keep around. Were they dating? He supposed that was the word. More appropriate than anything else.

And, more importantly, was she happy? She seemed to be, even when she wasn't caught in the delicate frenzy of calculation, but how can anyone be certain of anyone else's emotion?

“Pallas?” He broke the silence with his nickname for her.

“Mmm?”

“Do you know when you're getting back?” He was self-conscious, and his nervousness rippled through the air like perturbations on the surface of a pond.

“No, not yet,” her voice was quiet and steady, holding a hint of amusement.

“Will you call me when you come back?”

“As soon as I return,” she replied with a smile that seemed to softly fill her entire person.

She stood gracefully, and took his hand, leading him to the bedroom.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think.

Reviews

[Shiloh Black]

I love the scenario and characters you've created. The interaction between them is very real and has an intimate feeling to it. Also, I just love the way you describe things, especially in the first scene and later on when you bring the woman into the picture.

My only complaint is that this feels like it needs more. Maybe it's just because I have an affinity for classic plot structure, but I believe a greater sense of conflict could make the story more dynamic. For instance, you mention the medication thing in passing, then just drop it. It would be kind of interesting to see you work your character's mental disorder into the central conflict, when seems to be that of losing "Pallas".

[Samuel Dickens]

This is very nice...I like it a lot. In my opinion, it's an excellent piece of writing, short though it be. Long ago, before I had enough income to supply me with plenty of drawing paper, I also would draw on whatever kind of paper I could find.