Something I Could Hold Onto
It's a perfect day for making out.
"Fuck!"
The adrenaline ripping through Frank's veins became even more potent as he jumped desperately out of the shower. Icy water pelted steadily against the stall, the stream now gliding over the surface where his body used to be. His skin still stung with the shock of the frozen spray, yet he didn't hesitate to ducked under the shower head once more.
Frank began to calculate and distribute his time mentally. After finishing his phone call with Gerard, he had laid on the bet in disbelief. We're going out for coffee, he kept thinking, each repetition sounding more and more tangible. He would have still been recumbent, too, if he hadn't realized that he now had nineteen minutes to prepare. Four minutes would be spent showering, then three on drying his hair. The hotel provided a cheap plastic blow dryer to all the guests, but he had yet to determine whether or not it was functional.
This would leave him twelve minutes to "make himself pretty". Six would be spent dressing, two on cosmetics, and four adjusting his appearance until it neared perfection.
The water, by now, had reached a comfortable temperature. Frank's hands scrubbed roughly at his skin and hair; had his nails been longer, he could have drawn blood. Hastily, he washed the soap from his body and wrapped a towel loosely around his waist. The thin cotton threatened to fall to the floor, but was ignored as he fumbled with the switches on the small white appliance. Finally, hot air began to blast outwards. Thirteen minutes, he thought. Thirteen minutes until he gets here.
A groan tore through Frank's vocal chords. He sounded like such a teenage girl.
After several minutes of clumsily drying his hair, he declared it satisfactory and ran to the bedroom. His clothes were still firmly packed in his duffel bag, clean and organized. The zipper flew open with ease allowing him to scan its contents quickly. He shuffled through the bag for a moment before producing a pair of drainpipes and a simple red shirt. Frank stumbled a bit as he shoved his legs through the pants, hopping unsteadily before collapsing backwards on the bed. Plastic dug into his back as he fell on his phone, but he wasted no time in standing again to pull his shirt over his head.
Six minutes.
The next moments passed by in a blur -- somehow, Frank had managed to lace his shoes and line his eyes with his thoughts sewn to the idea of breakfast with Gerard. It was almost surreal for his luck to lead him in such a positive direction; he was almost frightened he would wake up and this would all have been a dream. Perhaps the last few days had been a cruel mirage of what his life could be, of how content he could be.
The pessimism poisoning his outlook was shattered by the shrill voice of Steve Perry.
"Don't stop believin'! Hold onto the feeling!"
Frank couldn't help but grin at the omen, dashing to the bed and putting the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" he said, excitement bubbling in his throat.
"Look outside," came the cool response.
The adrenaline ripping through Frank's veins became even more potent as he jumped desperately out of the shower. Icy water pelted steadily against the stall, the stream now gliding over the surface where his body used to be. His skin still stung with the shock of the frozen spray, yet he didn't hesitate to ducked under the shower head once more.
Frank began to calculate and distribute his time mentally. After finishing his phone call with Gerard, he had laid on the bet in disbelief. We're going out for coffee, he kept thinking, each repetition sounding more and more tangible. He would have still been recumbent, too, if he hadn't realized that he now had nineteen minutes to prepare. Four minutes would be spent showering, then three on drying his hair. The hotel provided a cheap plastic blow dryer to all the guests, but he had yet to determine whether or not it was functional.
This would leave him twelve minutes to "make himself pretty". Six would be spent dressing, two on cosmetics, and four adjusting his appearance until it neared perfection.
The water, by now, had reached a comfortable temperature. Frank's hands scrubbed roughly at his skin and hair; had his nails been longer, he could have drawn blood. Hastily, he washed the soap from his body and wrapped a towel loosely around his waist. The thin cotton threatened to fall to the floor, but was ignored as he fumbled with the switches on the small white appliance. Finally, hot air began to blast outwards. Thirteen minutes, he thought. Thirteen minutes until he gets here.
A groan tore through Frank's vocal chords. He sounded like such a teenage girl.
After several minutes of clumsily drying his hair, he declared it satisfactory and ran to the bedroom. His clothes were still firmly packed in his duffel bag, clean and organized. The zipper flew open with ease allowing him to scan its contents quickly. He shuffled through the bag for a moment before producing a pair of drainpipes and a simple red shirt. Frank stumbled a bit as he shoved his legs through the pants, hopping unsteadily before collapsing backwards on the bed. Plastic dug into his back as he fell on his phone, but he wasted no time in standing again to pull his shirt over his head.
Six minutes.
The next moments passed by in a blur -- somehow, Frank had managed to lace his shoes and line his eyes with his thoughts sewn to the idea of breakfast with Gerard. It was almost surreal for his luck to lead him in such a positive direction; he was almost frightened he would wake up and this would all have been a dream. Perhaps the last few days had been a cruel mirage of what his life could be, of how content he could be.
The pessimism poisoning his outlook was shattered by the shrill voice of Steve Perry.
"Don't stop believin'! Hold onto the feeling!"
Frank couldn't help but grin at the omen, dashing to the bed and putting the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" he said, excitement bubbling in his throat.
"Look outside," came the cool response.
♠ ♠ ♠
The title is from "Doing the Unstuck" by The Cure.