Gray

I had a list of sad things that had been duct-taped above the doorknob on my navy blue, bedroom door. People are greedy, little bitches who crave happiness and euphoria all of the goddamn time and yet, even when they’re in the midst of something truly great, they don’t take the time to appreciate it. They don’t appreciate the sad things in life, because all they can think about during those times is how depressed and lonely they are. They’re all well aware that these things are sad, but they don’t really care. All they can do is sob and wish for company. Even the melancholy moments, though, can be beautiful. Cooking dinner for one, knowing that you’ll end up making enough for two and you’ll have to put it in the fridge after you’re finished eating a healthy portion, and eat the rest as leftovers the following night. Drinking all alone at a bar, trying to catch the eye of that one really good-looking individual who doesn’t even glance your way the entire night, because they’re too busy laughing and dancing. Burying the family dog – called Ed, after your great-great grandfather – way out in the woods, because if you bury it too close to the house, wild animals will dig the corpse up and feast on its flesh. Smoking yourself into a baked stupor as you sit in the corner of your bedroom alone with the lights off and the record player – which not a lot of people even have anymore, a fact that is sad in itself – humming Bob Dylan or The White Stripes or Bright Eyes or Sonic Youth – or whatever-the-hell-else you listen to – into your foggy ears while you surround yourself in a cloud of herby smoke. Watching black-and-white movie marathons on the television set with just your dog to keep you company, while you guzzle down cheap beer after fucking, cheap beer and smoke your last pack of cigarettes, knowing that the next time you have money, you’ll spend it on your god-awful nicotine addiction, instead of food or bills. Standing on the street corner, holding a cardboard sign between your shaking hands that says, “Anything helps, God bless,” while the rain comes down in buckets and you don’t even have a jacket to keep yourself warm and all you can think is, “Fuck, I’m gonna come down with pneumonia.” Withering away in a hospital bed, trying to get every, last ounce of good times in during your last days, before the cancer takes over your body completely and your systems all fail. But after all of it, you know that you had a good run.

Because even though these moments make you cry, they are truly beautiful.

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The macaroni and cheese TV dinner rotated in the microwave while water heated in the orange tea kettle on the stove. A mug sat on the counter, with a dry tea bag of the chai variety resting inside, its string wrapped around the mug’s handle to keep it in place. The tiny window above the sink was open, as though it was pretending to air out the kitchen that might be hot from the use of the oven – if, in fact, the oven was ever used to cook anything. The entire kitchen itself was rather lonely; there weren’t any pictures or magnets on the fridge, cute checkered patterns were nowhere in sight, a sparse amount of dishes filled the cupboards, and there were never more than five dirty dishes in the sink. A bowl of dog food and a bowl of water sat on the ground near the tiny trash can, proving that the apartment housed more than one, even if the second being really was just a dog.

I tapped the fork against my lips as I sat on my kitchen counter, swinging my feet back and forth to the rhythm of the blaring microwave cooking my dinner for the night. A dinner for one, tea for one – even Jubb didn’t need dinner, because he hadn’t finished all the food that I had given him earlier in the afternoon. It was sad, but I barely even noticed, as it was just a part of my daily life.

Besides, I had a hot date with an Audrey Hepburn movie marathon and a bottle of blackberry wine. I was set for the night.

Upon hearing an obnoxious beeping noise that let me know my luxurious, cardboard-flavored dinner was finished baking, I hopped down from the counter and opened the microwave door. Ignoring the CAUTION: PLASTIC WILL BE HOT AFTER COOKING warning signs on the side of my food’s container, I grabbed it from the microwave, immediately scalding my hands and regretting it. I moved it over near the stove where the tea kettle had begun to whistle, emitting a surprising number of “ow’s”, “ouch’s”, and “sweet Mary, mother of Jesus Christ’s” as I did so. I turned off the stove quickly, pouring steaming hot water into my mug. I always drank tea with dinner, after which I usually drank a glass or two or five of wine (I couldn’t really keep track of glasses because I drank from the bottle). My alcohol intake had increased very much recently, but I wasn’t exactly sure why.

Jubb was already lounging on the cozy, green sofa when I carried my dinner – a towel between the container and my hand – and tea into the living room to begin eating. Jubb was watching the television set intently as Breakfast At Tiffany’s played. Whenever we watched this movie, Jubb would whine every time the cat (whose name was, in fact, Cat) waltzed on-screen.

I had just set my tea on the side table and settled into the couch, sitting right next to Jubb with my dinner, when there was a sharp knock on my door. (My apartment complex didn’t have any sort of fancy buzzing system; in fact, the front door of my apartment was on the outside of the second story of the building.)

“Who the hell is knocking on my door?” I asked myself, setting my dinner to the side with an exasperated huff, “Don’t they know that I’m busy? Jesus! Jubb, don’t you dare set a paw near my dinner; I’ll be back in a flash.” I didn’t have a ton of friends (at least, none that knew where I lived) and so I immediately assumed that it was Rudy, here at my door to complain about something or try to weasel some food out of my kitchen (which I would ultimately end up giving him, I knew).

But it wasn’t Rudy.

“H,” my eyes widened as I noticed who stood in front of the door.

“Were you planning on using that as a weapon?” H asked me, looking amused as he motioned to the fork in my hand. My eyes glanced down at the fork and I managed an uninterested sigh.

“Well, yes,” I told H, leaning against the doorframe, “If you must know, I was just about to eat dinner when you so rudely interrupted me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean to –”

“Relax,” I cracked a smile, “It’s no big deal. However, I am extremely confused as to why you are at my house. Mind explaining that?”

“I was in the neighborhood, actually,” H informed me as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit’s pants. I was about to ask him what he had been doing anywhere near my shitty, run-down neighborhood when I recalled the restaurant that he owned, which was just down the street from my apartment complex. Suddenly, it wasn’t so strange that he had been in my neck of the woods; it was strange, however, that he had decided to pay a visit to his hoodlum piano student (as I so affectionately referred to myself).

“Alright,” I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at H, “But what are you doing here? At my house, I mean?”

“Oh, that,” H scratched the back of his head gingerly, “I actually have something to tell you. I’m…going away this week. So we won’t be having our piano lesson this week.” I raised one eyebrow in confusion at H.

“You…could have just called to tell me that, you know,” I told him, watching as he awkwardly took a step back.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I could have…” H’s voice faded as he looked down at the ground. I had never seen him looking so put-out, dejected, and uncomfortable; had I said something wrong? In order to fix whatever I had done, I decided to attempt cleverness.

“Yeah, you kind of interrupted me in the middle of a pretty hot date,” I explained to H, folding my arms across my chest, fork still in hand. I watched as H looked back up at me, his ebony eyes slightly widened, a look which, to me, meant that he was about to start apologizing again.

“I’m truly sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, appearing quite disgruntled, “I’ll just let you get back to that then.” What had I done to make H so…unlike himself? Maybe I was just being self-centered, though; perhaps his strange mood had nothing whatsoever to do with me. Regardless, he was stuttering like some awkward adolescent. I was not used to seeing H like this. He was always so calm, collected, smooth, debonair, and such.

“Thanks,” my lips twisted up into a half-smile, “I really shouldn’t keep Audrey Hepburn waiting for very long. She has a tendency to get sassy.”

“Audrey…Hepburn?” A genuine smile crossed H’s lips, a sight which eased my fears that I had done something wrong. Fooling myself, I began to think that my hilarity had saved H from being upset. I suddenly wondered if H was an Audrey Hepburn fan. I wanted to invite him into my apartment and I wanted him to sit on my couch, next to Jubb and I. I wanted us to watch old movies till the early hours of the morning, drinking blackberry wine together from the bottle and talking about things like our childhoods and scars that we had gotten, both physical and otherwise. Sometimes, my girlish fantasies had a way of getting out of control.

“Tawny?” I shook myself out of my daydream-induced daze, meeting H’s curious gaze.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a moment there,” I shook my head, trying to cleanse my thoughts of any sort of silly dream that I had had involving H. It was ridiculous, the way that I could make so many plans for the two of us, without him being any the wiser.

Fuck. Everyone was right. I had the creepiest crush on my mysterious piano teacher.

“So, um,” I rubbed the back of my neck sheepishly, “Do…Do you want to come in?” Just to further prove my invitation, I pushed my door open wide, giving H the tiniest smile. To my surprise, H smiled back at me, the smile reaching all the way to his eyes.

“I don’t think I should…What are you doing?” H arched his eyebrows at me in confusion. I, meanwhile, was busy pushing my lower lip out in a pout. I even batted my eyelashes at him and folded my hands together in front of me.

“You’re not going to make me drink wine all by my lonesome, are you?” I whined, lathering on the pout and giving H a few more bats of the eyelashes.

“Is this honestly your strategy to get me to come in?” H wanted to know, his voice cool and casual. He seemed to be reverting back to the cold, callous H that I knew and had a creepy crush on.

“Maybe…Is it working?” I gave him a shifty look, wanting us to be sharing our childhood stories with each other already. In response, H took a step into my apartment and I closed the door behind the both of us.

It was strange seeing such an extraordinary being in such an ordinary setting as my apartment. H took a glance around him, seeming to scrutinize my possessions and the very apartment itself. He seemed to bring a sort of inhuman charm to my foyer (if it was even big enough to call it that) that made me want to keep him right there, as a sort of ornament to be adored by all who dared to enter my house. At the same time, however, I wanted to push H right back outside, because his current surroundings didn’t seem to do him justice.

“Your place is very –”

“Small? I know,” I put my palm to my forehead in shame, interrupting H mid-sentence.

“Actually, I was going to say charming.”

I peeked out from in between my fingers, catching a smile on H’s lips. He could be polite and sweet, when it suited him, and I had to say that I quite liked it. I brought my hand down from my face and strode further into my apartment, going around the couch to have a seat. H followed me and as he rounded the couch, Jubb immediately began barking softly at him. H backed up in response, holding his hands out in front of him in surrender. A smile touched my lips.

“Sorry, that’s Jubb,” I sighed, pulling Jubb by the collar, away from H so that he could sit down. I ended up putting Jubb – who was, by no means, a lap dog – into my lap, while H sat on the very opposite side of the couch.

“I don’t have cooties, you know,” I smirked, scratching Jubb behind the ears.

“Yes, well, I don’t want to upset your dog any further,” H pointed out (though I felt that he was just making up excuses).

“Don’t worry, you won’t,” I assured H, “Scoot closer and pet him a little bit; he’ll love you if you do.” H looked more than slightly apprehensive, but he sidled over next to Jubb and I slowly. Jubb was watching H with an amused expression (because my dog was a monster and loved scaring people; like pet, like owner). Cautiously and at a glacial pace, H stretched his hand out and rested it on the top of Jubb’s head, giving him a quick pat, and then retracting his hand.

“Well, I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get,” I smiled over at H, pushing Jubb off of me and onto the ground. Jubb, however, just went over to another section of the couch and got right back up. I looked over at my food, feeling guilty (and a bit embarrassed) that I didn’t have any dinner for H. Because, as always, I had prepared dinner for one.

“Um, sorry,” I scratched the back of my head gingerly, “I…only made dinner for one.” I awkwardly held up my TV dinner to H, who gave me a small smile.

“That’s no problem,” he insisted, “I ate at the restaurant.” The restaurant? Oh, he meant the one down the street that he owned where all of the employees knew my name. (I had begun referring to it as The Creepy Restaurant.)

“I have tea and wine, however,” I told him, first holding up my mug of tea and then the bottle of wine, “If you’re thirsty.”

“I’m alright, Tawny,” H assured me, “Really.” His ebony eyes bore into my own and I felt my mouth become slightly agape. He raised an eyebrow at me, as though I were acting stranger than usual; I quickly shoved a bite of macaroni and cheese into my mouth, looking away from H quickly.

“So, how about that Audrey Hepburn, huh?” I asked him, taking a few more bites of my meal.

“Yeah, how about her,” H chuckled softly, his hands resting on his legs as he sat upright. I continued shoveling food into my mouth – in, you know, a polite and proper manner – and the air between H and I grew thick with silence. After I had finished my luxurious TV dinner, I set my plastic container to the side and exhaled a breath that I felt I had been holding in for the longest time, my eyes flickering back between H and the television. The stale quietness was threatening to murder me, I could tell.

“So…” I cleared my throat, making it incredibly more awkward, if anything, “How are things at the creepy restaurant?” The words had spilled out of my mouth before I had time to ponder over them, leaving me mentally smacking myself in the head over and over again with various, imagined objects. H didn’t know that I referred to his restaurant as “the creepy restaurant”. To be honest, he hadn’t really needed to know. He turned his head toward me, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

“The…creepy restaurant?” he repeated it.

“Did I say creepy?” I laughed nervously, “I meant your restaurant. How are things?” I knew that once it had been said, H wasn’t going to let it go, no matter how furiously I tried to fix my mistake.

“Might I ask why it’s ‘the creepy restaurant’?” H demanded to know, still giving me a confused look. I didn’t really want to tell him; in fact, that was the furthest thing from what I wanted to do. I wanted to bury my head in the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch, much like an ostrich might bury its head in the sand to keep cool. I wanted to ignore his question and watch Audrey Hepburn be cute in every, goddamn role that she played.

“Tawny. Answer the question.”

“Jesus, no need to be so forceful,” I wrinkled my nose up at H, “Fine. I call it the creepy restaurant because one of the guys who worked there knew my name before I had told him.” I expected H to be upset with me, but instead, a tiny smile twisted his lips upward.

“Tawny,” he said lightly, “Do you honestly think I haven’t talked about you?”

He couldn’t have said anything more perfect at that moment. I felt a blush color my cheeks, but I couldn’t look away from H’s amused face. Whether he was amused at my embarrassment or the fact that I had been so silly as to think that I was never spoken about; either way, it made me blush even more ferociously.

“Do you…mind if I open that bottle of wine?” H asked me, suddenly changing the subject.

“Oh, ah…no, go ahead,” I nodded my head furiously, my complexion still pink, “I’ll just, um…I’ll get some cups.” I immediately made a bee-line for the kitchen, determined to escape from H’s smirking expression and beautiful, well, everything.

If there was ever something I had never wanted to possess, it was most definitely the creepy obsession that I had with H. Who – I had momentarily forgotten due to his charming air – was most likely Satan.

I had romantic delusions about the Devil. What would my grandmother think?

I returned to the couch, a wine glass in one hand and a tankard (one used for really foamy beer or ale) in the other. I held them up to H, who had in his possession the now-open bottle of wine.

“Wine glass or ale tankard?” I asked him, watching as a smile spread across his face.

“Wine glass.”

“Good. I wanted the tankard anyway.”

H filled our glasses to the very top, looking at me every so often as though he were expecting me to protest. I didn’t, though; when I drank, I liked drinking a lot. It was a bad habit. I took a sip of the wine, testing it out and enjoying the flavor as it lingered on my lips.

“It’s good wine,” H complimented.

“You sound surprised,” I raised my eyebrows over at him, “What, you think I can’t afford the best? It’s because of where I live and how I dress, isn’t it? Just because I’m a hoodlum –”

“Tawny, you need to stop referring to yourself as a ‘hoodlum’,” H smiled over at me, taking a sip of the wine.

“What? No way,” I protested, taking a large gulp of my own wine, “How else am I supposed to seem hard-done-by? The guys on the street would never talk to me if they didn’t think I was one of their own. Which, of course, I am.”

“I don’t think that all of the ‘guys on the street’ are hoodlums,” H pointed out.

“An outsider like you wouldn’t get it,” I retorted haughtily, “They’re my people.” I heard H laugh, meaning that he had decided to drop the subject. I looked down into my tankard with a smile, noticing that I was already almost finished with my wine. Why did it always seem that I drank wine quicker than any other alcohol? I just drank it without noticing what I was doing. I quickly drained the rest of my wine, then filled it up again. H still had half of his wine left, but he said nothing as I got another cup.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Audrey Hepburn movie,” H suddenly told me, watching the television intently. My jaw dropped.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“No,” H narrowed his eyes at me, “I’m being quite serious.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” I stuck my nose in the air, already feeling the alcohol invading my system, “because she is phenomenal and there is a marathon on.” H said nothing after that. I said nothing after that. It was quiet, aside from Audrey Hepburn and whatever guy she was with, depending upon the movie. But it wasn’t awkward. If anything, it was good like this.

H and I didn’t talk about our childhoods. He didn’t tell me any secrets that he had never before told anyone and I didn’t tell him about the time that I fell into my aunt and uncle’s pond and almost drowned, or the time when my grandfather died and how I felt about it, or the time when my parents left for vacation and never came back to get me. I didn’t tell him about any of my own secrets. We just watched Audrey Hepburn and drank blackberry wine the entire night; all the while, I attempted to be funny (while drunk) and H just smiled at me like I was the most interesting human he’d ever met before.

And who knows?

Maybe I was.