The morning. The room has one window. He gets up. The carpet is green. Used to be. There is a door.
Another room. A kitchen. Smells. Someone making eggs.
“Good morning,” she says. There is a smile in her voice. She likes him. She’s not mad.
“Good morning,” Silas says. There is blood in his head. Throwing itself back and forth.
“I made us breakfast,” she says. Us, she says. He mimics her. Smiling. Happy about breakfast.
“You shouldn’t have.” He returns the pleasantry. He accepts the eggs. Doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t know what he’s done.
“Not hungry?” she asks. There are tiny twists of etiquette. Expectations, ways to be rude. He can’t focus. The blood won’t stop throbbing. He pauses too long.
“Uh…getting over a stomach bug.” Wrong. Now she’ll worry about getting it. Don’t look at her face.
“Can I use your phone?” She nods and points. The phone is green. He dials.
“Hello?” she picks up. There are machines in the background. Loud.
“I..uh..I’m going to be late for.” Pause. “Lunch.” Pause. “To work on the project?” Silence.
“Do you know where you are?” she asks. He looks down. Looks around. Looks out the window. The kitchen floor is linoleum. “Ask her address so you can call a cab,” she says.
“I don’t have any cash.”
“You better not be in Somerville again.”
“Thanks,” he says. The phone is green. Has a handprint where the dust was. The kitchen walls are cracked. Stripped some places of white paint. “What’s your address? I need to call a cab,” he says. Pause. “After breakfast.”
“I thought you weren’t hungry.” Accusation.
“Changed my mind?” Weak. A question.
“It’ll get cold.” Like she is. He sits down. Blood pushes forward. Pushes back. Stiff smile. She smiles back, hesitantly. Make conversation. Something. Anything.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks. Attempting charm. She looks at him. Looks down. Her eyes are brown.
“Lunch with my brother.” Her brother lives nearby. “He’s running the marathon.” Her brother is a runner.
“Nice. Tell him good luck.”
“I will.” The table is cheap wood. Looks like linoleum. Linoleum has too many syllables. “223 West Street, Somerville.” Silence. “My address.”
“Shit.”
“What?” Silence.
“Same house number as…my aunt.” Weak. She laughs, weakly, in response.
“What a coincidence?”
“Right? You mind if I…?” He points to the phone. Too quickly.
“Go for it.”
He dials. Looks back. Too fast. Her hair is brown. He holds his head. Did he like her last night?
“Shit.”
“What?” She already picked up.
“Sorry.”
“You’re hungover. What’s the address?”
“223 West Street.” Silence. “Somerville”
“Shit.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll honk,” she says. He hangs up. Sits down. Her lips are colorless. She smiles. Forced. His throat is dry. Don’t ask for water. Ask her something. Small talk. Her brother. Ask about her brother.
“So…how long has your brother been running marathons?”
“He was a track star in high school. He ran his first marathon senior year, so…six years?”
“Nice.”
“Does any of your family…?”
“No, not us. We’re mostly sedentary. I dance. Contra, like in Pride and Prejudice.” He grins.
“I know,” she says.
“You told me.” Pause. “Last night.”
“Oh.” He goes silent. Doesn’t know what he’s said and what he hasn’t.
She gets up.
“Do you want coffee?”
“I…sure.” Pause. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” The coffee maker churns. Too loud. It starts to drip. Drips. Too slow. He holds the cup. Silent. Too silent. She holds hers. 30 minutes. Drinking silent coffee. He must have waited 30 minutes to get here.
A car honks from the street. His blood pounds on his skull.
“Must be my ride,” he says.
“Your cab?”
“Yeah, my cab.”
She doesn’t point out the plot holes. The stairs are rubber. Circles for traction. Not too fast. He reaches for the car door. It moves away. Moves away again. She lets him in. Grins.
“Never gets old,” Cal says.
“Nope, it does,” Silas says.
He gets in. Pause. His head is in one hand, his fingers are pressed into his eyes. To drive away the headache. The radio is too loud. More than 11. Loud enough to drown out thoughts. He turns it down.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Lucas. Found him with some girl. In bed with.”
“Oh. She cute?”
Pause.
“Sure. Why not?” Pause.
“Hadn’t heard from him in a week, now this.”
“Oh.”
She turns the music up. The skin on her knuckles is broken.
“What’s that?” She looks at her hand.
“Went to the gym. Felt like punching something.”
“Or someone.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Illegal.”
“Really?”
“He thinks we’re friends.”
He laughs. “How?”
“It’s just a word, isn’t it? I have a convincing smile.” She grins.
“I’m convinced.”
“You should be.”
Nihilistic Porcupine 