Gray

In a funny way, I like to think of myself as an artist. I don't paint or draw or sculpt or make music or photograph things or anything else remotely creative. And yet, when people ask me what I do, I tell them, "Oh, I'm an artist." And then, of course, they do that whole, "Oh, an artist? That doesn't pay very well, does it?" thing and all I want to do in that moment is punch their lights out. But I don't, of course, because people don't like you when you sucker-punch them in between their eyes, I hear.

In my own way, I create things. I create ideas that I believe no one ever could have thought of. I create friendships with the oddest people. I rearrange my apartment furniture weekly. I form new things out of old, shitty things. And sometimes, during the summer, I put on a dress, - you know, one of those old, 50's ones that housewives used to wear - kick off my shoes, and dance on the hot concrete while the sun beats down on me.

And people watch me and I like to think that it makes them wonder why-in-the-hell I do what I do.

And in that way, I think of it as art.



Mornings and I had an odd relationship. Sometimes, I didn't want to even set foot out of bed, wanting to hold all of the warmth and comfort of my blankets around me. Other times, I couldn't wait to get moving, the very idea of starting my day exhilarating me to no end.

That morning, my dog had to nudge me to wake me up and I was entirely unhappy with him.

My dog was an important figure in my life; true, he was just a dog named Jubb (short for Jubbulpuria, an extremely obscure dinosaur) but he seemed to fill a hole in my life. Maybe it was the way that he woke me up when I ignored my alarm or maybe it was the way he begged for walks and food. Regardless, his presence had become a bit of a necessity in my day-to-day life.

"Nrrrgg..." I grumbled, letting Jubb know that I was nowhere near ready to wake up. He whined in his precious, floppy-eared way and my eyes reluctantly fluttered open to start at his wet, ebony nose. He whined again.

"What do you want?" I snapped, pulling my blankets over my head. Another whine came from my dog and he pulled at my blankets with his teeth. "Leave me alone, you...you...jerk." I didn't know if it was okay to insult dogs with human insults, but I did it anyway. After all, I had no one else to talk to.

"Oh, alright," I finally gave in, sitting up in bed as Jubb jumped up next to me, "I'll get out of bed. But I won't like it." Jubb barked softly; he never barked very loudly, possibly because he was such a polite dog. Secretly, though, I think that he simply didn't have the pipes.

Some people think a person is crazy when they have conversations with their pets; on the contrary, I think it's very healthy. It gives you a way to vent without being judged (as long as you don't look into their eyes; the eyes are always telling you something, even in animals) or interrupted. Granted, if your dog or cat or hedgehog is the only being that you talk to, then you might have a problem.

Once I got out of bed, I walked the few steps to my tiny kitchen and started to boil water. While I waited for the water to boil, I went to the bathroom, stripped myself of my clothing, and started the shower. I stepped in once it had warmed up, the water caressing my body as I quickly washed my skin and then my hair. Once I finished, I dried myself off and wrapped the towel around myself.

When I went back to the kitchen, the tea kettle was whistling, so I removed it from the stove and poured some of the water into a mug with a teabag. And then I waited.

It was at that moment that it occurred to me just how redundant my mornings were. Every day, I would get up, make myself tea, shower, and talk to my dog. As I was not necessarily a creature of habit and I enjoyed change very much, I did not appreciate this redundancy in the least.

So I set down my tea, got dressed, fed my dog, and left the apartment.

Rudy was already gone when I reached my car.

Rudy was a homeless man who had been sleeping in my car every night for the past two months. I had met him one day while I was wandering the streets of Seattle, looking for something that would strike my fancy. What I found was Rudy.

"Miss! Miss Lady, you dropped your money!"

I whirled around to see a man around thirty with a scruffy face, a dirty beanie, torn-up jeans, and a parka running over to me, waving a few dollar-bills in the air. When he caught up to me, he was wheezing a little and practically shoved my money at me.

"I was...going to...keep it..." he said between heaving breaths, "but...you looked so pretty...and I felt bad." I examined him, mulling over his words in my mind, before I began laughing. It was a hearty laugh for no apparent reason, while the rugged man before me fought to catch his breath.

"Hey, what's so funny?" he demanded to know, eyeing me as though I was the crazy one. And quite possibly, I could have been.

"It's just money," I told him, smiling after I had finished laughing.

"Money means a lot," the man said.

"Not to me."

"Well, aren't you just a fucking saint?" he snapped, "Money doesn't matter. I suppose you don't need external things to secure your happiness, huh?"

"I like tea," was all I said. The man cracked a smile.

"Fucking hipsters taking over Seattle," he chuckled.

"Tawny," I introduced myself.

"Rudy."

"What's your story, Rudy?" I wondered.

"I'm homeless; could you tell?"

"Not at all," I replied honestly, "Everyone in this city looks homeless these days."

"Ain't that the truth," Rudy laughed emotionlessly, "If you don't mind and since you don't care, I'm going to keep this money."

"Go right ahead," I assured him, "Hey Rudy, can I buy you a sandwich?"

"Well, I suppose. But don't get the wrong idea. A sandwich doesn't mean I'll put out."

"And I wouldn't expect you to."



It was cold, wet, and squelchy in Seattle, but what else was new? I parked my car near my favorite used bookstore and then I went in, determined to find a new novel to read.

But I didn't find one. Because I found Mr. H.

Never had I seen him away from the piano. And yet, there he was, standing before my eyes. He was talking to the girl at the desk, buying books. The girl was very clearly hitting on him (and who could blame her?) but Mr. H. wasn't having it; he only focused on the books, and when the girl told him his total, he handed her the money and turned to leave the store.

I had no time to escape, so I stood in front of the door awkwardly. As Mr. H. saw me, he stopped in his tracks and acknowledged me.

"Tawny," he nodded his head.

"Mr. H.," I breathed, not knowing why I had wanted to hide when I saw him standing there, "Interesting to see you here and not at a piano lesson."

"Might I inquire why?" he arched an eyebrow.

"Don't you associate people with places?" I asked him, "I do. And when I see someone somewhere new, it throws me off. Now, I might always think of you when I come to this bookstore."

"Only if the memory is strong enough," Mr. H. smiled secretively, "I have a feeling that you won't overthink it."

"God knows I never overthink things," I said sarcastically.

"God," Mr. H. continued to smile in his small way, "Interesting."

"Interesting, indeed," I agreed, "Might I ask which books you've purchased?" Mr. H. seemed to consider this; I could see a tiny conflict on his face as he looked in his bag, examining the books that he had bought only moments before.

"Another time, perhaps," he decided.

"Porn, is it?" I nodded knowingly.

"What?" his eyes widened ever-so-slightly, "No, no, nothing like that. I'm not interested in that."

"Not interested in sex?" I laughed a little, "Are you asexual?"

"No, why would you ask me something like that?" he wanted to know.

"I don't know," I shrugged, "You said you're not interested in sex, so I was curious."

"I never said that," Mr. H. pointed out.

"So you are interested in sex?"

"Are you coming onto me?" Mr. H. wondered.

"That depends; are you interested in sex?" I asked, "Because I sure am, and I don't think I could be in a sexless relationship." Mr. H. laughed a little bit, looking down at his bag of books as he smiled.

"I think, for now, our relationship should remain professional," Mr. H. suggested, "I will continue to give you piano lessons, even though I know that it's a lost cause, and you will continue coming to your lessons twenty minutes late but paying for the entire hour."

"That sounds like an excellent plan," I agreed, "I love being late and paying an hours-worth for forty minutes."

"Then I think that this relationship is going to continue working as smoothly as it has been," Mr. H. stated matter-of-factly, "Goodbye now, Tawny."

"Goodbye. Enjoy your porn."

Mr. H. walked right past me, but not before I caught the smile on his face. As he left through the door, I took to the shelves, scanning the titles for something interesting. Strangely enough, two words swam in my mind, overtaking my complete concentration.

For now

Talk about cryptic.