Photo by Yannis Papanastasopoulos on Unsplash
The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. Shelley curled into a ball on the armchair, tucking her bare legs under her to ward off the chill. Nick, her lover—at least, in her mind—stood in the center of the room, a lit joint hanging precariously from his lower lip, and stared at a dirty sheet hanging on the wall. Shelley watched as he grabbed a stick, dipped it into a bucket of paint, and whipped it, leaving a trail of black in its wake. He did this twice more, then paused to assess his creation.
Satisfied with his work, he sat in an adjacent chair, took a hit off the joint, and looked at Shelley as if seeing her for the first time. “What’s up?” he asked.
Theirs was an unlikely friendship, one built on a foundation of books, coffee, and a shared sense of humor. Its inception was a complete accident, formed two months earlier when Shelley, deeply engrossed in Stephen King’s IT, spilled a just-purchased cup of joe all over Nick, who had been standing in line behind her. “Awesome, and on the one day I dressed up,” he said, gesturing to his Animaniacs T-shirt. “By the way, sorry to spoil it for you, but I think the clown did it.”
Shelley looked up at Nick’s nondescript face, his greasy brown hair falling over eyes the color of faded denim, and was smitten. Looks aside, there was something about him that drew her in. His laissez-faire temperament, mixed with a quick wit and heaps of sarcasm, captivated her. She apologized for the spill by buying his coffee, and the resulting conversation only enhanced her feelings. Shelley had never met anyone quite like him—aloof yet funny, unambitious yet wickedly smart. Forget that he was an avid drug user, and she rarely imbibed anything heavier than wine coolers. Forget that he had no aspirations, and she was on track to graduate college with honors. Forget that he was a lazy, unapologetic asshole who she knew would be terrible in bed. He turned her on.
In the following weeks, they met often for a meal or a movie. After each outing, Shelley would analyze the conversation, dissecting every word to determine its true meaning. Her journal was full of interpretations though none led her to a concrete conclusion as to how Nick felt about her.
Now, sitting in his apartment, she was nervous. Being alone with him amongst his personal belongings felt intimate, in a way that until now she had only fantasized about.
As Nick toked on the joint, Shelley stole furtive glances around the room, hoping to glean insight into his inner-most thoughts. Though technically a bedroom, it couldn’t be called as such because Nick didn’t own a bed; as he explained it, it was preferable to sleep on the floor than to fill his space with items that would only tie him down. A pile of philosophy books lay cluttered beneath a folding table holding up CDs and a stereo. From the stereo’s speakers emanated a cacophony of sounds that to Shelley sounded more akin to noise than music. In the corner sat the two armchairs, a nightstand between them home to an ashtray overflowing with roaches and cigarette butts.
Shelley realized Nick was staring and waiting for her to speak. Her stomach fluttered as she took a sip of water and tried to think of something impressive to say. “Cool music,” she blurted out.
“You like Sonic Youth?” he asked. “Right on. I’m going to see them play in a few months if you want to join.”
“Really? That would be awesome. I’m a huge fan.” Truthfully, she had never heard of them—she was more of a Sarah McLachlan devotee—but she decided she’d grow to like them.
Not wanting to lose the momentum of the conversation, she added, “I went to the movies the other day and saw a preview for the new Gus van Sant flick. It looks great.”
“What movie did you see?”
“Oh, uh, Men in Black,” she replied, wishing she hadn’t opened her mouth.
“Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”
Nick hated blockbusters. He thought of them as fodder for sheep, a way for the unintelligent to pass the time as they slogged through their inconsequential existence.
“Um, it was ok,” Shelley said. “It was my Mom’s idea.” She rolled her eyes to show just how much of a joke it all was while making a mental note not to share with him her plans to see G.I. Jane the following weekend.
“I saw Jan Svankmajer’s Alice last week,” Nick said. “You’ve seen it, right?”
Shelley had no idea who or what a Jan Svankmajer was. “Maybe. Alice. Let me think…” She furrowed her brow, giving what she hoped was a realistic imitation of being deep in thought.
“Well,” he said. “It was brilliant. Stop-motion combined with live action, a really dark take on Alice in Wonderland. Check it out if you haven’t seen it. It’s not at the level of Men in Black, of course, but if you don’t mind dumbing yourself down, consider skipping the cineplex one night and giving it a watch.”
“Sure. Yeah, totally,” she replied, ignoring the joke made at her expense.
Nick stood, his ripped jeans and ratty T-shirt swallowing his lanky frame, and walked over to the stereo. At the press of a few buttons, Radiohead’s “Karma Police” filled the room. It was his favorite song; He was a fan of the entire CD, applauding what he called its “progressive melding of dissonance and harmony” and “lyrical rejection of normative behaviors.” Shelley didn’t really get it but nodded along thoughtfully to his interpretation.
Through the haze of smoke, she watched Nick toss a few more streams of paint at his makeshift cotton canvas before sitting on the floor. A gust of wind blew through the window, causing an eruption of goosebumps across the back of Shelley’s neck. Standing to get away from the cold, she nodded toward the bucket and asked, “Can I try?”
“Knock yourself out,” he replied.
She got out of the chair and walked to the paint-stained bed linen, unsure how anyone could consider it art. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Nick looking her over. Feigning interest in the sheet, she stretched ever so slightly, elongating her legs to show off her calves, the edge of her skirt tickling the backs of her knees. She bent down slowly to pick up the stick, allowing the front of her blouse to dip down. Shelley knew if he aimed his gaze just right, Nick could catch a glimpse of her cleavage. She hoped he timed it correctly.
She stood to face the sheet, suddenly realizing she didn’t know what to do. Remembering Nick’s movements, she jerked the stick in the direction of the sheet, sending thick globs of paint across the room. With horror, she saw she’d missed entirely, leaving streaks of black along the bare wooden floor.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she said, mortified.
“Nah, man,” Nick replied, nonplussed. “No worries. It’s all good.” He took the stick from her hand and flicked the remaining paint downward, extending his creation from the sheet to the baseboard.
Shelley chuckled, relieved he was too stoned to care. She sat next to him on the floor and inhaled his aroma—a mixture of pot, stale cigarettes, and sweat—as her eyes ran over the length of his seventy-six-inch frame. A favorite Ani DiFranco lyric came to mind (I wonder what you look like under your T-shirt/I wonder what you sound like when you’re not wearing words), though she knew Nick would laugh at her if she dared say it aloud.
Sitting cross-legged, their knees touched, and when Nick didn’t pull his away, a jolt shot through her. They’d never sat so close. Shelley became acutely aware of the music, of her heartbeat, of the room’s brisk temperature. Every fiber of her being was alive.
She placed her left palm on the floor and leaned casually on her arm, allowing her upper body to shift closer to his. Their shoulders touched, their faces just inches apart. Neither said a word. The song crescendoed, its lyrics filling the space: For a minute there/I lost myself.
Shelley was drunk with passion. She wanted to taste him, every bit of tobacco coffee marijuana saliva he could offer. She wanted to lie down on the laminate wood tiles, to caress his bare skin, to be uncomfortable under his weight.
For a minute there/I lost myself/I lost myself
She wanted to drink him in, to feel the pressure of two becoming one, a sweaty tangle of limbs and hands and fingers.
For a minute there/I lost myself/I lost myself
She tilted her face closer.
For a minute there
She lowered her eyelids and parted her lips.
I lost myself
Today. Now. It was happening now. The feelings, God, the feelings. She wanted him so badly.
“Shit, man, I’m hungry. Want some pizza?”
“What?” Shelley opened her eyes as Nick reached behind them, grabbing a takeout menu.
“The breadsticks here are amazing. I’m thinking a couple large pizzas, ‘sticks, and soda. You in?”
It was as if Nick was speaking a different language. She looked into his bloodshot eyes and muttered the only response she could think of. “Pizza. Sure. Sounds great.”
“Awesome,” he replied.
Nick ambled down the hall to call in the order, leaving Shelley alone on the dusty floor. The song lyrics melted into a high-pitched screech that seemed strangely in tune with the distortion that had just taken place in the room. Today was not the day. It was not happening now. It would not happen ever.
Shelley pulled herself up into the armchair. The chill was back, the breeze stronger than before. With a frustrated sigh, Shelley stood and slammed the window closed, then curled into a ball and waited for Nick to return.
Sandra Ebejer lives in upstate New York with her husband, son, and two cats who haven't figured out how to get along. Her work has appeared in Brevity, 50-Word Stories, The Boston Globe, FLOOD Magazine, The Girlfriend from AARP, Folks, Motherfigure, Scary Mommy, Sammiches & Psych Meds, and Greatist. Read more of her work at www.sandraebejer.com or find her on Twitter @sebejer.