Chapter 6 Clandestine Clanshmestine

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Shakespeare

We met at the Starbucks in the middle of the city, this was rather conspicuous behaviour for him and I wondered at it. He’d said that he wanted the pleasure of my company. I wanted some clarity. He was sitting at a table when I arrived, looking as though he was finishing up some work.

“Hi”

“Hello. This is interesting.” I’d sent him a message earlier telling him that if he did have real feelings for me that he should tell me immediately. I hated being in limbo. “Still not sure what you want…” I was a confused and broken record. “If you liked me you're going to have to tell me, it can’t be subtle, like I need bright orange cones and vests.”

“So you want me to lane a plane? I guess I could arrange that, it might be difficult here.” He motioned around the place. I rolled my eyes, he was always taking what I said to extremes. The king of Reducto ad absurdum.

« No I’m not going to let you collect me. Thats what you do. Seriously, you could be seeing anyone number of other people right now, or wait, do you only work in multiple of three or four, I forget »

“You’re one of four girls in the past year that has actually slept in my bed.” Brief pause in the novella here to mention that at this point I was extremely confused as to whether or not that was suppose to be comforting. Only four. As if, somehow because this was a lower number than Hugh Heufner, it was adequately minuscule and understandable. I sat there, rather bemused, which I think he mistook for stubbornness.

« What did you say about the expectations we have on other being more a reflection on ourselves. »

He’d caught me there.

“Well, thats what you do, you collect people. Everyone has to like you… I don’t and that’s why you feel this need to chase and confuse me.” He laughed. 

I’d taken the bus there and when we were finished our conversation and coffee he offered me a ride home. The Honda was silent neither of us feeling verbose, he shifted gears and watched the street lights begin to turn on one by one. The only things I said were to give him direction to chez moi, my hands were clasped tightly together. 

He pulled into my drive way and he said:

“Whats wrong, are you not into this, I thought it was rather amusing.”

“It’s just not right. I’m a bad person, a bad friend, and this is wrong.”

“You’re not a bad friend.”

“I think you’re rather biased.” 

“You don’t want this to go anywhere for another reason too,” He was perceptive, I’d give him that. All of a sudden everything I had been thinking exploded and I began to speaking with an urgency that quickly tapered off at the end, because I didn’t want it to be true. 

“Why? Because I’m broken. And not like one of those one room fixer uppers. Its like chernobyl or a haunted house. My stairs creek, there’s graffiti in the baby’s room, there is a real possibility of termites, and no hot water or electricity. Thats why. Leave me alone.

“Do you really want me to leave you alone?”

“No.” 

His white hand, reach across the small space to grab mine, lovely in contrast to the darkness.

“I should probably go. You know I’m moving back home this summer, I’ll be gone in two weeks”

“Then we don’t have much time.”

I didn’t seem like we ever had much time.

The next evening found me laying on his bed watching the first Sherlock Holmes movie. He’d been warned beforehand that I was terrible and talked through entire movies. He invited me anyway. He actually ended up talking through the entire movie, much to my delight (but small amount of horror that he missed the cinematic excellence that is Robert Downy Jr.)

« You're just so glib, I can’t stand people like that. » I couldn’t help say to him after instructing that he never fake laughed in my presence.

« Glib? I don’t know what that means »

« Superficially charming. »

« Oh, I didn’t know that was a word »

« Do you for some reason get the feeling Tal Bachman should be playing right now? »

« I can’t know every single word that you know. »

« You're right, I should teach you incorrect words and pass them off as real ones, that would be hilarious. »

« I feel like I should start a club. » 

« The first rule of Fight Club is that we don’t talk about fight club… Why a club? »

« I don’t know, I just think being the president of a club is something I should do. »

Of course it is. « Like falconry or something? »

« Is that even legal? »

I spied a very strange hat in his closet. « I don’t know, you're the mastermind that starting a club. Does that say Otters? »

« Yes. »

« Well, if you start a club, can I be an Otterary member? »

And we laughed ugly laughs, my head on his chest in his bright room. And I was happy. 

“Thats a terrible pun”

“You’re a terrible pun.  Bless your heart, you’ll just never know how difficulty it is to be this clever. What do you think of underwater basketweaving?”

« What? »

« Sorry, I’m being obscure, »

« You're tragically cryptic, it makes you bloody intolerable »

« How perspicacious, if only you could extend that adjective to my crypticism, then we could get somewhere. »

« No one knows what you're talking about half the time »

« I like to equate that to a flaw on their part and not mine »

«Incorrigible »

« Who told you my middle name? Besides, you get me, what else is there? You know what I don’t understand? Why people like to hang other for what they look like, its like picking your breakfast cereal based on colour instead of taste, I think John Greene said that. Or more than that, why would you pretend to like something just to impress someone else? »

« I quite agree with that actually, is it something… What would you say if I said I didn’t like F. Scott Fitzgerald? »

« I suppose I’d have to ask you what you really did like to read. And probably that I hate you.» 

The conversation had taken a desultory turn. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Wrecking this,” he said, his eyes looked ancient in his face. 

“Why are you going to wreck this,”

“I just know I am, and I want to apologize now.” This seemed rather like a cop out.

“Well I guess then I forgive you, hypothetically.” 

He was still sad when he looked at me. I hoped me wasn’t telling the truth. 

When I awoke in the morning from a very PG sleepover, he greeted me by looking me straight in the eye and asked:

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, are you” 

“Yes”

“Good?” I think my face communicated the confusion I felt, probably not the intensity. 

I got out of bed and started fixing my hair in the mirror. 

“Goodmorning beautiful” he pushed me back down and gave me an eskimo kiss. 

My earlier brief confession of happiness really did not sum up how I felt and I have yet to find words that might. 

We left his apartment and he locked the door behind us. The air was crisp and I breathed it in, immediately elated; we were walking towards the stairwell and I was talking about flowers and how excited I was to see the fields upon fields of sunflowers the coming summer when I travelled abroad to europe. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to me, looking rather incredulous.

“Why do you like sunflowers so much?” He asked me this as if they weren’t worthy of being someone’s preference. I pauses for a minute and thought.

“I identify with them.” Sighing, cracked a thoughtful half-smile, which turned into a poorly stifled laugh. He furrowed his eyebrows in consternation, deciphering if what I’d said had been cryptic or ironic. “You see, sunflowers are actually an amalgam of thousands of tiny flowers. and I’m a whole bunch of different people all trying to be one person.” I paused briefly, for effect. “Oh, and I follow the sun.” Yes, I stole from F. Scott Fitzgerald. No, I am not ashamed. 

“You’re the kind of girl people write books about.” He smiled his little tragic smile, sweeping his thumb across my cheek. I didn’t know what to say. His fingers trailed down my jaw to my chin, he lifted it and kissed me, very lightly. I had to stand on my tip toes. He grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me closer. There it was: the film worthy kiss. But just like that, his internal clock when off, and he pulled away, still looking down at me. He smiled with only his lips, his eyes looked sad and timeless, the blue around his pupil frozen like navy ice. He turned away and sauntered down the stairs.  I was stunned for a few seconds and then I ran to the ledge. He was just about to get into his car. 

« What? Is the game afoot? » He smiled with a gigantic crooked smile looking up at me from his car “I hate you” I called down to him, not know if I was entirely serious. I adored him.

“I know.” the smile finally touched his eyes. Then he got in his car.