in molasses. They moved achingly slowly with big gaps between them.
The girl Carrie had been addressing was called Gaia….
This girl he was now gaping at was called Gaia….
This girl was
the girl
….
The girl
was Gaia….
Gaia was the one who had …
“Y-You’re Gaia,” he said to her.
She was silent for a long time, just staring. Her eyes were too much for him.
“You’re The Boyfriend,” she said slowly.
It sounded like a felony, like an atrocity, the way she said it.
“Sam. My name is Sam.”
“Oh.” Her face was strangely open, her eyes a whirlpool.
He was scared to let himself read them this time. He was scared of getting sucked in.
“I—you—w-w-we—,” he stammered. What exactly did he want to say?
He could see from the panel above the nearest elevator that it was climbing toward them. 3 … 4 … 5 …
“You’re the Gaia who saw the guy with the knife in the park last night,” he blurted out in a disorganized rush. “You’re the one who didn’t warn her.”
The girl’s face was a little too white for a person with a beating heart. Her hands trembled at her sides. She nodded.
“W-Why? I don’t understand. Do you dislike her that much?”
“I—I guess I do.”
Silence. 6 … 7 …
He needed to pull himself out of this trance, to get a little distance. He needed to remember who needed defending here. He looked away from her, summoning his shield of righteous indignation. “What is wrong with you? Are you some kind of monster?” He hated the way his voice sounded.
She took so long to respond, it was punishing. Those wide, boundless eyes pinned him to his spot with a
look that made him feel horrible, like a salted slug.
“You’re not what I thought,” she said finally.
Why should
he
feel horrible?
He
hadn’t done anything wrong.
The elevator arrived on eight The doors opened with glacial slowness.
Suddenly he hated her. It was only partly rational, partly fair. She was the source of all the problems, of Heather’s condition, of the shameful, disloyal thoughts that had invaded his brain. Now in her face, in her eyes, he saw none of the tenderness or the possibilities he saw before.
“I hate you,” he said, amazed as the babyish words emerged from his own mouth.
She stepped into the elevator. “I hate you, too.”
He watched her face until the doors closed.
Unbidden, that stupid saying entered his mind: that one about hate not being the opposite of love.
Cold Coffee
“WHO PICKED CJ OUT OF THE lineup?” the older woman asked, leaning over the table that divided them, resting her chin in her palm.
Marco could see down her lavender blouse to the tops of her breasts spilling out of a white bra with lace edges. He wanted to kiss her and touch her so bad. She always wanted to talk first. That was the way most girls were, in his experience. So his mouth went one way and his mind another.
“Nobody knows for sure. Some guys think it was that blond girl—that, uh, friend of yours. A couple of them saw her in the park last night before that other girl … you know.” He didn’t feel like going any deeper into this particular subject. He wanted to talk about how good her shiny red hair looked all loose like that and the dream of his she’d starred in last night.
She crossed her legs under the table, and her knee brushed his. “I heard on the news that the girl who was slashed—they didn’t release her name—is out of a coma and expected to make a full recovery,” she said.
“Yeah? That’s good news for CJ. They’ll stick him with assault instead of murder. He never meant to hurt her so bad.”
“CJ’s in custody? Nobody came up with bail?” she asked.
He pressed his shin against hers. “Nah. It was like a hundred grand or something. His mother lives in Miami. She doesn’t even know about it.”
“So maybe you’ll need to take over in his absence?”
Marco lifted his shoulders so they looked extra big. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Tarick,
The girl Carrie had been addressing was called Gaia….
This girl he was now gaping at was called Gaia….
This girl was
the girl
….
The girl
was Gaia….
Gaia was the one who had …
“Y-You’re Gaia,” he said to her.
She was silent for a long time, just staring. Her eyes were too much for him.
“You’re The Boyfriend,” she said slowly.
It sounded like a felony, like an atrocity, the way she said it.
“Sam. My name is Sam.”
“Oh.” Her face was strangely open, her eyes a whirlpool.
He was scared to let himself read them this time. He was scared of getting sucked in.
“I—you—w-w-we—,” he stammered. What exactly did he want to say?
He could see from the panel above the nearest elevator that it was climbing toward them. 3 … 4 … 5 …
“You’re the Gaia who saw the guy with the knife in the park last night,” he blurted out in a disorganized rush. “You’re the one who didn’t warn her.”
The girl’s face was a little too white for a person with a beating heart. Her hands trembled at her sides. She nodded.
“W-Why? I don’t understand. Do you dislike her that much?”
“I—I guess I do.”
Silence. 6 … 7 …
He needed to pull himself out of this trance, to get a little distance. He needed to remember who needed defending here. He looked away from her, summoning his shield of righteous indignation. “What is wrong with you? Are you some kind of monster?” He hated the way his voice sounded.
She took so long to respond, it was punishing. Those wide, boundless eyes pinned him to his spot with a
look that made him feel horrible, like a salted slug.
“You’re not what I thought,” she said finally.
Why should
he
feel horrible?
He
hadn’t done anything wrong.
The elevator arrived on eight The doors opened with glacial slowness.
Suddenly he hated her. It was only partly rational, partly fair. She was the source of all the problems, of Heather’s condition, of the shameful, disloyal thoughts that had invaded his brain. Now in her face, in her eyes, he saw none of the tenderness or the possibilities he saw before.
“I hate you,” he said, amazed as the babyish words emerged from his own mouth.
She stepped into the elevator. “I hate you, too.”
He watched her face until the doors closed.
Unbidden, that stupid saying entered his mind: that one about hate not being the opposite of love.
Cold Coffee
“WHO PICKED CJ OUT OF THE lineup?” the older woman asked, leaning over the table that divided them, resting her chin in her palm.
Marco could see down her lavender blouse to the tops of her breasts spilling out of a white bra with lace edges. He wanted to kiss her and touch her so bad. She always wanted to talk first. That was the way most girls were, in his experience. So his mouth went one way and his mind another.
“Nobody knows for sure. Some guys think it was that blond girl—that, uh, friend of yours. A couple of them saw her in the park last night before that other girl … you know.” He didn’t feel like going any deeper into this particular subject. He wanted to talk about how good her shiny red hair looked all loose like that and the dream of his she’d starred in last night.
She crossed her legs under the table, and her knee brushed his. “I heard on the news that the girl who was slashed—they didn’t release her name—is out of a coma and expected to make a full recovery,” she said.
“Yeah? That’s good news for CJ. They’ll stick him with assault instead of murder. He never meant to hurt her so bad.”
“CJ’s in custody? Nobody came up with bail?” she asked.
He pressed his shin against hers. “Nah. It was like a hundred grand or something. His mother lives in Miami. She doesn’t even know about it.”
“So maybe you’ll need to take over in his absence?”
Marco lifted his shoulders so they looked extra big. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Tarick,
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