Two Steps Behind
I
The sun is sliding up through the blackened clouds of what used to be nighttime. With it, comes a brighter, bluer sky, and whiter clouds. I blink and adjust to the brightness with careful ease. I’m becoming so used to this night-owl life that insomnia doesn’t even seem like the word to describe me. I am just one more creature of the night, trapped inside this dirty motel, waiting for daylight, to flee again. My fingers extend away from my body to avoid numbness, and then curl back into a fist beside me.
Beside me, he sleeps still and silent, a dark-haired angel thrown at me when I was least expecting it, like a green little alien ascending from space to take up life with a lost human being. His cheeks are tipped red from the blood flowing slowly underneath his pale skin. I trace the contours of his face slowly, a little smile forming when I think of how much he means to me.
When he’s sleeping is best, because these days, Frankie never seems to rest easily. His mind is always going going going, faster faster faster. A new plan, a new day, another time to run. And I’m following, a lost puppy, always two steps too slow behind, making him even more impatient.
At this moment, his arm snaps out and his nimble fingers close around my wrist, a slow, sneaky smile extending across his angelic nighttime face. “Want something?” He slurs sleepily, keeping his eyelids shut; I lean closer and examine the blue-green veins spread across the thin layer of skin, the dark wine colored bags painted under his eyelashes, permanent from exhaustion and stress.
“Protection,” I whisper back hoarsely, nuzzling my nose into his neck. The motel’s cheap, Wal-Mart style fan – surely bought 50% off – hums around us, a rhythm that lulls me into daydreams, but never into sleep. I need sleep, so badly. I can see it, just there in the horizon, always being sneaky moving in and then snapping back out before I can close my fingers around it.
“If there’s one thing in the world I could give you,” Frankie says softly, after a minute of thought and hesitation. We’ve had this conversation so many times it’s burned into our brains, forever there, never forgotten. Somewhere lost in the grey matter glued inside my skull, I already knew his answer, my response, and the way it would end – with him telling me to please, just shut the fuck up and move on.
We’re always going to be running.
So this time, my mouth stays shut, and his caramel irises widen and brighten in surprise, happiness, wariness, shock. His fingers reach out, and they trace an outline of my lips, run across my shoulder, down my collarbone, and then back up to my cheek. He leans in, his sweet breath cool on my face, and whispers those magical words, I love you.
It’s not my fault; really, it isn’t. You get all those whack-job murderers who say that and never mean it, but here I am, in the flesh, me, Quinn, telling you, it’s not my fucking fault. See, Frankie, he ran his mouth and got us into trouble, and here we are, in this cheap motel, with these dirty sheets, with this mold-spotted carpet and these molded ceiling tiles, still fifty fucking bucks a night, waiting for the sun to come out the whole way so we can run again – so Frankie doesn’t get us both killed. It isn’t my fault.
If it were up to me, I’d be glued between nice clean sheets, sleep having taken over hours ago, or maybe I’d be dragging Frankie’s ass in from a night on the town – but I wouldn’t be here, wide awake, scared, and feeling as alone as I do. If anyone’s sharp Italian tongue can get us into trouble with the best arms-dealer up home, it’s Frankie’s, and I knew it long before anyone else did.
Frankie can’t shut the fuck up sometimes, and this time, someone pissed him off bad. So when he calls his boss an ass, puts him out four million bucks, Frankie figures we’re screwed, and grabs a suitcase and me, runs out of state, and pretty soon some other gang in this new state is ready to kill us too, since those four million bucks contributed to their guns, too. But still, Frankie’s only scared for a whole sixty seconds before the gears hidden inside his skull start turning fast, making new plans.
And I lag behind, asking the stupid questions, too slow to run with the big dogs, too stupid not to trust anyone. Lest, so he says, when the exhaustion catches up with him. I’m just supposed to listen – sit down, shut up, listen, do as I say, not as I do. Like being a fucking four year old, all over again.
“I can’t sleep,” I tell him slowly. He stops moving his fingers along my cheeks, and opens his eyes again.
“So count sheep,” he tells me, like I’m just so stupid. I shake my head.
“No – Frankie, I can’t sleep,” I say, and he sits up, making the bed groan noisily. He blinks sleepily a couple times towards the six o’ clock morning light, and reaches for his Newports, his Zippo. The tobacco stink fills the room, making the already stale smell fresh, before fading again.
I tell him, You’re not supposed to smoke in here. Didn’t you read the sign? He says, don’t be an idiot. No-one listens to those shitheads out at that desk. God, Quinnie, when are you gonna get real?
This conversation takes thirty seconds; I know, I fucking timed it. But it’s still the most I’ll get out of him for another six hours, until he decides to tell me to get real again, when I ask another idiot question that get s me that dirty patronizing look.
“I can never sleep,” I whisper, looking away distractedly at the wall, avoiding his eyes, doing whatever it takes so I don’t have to see the look on his face, like I’m so pathetic, like I always need taking care of. I can’t deal with that – not one more time.
So he sighs and he pulls me into his arms and he kisses the top of my head, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know his eyes still hold that stupid, dirty, patronizing, apathetic look, but here, now, I ignore it, as he starts humming a song I should know the words, but I don’t. And my eyes close, and my heart slows just a little, and my fingers go slack, and I slip into a fitful world of nightmares for just a few hours, before he wakes me up, and we start running again.
Beside me, he sleeps still and silent, a dark-haired angel thrown at me when I was least expecting it, like a green little alien ascending from space to take up life with a lost human being. His cheeks are tipped red from the blood flowing slowly underneath his pale skin. I trace the contours of his face slowly, a little smile forming when I think of how much he means to me.
When he’s sleeping is best, because these days, Frankie never seems to rest easily. His mind is always going going going, faster faster faster. A new plan, a new day, another time to run. And I’m following, a lost puppy, always two steps too slow behind, making him even more impatient.
At this moment, his arm snaps out and his nimble fingers close around my wrist, a slow, sneaky smile extending across his angelic nighttime face. “Want something?” He slurs sleepily, keeping his eyelids shut; I lean closer and examine the blue-green veins spread across the thin layer of skin, the dark wine colored bags painted under his eyelashes, permanent from exhaustion and stress.
“Protection,” I whisper back hoarsely, nuzzling my nose into his neck. The motel’s cheap, Wal-Mart style fan – surely bought 50% off – hums around us, a rhythm that lulls me into daydreams, but never into sleep. I need sleep, so badly. I can see it, just there in the horizon, always being sneaky moving in and then snapping back out before I can close my fingers around it.
“If there’s one thing in the world I could give you,” Frankie says softly, after a minute of thought and hesitation. We’ve had this conversation so many times it’s burned into our brains, forever there, never forgotten. Somewhere lost in the grey matter glued inside my skull, I already knew his answer, my response, and the way it would end – with him telling me to please, just shut the fuck up and move on.
We’re always going to be running.
So this time, my mouth stays shut, and his caramel irises widen and brighten in surprise, happiness, wariness, shock. His fingers reach out, and they trace an outline of my lips, run across my shoulder, down my collarbone, and then back up to my cheek. He leans in, his sweet breath cool on my face, and whispers those magical words, I love you.
It’s not my fault; really, it isn’t. You get all those whack-job murderers who say that and never mean it, but here I am, in the flesh, me, Quinn, telling you, it’s not my fucking fault. See, Frankie, he ran his mouth and got us into trouble, and here we are, in this cheap motel, with these dirty sheets, with this mold-spotted carpet and these molded ceiling tiles, still fifty fucking bucks a night, waiting for the sun to come out the whole way so we can run again – so Frankie doesn’t get us both killed. It isn’t my fault.
If it were up to me, I’d be glued between nice clean sheets, sleep having taken over hours ago, or maybe I’d be dragging Frankie’s ass in from a night on the town – but I wouldn’t be here, wide awake, scared, and feeling as alone as I do. If anyone’s sharp Italian tongue can get us into trouble with the best arms-dealer up home, it’s Frankie’s, and I knew it long before anyone else did.
Frankie can’t shut the fuck up sometimes, and this time, someone pissed him off bad. So when he calls his boss an ass, puts him out four million bucks, Frankie figures we’re screwed, and grabs a suitcase and me, runs out of state, and pretty soon some other gang in this new state is ready to kill us too, since those four million bucks contributed to their guns, too. But still, Frankie’s only scared for a whole sixty seconds before the gears hidden inside his skull start turning fast, making new plans.
And I lag behind, asking the stupid questions, too slow to run with the big dogs, too stupid not to trust anyone. Lest, so he says, when the exhaustion catches up with him. I’m just supposed to listen – sit down, shut up, listen, do as I say, not as I do. Like being a fucking four year old, all over again.
“I can’t sleep,” I tell him slowly. He stops moving his fingers along my cheeks, and opens his eyes again.
“So count sheep,” he tells me, like I’m just so stupid. I shake my head.
“No – Frankie, I can’t sleep,” I say, and he sits up, making the bed groan noisily. He blinks sleepily a couple times towards the six o’ clock morning light, and reaches for his Newports, his Zippo. The tobacco stink fills the room, making the already stale smell fresh, before fading again.
I tell him, You’re not supposed to smoke in here. Didn’t you read the sign? He says, don’t be an idiot. No-one listens to those shitheads out at that desk. God, Quinnie, when are you gonna get real?
This conversation takes thirty seconds; I know, I fucking timed it. But it’s still the most I’ll get out of him for another six hours, until he decides to tell me to get real again, when I ask another idiot question that get s me that dirty patronizing look.
“I can never sleep,” I whisper, looking away distractedly at the wall, avoiding his eyes, doing whatever it takes so I don’t have to see the look on his face, like I’m so pathetic, like I always need taking care of. I can’t deal with that – not one more time.
So he sighs and he pulls me into his arms and he kisses the top of my head, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know his eyes still hold that stupid, dirty, patronizing, apathetic look, but here, now, I ignore it, as he starts humming a song I should know the words, but I don’t. And my eyes close, and my heart slows just a little, and my fingers go slack, and I slip into a fitful world of nightmares for just a few hours, before he wakes me up, and we start running again.