time in here so far.”
They both laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. The apartment had been her only project for weeks, her Mac remained packed away in the box underneath the desk while she spent all her time painting the walls, organising bookshelves and various pieces of furniture to be delivered, ignoring the fact that what she was really supposed to do was start writing again, ignoring Roger’s phone calls, ignoring his concerns.
“It works, I like it.” He said, and he sounded genuine. “Drink to your new study? They’re still cold.” He lifted one of the bottles and she took it from his hand.
“Why not.”
They walked back to the kitchen where Jessica fished a bottle opener out of one of the drawers while he sat on the floor by the chairs, his back against the wall, looking around, studying the room.
“It must be strange to see someone else’s furniture in a place where you’ve been living for a while,” Jessica said.
He looked up at her, passed her his beer so she could open it. The truck suit bottom she was wearing looked too big for her, it reminded him of all the oversized clothes he had seen hanging loosely on his skinny sister and he looked away.
“Just as strange as seeing your own furniture in someone else’s house, I guess.”
William knew. His family’s furniture always looked strange, everywhere they moved. It never seemed to fit properly, always arranged in the same way, always a copy of the way it used to look before people started talking about his father and his dirty business. William always hoped a new house would be the start of a new life and a happy family, but his family was never happy. The house would change, the town would be different but the furniture would be the same. His father, his frightened sister and his useless mother would still be there; the spare room would look the same, only a different colour, and the men coming in would all look like clones of each other. Wherever they went. Just like the furniture.
He sighed. “You should buy new stuff and throw everything away.”
Jessica sat on the floor next to him. “There’s nothing wrong with my furniture.”
“It keeps memories. Furniture keeps memories. You can rearrange it, you can change house, but if you take it with you, you take every memory, every smell, every ghost you kept in your old place. It’s like keeping a t-shirt you wore the day something special happened to you... Like a song that reminds you of something.”
He drank from his bottle and when he turned to look at her he found Jessica staring at the floor, as if she could see something that wasn’t really there. He touched her hand and felt her jump under his fingers, saw her rubbing a hand across her forehead.
“Are you all right?”
“What if you only keep some of it?”
“What? Furniture?”
“Yes. What if you only keep some of it and throw away the rest?”
“I don’t know. Are you ok?”
“I gave away the car, and my sofa... the bed.”
Kaitlyn’s three-seater sofa had made it to Nob Hill, her single wardrobe now lived in this hallway. Jessica had kept a mirror, one of her lanterns, a suitcase full of her clothes, her books, the butterfly painting and the shoe boxes. Was it too much? Had she carried her ghost here?
He leaned closer to her, a hand on her forearm. She could feel the breath coming out of his nostrils, a strange light shone in his eyes, madness, sweetness, something that made her forget about the blood she had just remembered looking down at the floor. He smiled at her, concerned, hopeful.
“I’m ok, thanks.”
She took a sip of beer and him after her, and another, both of them staring out of the window in silence. He was so close to her she could feel the heat of his body, its strange energy. She thought she could hear the blood pumping through his veins. She turned to look at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her staring at him while he drank his beer, hoping she’d have enough time to study his
They both laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. The apartment had been her only project for weeks, her Mac remained packed away in the box underneath the desk while she spent all her time painting the walls, organising bookshelves and various pieces of furniture to be delivered, ignoring the fact that what she was really supposed to do was start writing again, ignoring Roger’s phone calls, ignoring his concerns.
“It works, I like it.” He said, and he sounded genuine. “Drink to your new study? They’re still cold.” He lifted one of the bottles and she took it from his hand.
“Why not.”
They walked back to the kitchen where Jessica fished a bottle opener out of one of the drawers while he sat on the floor by the chairs, his back against the wall, looking around, studying the room.
“It must be strange to see someone else’s furniture in a place where you’ve been living for a while,” Jessica said.
He looked up at her, passed her his beer so she could open it. The truck suit bottom she was wearing looked too big for her, it reminded him of all the oversized clothes he had seen hanging loosely on his skinny sister and he looked away.
“Just as strange as seeing your own furniture in someone else’s house, I guess.”
William knew. His family’s furniture always looked strange, everywhere they moved. It never seemed to fit properly, always arranged in the same way, always a copy of the way it used to look before people started talking about his father and his dirty business. William always hoped a new house would be the start of a new life and a happy family, but his family was never happy. The house would change, the town would be different but the furniture would be the same. His father, his frightened sister and his useless mother would still be there; the spare room would look the same, only a different colour, and the men coming in would all look like clones of each other. Wherever they went. Just like the furniture.
He sighed. “You should buy new stuff and throw everything away.”
Jessica sat on the floor next to him. “There’s nothing wrong with my furniture.”
“It keeps memories. Furniture keeps memories. You can rearrange it, you can change house, but if you take it with you, you take every memory, every smell, every ghost you kept in your old place. It’s like keeping a t-shirt you wore the day something special happened to you... Like a song that reminds you of something.”
He drank from his bottle and when he turned to look at her he found Jessica staring at the floor, as if she could see something that wasn’t really there. He touched her hand and felt her jump under his fingers, saw her rubbing a hand across her forehead.
“Are you all right?”
“What if you only keep some of it?”
“What? Furniture?”
“Yes. What if you only keep some of it and throw away the rest?”
“I don’t know. Are you ok?”
“I gave away the car, and my sofa... the bed.”
Kaitlyn’s three-seater sofa had made it to Nob Hill, her single wardrobe now lived in this hallway. Jessica had kept a mirror, one of her lanterns, a suitcase full of her clothes, her books, the butterfly painting and the shoe boxes. Was it too much? Had she carried her ghost here?
He leaned closer to her, a hand on her forearm. She could feel the breath coming out of his nostrils, a strange light shone in his eyes, madness, sweetness, something that made her forget about the blood she had just remembered looking down at the floor. He smiled at her, concerned, hopeful.
“I’m ok, thanks.”
She took a sip of beer and him after her, and another, both of them staring out of the window in silence. He was so close to her she could feel the heat of his body, its strange energy. She thought she could hear the blood pumping through his veins. She turned to look at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her staring at him while he drank his beer, hoping she’d have enough time to study his
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