Morse Code Messages

There’s a time in everyone’s life where they question what they’re doing. They stop and think, they wonder if what they’re doing is irrational or rational. People’s consciences decipher whether what they’re doing is right or wrong and that’s what keeps them from jumping off a bridge or blowing their brains out. But sometimes people deceive their conscience and convince themselves that irrationality is rationality.

Sometimes people ignore their consciences, though. They think that their conscience is deceiving them, telling them that they’re wrong when they think that they’re right. Sometimes people ignore their consciences so much that it becomes nonexistent. That’s what happened to me — I ignored my conscience.

James had the kind of hair that fell into his eyes when he looked down. The blonde acted as a curtain, shielding the world from his face. It was almost as if his hair was protecting him, keeping people from seeing who he really was. James was real, while everyone else was fake. He knew right from wrong and he knew what love was and he knew what love wasn’t.

It took me too long to realize just how real James was, though. All because I ignored my conscience.

We went to this small deli that was just down the street from Louie’s parent’s sweets shop. When I told James that I’d never seen the place before he’d told me that it was because no one ever really looked for it.

The deli was small and sat just off the edge of the other buildings. It smelt moldy and dusty when we walked inside. The walls were made of wood and made me think that they could fall at any given moment; they could fall right on top of us, and with my luck, no one would ever find out until it was too late.

The booth we sat in was worn in and the leather was ripped. The top of the table was sticky and there was no ketchup in the bottle. I was pretty sure that if I dragged my finger along the window, it would leave a dust trail along the glass.

“They have the best fries,” James stated, staring down at the menu. “They’re homemade.”

“Aren’t all fries homemade?” I questioned, glancing around the shady deli.

“No.” James chuckled, a simple, smooth laugh.

I didn’t order anything. I wasn’t hungry and the only reason I’d agreed to eat with James was because I wanted something to do — I didn’t want to be alone. I knew that no one would be going to my house, but it was comforting to know that if anyone stopped by, looking for me, they’d find out that I wasn’t home.

When the waitress brought out the fries James ordered, it looked as if she’d brought out a mountain. I’d only seen mountains once — when I went to Georgia — and the mound of fries that were piled atop James’ plate reminded me of them.

“That’s a lot of fries,” I’d pointed out stupidly.

“Mhm,” James answered, popping a fry into his mouth. “They’re not all for me.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “I don’t want any.”

“Good,” James smiled up at me. “‘Cause I’m not giving them to you. Not yet,” James paused, “not until you tell me what’s up.”

I flushed, turning away from his face. “I don’t even know you.”

I watched as James shrugged, in my peripheral vision. Shoving his hand through his hair, he shook the empty ketchup bottle. “You know my name, isn’t that enough?”

“No,” I murmured, “I have to be able to trust you.”

James got up and took the ketchup bottle from another table. I watched as he uncapped the lid and drenched the fries in ketchup, smiling down at the bleeding mountain. I made a face, thinking about how disgusting that must taste.

“Sometimes the best people to talk to are the ones you don’t know.”

James glanced up at me, cracking his knuckles. “You already know my name and if you’re thinking about this situation the same way I am,” picking up his fork and stirring the fries together, James’ smile widened, “then you already know too much about me.”

I quirked an eyebrow, not quite sure how to respond. I’d heard similar musings but I never took them seriously. I didn’t like the idea of telling a stranger my problem or a deep dark secret. I confided my emotions in my friends — in Davie.

“So, what were you doing at Ms. Patty’s?” James questioned.

I eyed his french fries, “I was just going to ask her something.”

James laughed loudly, “I’m not stupid, I already knew that.”

Squirming in my seat, I blew out a breath of air. “I’m just having friend problems, that’s all.”

“Everyone has friend problems,” James stated, “especially when it has to do with two best friends and, oh, I don’t know, a guy?” I blushed as James glanced up at me. He held his french fry midway, a slow smile forming across his face.

“Trevor is an asshole, your friend will get over him in no time.”

I stared at James, “who’s Trevor?”

Flashing me an apologetic smile, James finished chewing his fry and took a sip from his glass of soda. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he drummed his fingertips against the top of the table. “Sock is Trevor,” James began, “you didn’t know that?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I didn’t.”

“Well,” James pushed his plate of fries in my direction, motioning for me to try one. “Now you do.”