You and Sunrise

“You know, those shoes don’t really match your shirt.”

I swallow once and blink several times, then just stare at my twin brother. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching me as I shrug into my coat. Or at least I was – it’s settled now, and I’m just standing here looking at him as he looks at me.

It’s a low blow, really. Bill knows how serious I am about color-coordinating, and I can’t help but add this to the list of reasons he’s given me to be irritated with him today alone. I glance down at the shoes and the shirt, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s not that off,” I say, flicking some lint off of the coat, trying to brush off and dismiss what he’s saying.

His expression holds a sort of catty indifference as he shrugs. “Well the shoes have more green, but if you’re okay with that, fine.”

I look down at the sneakers and the turquoise plaid shirt I’m wearing and frown. Sure enough, the shoes are leaning more toward teal and a weird sort of half-panic starts in my chest. I silently curse myself. Why, why do I have to care?

So I sigh and head around the corner, then down the hall – back to my bedroom and my suitcase, where my shoes are all wrapped in plastic bags. The room’s light, when I turn it on, is a dingy sort of yellow and I wilt a little inside; it’s probably what threw me off in the first place. I put the teal shoes back and find some that are plainly black. Surely, I can’t possibly go wrong with these, can I?

I flip off the light and go back, this time passing the front room and coat closet. I pass Bill and his stare too; I don’t even look at him as I make my way toward the door leading to the garage. As much as I want to, however, I can’t bring myself to just leave. There’s still that familiar pull magnetizing us, the one that demands I don’t leave while we’re fighting, if that’s what this is at all. I turn on my heel to face him.

“Bill,” I start, unsure of what I want to say, “Bill, do you maybe want to come with me? I mean, maybe if you got out of the house…”

“No. No, Tom, I’m fine. Seeing Mom and Gordon was enough for me today,” he says, but I know better. I know that he’s not very tired at all, at least not in the way he means. Normally, he’d shrug and say something like, ‘Yeah sure, why not?’ but tonight, it’s different. He’s different.

He knows better too, though – he knows that I’m leaving to get away from him for awhile, and he knows I’m just asking because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He always seems to know, and I do too, but that certainly doesn’t mean we know what to do about it, especially lately.

“Alright,” I say, suddenly nervous about leaving. What if something were to happen to him while I’m gone? What if someone breaks into the house, or he chokes on food? What if he slips and falls in the shower and breaks something? “I love you. Be careful.”

He looks at me strangely. “I… love you too. And I will.” With that, he gives a little wave and leaves the kitchen, probably going to his room. For some reason, the nonchalant way he says goodbye crushes me a little, and I bite my lip as I watch him walk away. Almost immediately, though, my sadness turns to irritation. What did I do to make him act this way toward me? Why should I stick around if he’s just going to be a prick?

So I leave.



Things always seem better when I’m behind the wheel. The world is a little more exciting, more memorable somehow as it blurs past the windows of a dark, sleek sports car. I’m in full control here, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift, weaving through diminishing traffic on the autobahn.

It’s a little after 19 o’clock now, just past rush hour, and so far I’ve managed to avoid all of the after-work traffic, taking back roads and side streets, and just wandering in general. I’ve got a pretty decent sense of direction, and a pretty accurate internal compass, so I’ve always got an idea of where I am. If that does fail, though, there’s a GPS built in above the radio controls, so I’m never worried.

But I don’t need the device today – I’m taking a simple highway route now, and before that, I was speeding down familiar country back roads, ones that I had explored a little while ago when Bill and I actually lived here in Hamburg. Now we’re based in Los Angeles, and I’m honestly not sure whether it’s an improvement or a regression. I don’t want to worry about that now, though. We’re back in Hamburg on a little vacation of sorts, visiting with our parents and friends, and jamming sometimes with Georg and Gustav. All I can think of lately, is the simple fact that it’s good to be really home. I just wonder if Bill feels the same way.

I wonder a lot lately about how Bill feels. Between his drastic mood swings, his snide remarks, and his tendency to stay in his room on his laptop when we’re home, I’m always left guessing. I feel like he’s pushing me away. He doesn’t talk to me as much as he used to, and whenever I ask how he is, he’s always just fine if I’m lucky. If I happen to be misfortunate at that particular moment, he snaps at me and just leaves. It’s hurtful, nerve wracking. I want to help, but it seems that he doesn’t want me to. I don’t know what else to do but stay away.

So I will, and for as long as I can. Bill knows not to expect me home soon; he won’t be worried. He knows I can easily stay out for hours, just driving around and listening to music, being myself and escaping from everything like I so love to do. And this is why when I come back to the city – I’ve made a big loop out into the country and now back, out east to Schwartzenbek and then north around Glinde – I take the street off the Horner Kriesel roundabout that will lead me to my favorite hole in the wall, a little café and bar called Trotzdem that doesn’t attract many of the more hip teenagers or the paparazzi. It’s a place that’s always been almost as safe as anything gets.

It’s early still, so I don’t expect much to be going on inside, but apparently I’ve caught the after-work crowd. There are businessmen scattered around the room, and several rougher looking men, who appear to have been working outdoors all day. Then there are maybe a few tourists hanging around, and a table of some rambunctious looking men who are laughing loudly, talking in a strange mix of English and a language I don’t even recognize. There aren’t too many women in the mix, maybe three or four sitting at tables with the men, looking thoroughly tired and ready to go home.

“Ah, hello, Tom! Thought you were gone to America already!” Lukas greets me when I reach the bar.

“Well, we’ve moved, yes, but we’re back visiting,” I say as I take a seat, unwilling to spill my guts about what’s going on with Bill, why we’ve really come back.

“So soon? I would think you’ve barely had time to settle in over there! It’s been, what… two, two and a half weeks?” he says and I grow uncomfortable.

“Well, yeah, it’s… you know. We’re back.”

“That’s good, very good. So what would you like this evening?” he asks me, seeming to catch on to the fact that I’m not going to tell him any more, and I ponder his question for a moment.

“Beer, I guess.” After all, that’s why I came here, right? A little alcohol to calm my nerves and a place to get away.

“Coming right up. Should I open your tab?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“Nope, I’m driving and I don’t want to hang around here too far into the night. Just one beer will do,” I tell him.

“Alright. You know the cost,” he says, then goes about getting a glass and filling it as I extract my wallet from my pocket.

I take out a few Euros and place them on the counter, sighing as I do. It’s sort of nice to be back here, somewhere familiar and something like safe. The pictures scattered around are just how I remember them, and so are the Christmas lights that are draped over some of the walls. The place is warm in both temperature and color, and the mismatched browns of the room are comforting, homey. Numerous decorative lighting fixtures litter the ceiling, hanging low enough to cause concern for anyone much taller than I am, and it gives the place a weird, eclectic feel. It’s the opposite of hip or trendy, and that’s why I like it – not many others my age or younger do.

Lukas soon comes back with a mug of beer, and I thank him, slide the money on the counter toward him. He thanks me back, and that’s all that we say to each other, which is just fine with me – I’m not really in the mood for small talk anyway.

I take a drink of my beer and sigh, deciding that it’s just a general bummer of a day. Of course it was nice to see Mom and Gordon, but the whole time we were there I could tell Bill was putting up a nice polite front, basically pretending everything was okay, and the fact irritated me. Things were obviously not okay (not that I knew why), so why fake it – and in front of our own family? Put together with his snapping, his general chilly disposition lately, and the matching December weather, I’d say I have enough reasons to simply call the day quits.

It’s sort of nice to be alone, I think. Sort of nice, but sort of stingy too, and I wonder what Bill is doing at home. Is he watching a movie on his laptop, or maybe checking out videos on his phone? Is he texting Andreas like he has been more often lately? Or is he sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring out the window in silence like how I found him only two days ago?

Before I can dwell on it much more, however, a voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Hello,” someone says, and I turn to see a girl sitting down beside me, a glass of alcohol already in hand.

I give her a nervous glance. Is she a fan? If so, is she a polite one, or a… less polite one?

“Hey,” I mutter, not really in the mood to be socializing, and definitely not in the mood to give away a lock of my hair or something equally as upsetting. I quickly raise my mug to take another swig of beer, buying myself some time and taking the opportunity to see what I’m dealing with.

She’s sort of lanky, and she’s got long, wavy blonde hair falling down her back. She’s almost spritely with high, wide cheekbones; a straight, elfin nose; and a well-defined, but fragile looking jaw. She’s not what I usually go for – her lips are maybe a bit too thin, and she’s far from as full in the chest as I’d like – but her eyes are wide and pretty and her elf nose is cute, I think.

“My name is Lára. What is your name?” Her words sound like they’re straight from either kindergarten or a ‘Learn German’ paperback like I’ve seen in America, and a rather intriguing accent embellishes her pronunciation.

“Tom,” I say simply, absently trying to place her accent but failing. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though. Once she has whatever she wants from me, she’ll be on her way and I’ll probably never see her again.

“Nice to meet you. How are you?” she asks me and I blow out a breath. Still the textbook small talk.

“Look, no offence, but what do you want from me? I’m… this isn’t such a good time right now, alright?” I try to make my words gentle, but probably fail, what with the mood I’m in. Bill always does say that I can never mask my irritation – it’s always just as plain as day.

Her face falls and I instantly regret saying what I did.

“I just thought… You were sitting alone, and I thought you might be…” she trails off here, bites her lip, thinking. “Lonely,” she finishes, saying the word in English and looking hopefully up at me, willing me to understand her.

Of course, I do.

“I’m sorry,” I say, switching to English. “I’ve just been having a bad time lately.”

“It’s alright. I… yeah,” she murmurs, seeming relieved that I speak English, and I sigh, looking down and pondering her words.

I thought you might be lonely. The words themselves could easily be taken as some sort of sexual invitation. Her tone, however, put a whole different spin on the timedestroyed phrase. I didn’t want you to be alone. For some reason, I’m nearly overwhelmed with gratitude.

“So where are you from?” I ask, still wondering about her accent, and now determined to be nicer to her.

“I’m from Iceland, here with the other members of the band I am in,” she says, and I can see her relaxing with the change of language.

Honestly, I’m a little surprised. I’ve never in my life listened to Icelandic music, save for one or two tracks by Björk that my mom likes, and I’ve never heard of any other popular bands that have come out of the country. “Pretty long way from home! You’re on tour?”

“Yeah, a little one. Tonight is the fifth city and the halfway point,” she says and I soak in her accent. It’s different, but I sort of like it.

“Around Europe, right?” I ask and she nods.

“Yes, but we are doing three shows in North America too. Los Angeles, New York, and then Toronto.” I’m impressed, and I have to wonder if maybe I have heard of her band, but just don’t know enough about them to recognize her.

“So what are you guys called? Are you the singer?” She may not be what I go for, but she’s certainly photogenic enough, I think.

“Um, no I’m not,” she says, seemingly baffled about my guess. “We’re called Sigur Rós, and I play bass, but really, guitar is my… best musical instrument.”

I can’t help it that my eyebrows rise just a little. My eyes flicker downward to where bony wrists peek out from the ends of her coat sleeves, and I find myself wondering if playing the bass has the same effect on tendons that playing power chords on the guitar can. Is she more, or less susceptible to the tendonitis that makes doing what I love painful?

“Yes, the guitar is definitely great,” I say, smiling to cover up my slightly gloomy thoughts, then change the subject slightly. “Where’s the rest of the band?”

A little smile crosses her face and all that I can think is that it’s a really nice smile – easy and childlike and just there for the sake of smiling. I smile a little too.

“They are the loud ones over there,” she tells me, gesturing to where the boisterous men that I noticed initially are sitting. “The bearded one is Kjartan, Orri is the shaggy light hair one, Jónsi is the one with the… strange hair. You know, sticking up in front.”

All the names are pretty strange – certainly not anything I’m used to, even Lára’s, and I know that if I were to try to say them, I would just embarrass myself. But I pick the men out one by one, recognizing Kjartan and Jónsi first. Orri seems to be quieter and is situated toward the back of the booth across from another man, who is next to Jónsi.

“Who is sitting next to… Jónsi?” I say the name slowly and Lára gives a quiet little laugh.

“Um… I don’t know him. Jónsi met him a little bit ago and they’ve been flirting since.” She says this with amusement in her voice and a light smile still on her lips.

“Jónsi’s gay then?” I ask, curious.

“Yes, he is. He is very good at it, too,” she says matter-of-factly and I have to laugh a little at her words. “He somehow is finding every gay boy we come across on this tour. It’s sort of funny, I think.”

I nod, glance over her shoulder at Jónsi, who is leaning in to whisper into the other man’s ear. The bearded one – Kjartan, I think – is leaning back with his arms crossed, a thoroughly amused smilesmirk in place, and Orri is grinning, now chuckling and shaking his head. Both seem to be completely fine with their bandmate’s flirting and I smile – it’s familiar to me.

“How old are they? You look younger,” I say, then take another drink of my beer.

“Yeah, I’m the young one. Orri is 29, Kjartan is turning 29 in January, and Jónsi is 32. I’m 21 now.” She looks down at her drink after she says the last part.

“So how did you get in with them? Like… the age difference, you know?” I ask, trying to say all I want to in a language I’m still not fluent in. She’s not either, though, and on one hand, I’m glad I’m not alone in it; but on the other hand, it’s just another barrier between us.

“Um… the original bassist wanted to be with his family. His wife just had the baby,” she says.

“I see. So you’re the new member?” I ask, and at that, she only nods. “What do the others do?”

“Jónsi sings and plays the guitar, usually. Kjartan handles the keyboard instruments, and Orri plays the drums. Sometimes we mix it up, though. Sometimes Jónsi plays the glockenspiel or bass, and then I’ll play the piano or celesta while Kjartan plays the flute or the guitar or the organ... Orri sticks to drums except for like… one or two songs, I think.”

My eyebrows rise at this flood of information and I smile. “Wow… what genre are you guys?”

At this, she lifts her chin a little. “Rock and roll.” The words are so American sounding that I have to laugh, and she glares at me slightly, offended.

“No, I’m sorry, it was the way you said it,” I explain, “It was… funny.”

And at that, my eyes lock onto her murky hazel ones. The glare slips from her features, is replaced with a look of calm and maybe contentment, and I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve felt just that. Lately, it’s been worry and anger and fear up till now – now, I realize, I am pretty calm. It’s nice, relaxing to talk to someone new and so far harmless, with no hidden intentions or previous knowledge of me as far as I can tell. But still, I’m the first to break eye contact, and I remind myself that she’s still a stranger, and strangers are never really harmless.

“So you can speak a little German. Do you have relatives here?” I ask, changing the subject, starting a new conversation.

She hesitates before answering, a look of worry or sadness passing over her face, and I sort of regret asking. “Yes, I do. My brother is living here with his girlfriend. But I know some German because I took the language branch of general studies in secondary school,” she says and I have to quickly repeat her words in my head to understand them, “so I know Danish, English, some German, and some French in addition Icelandic.”

Needless to say, I’m rather impressed. “Wow, that’s very cool,” I say, kind of unsure about how to respond to the statement.

“Yeah, it’s nice, but I’ve never had much chance to put it into practice. Our manager, John, says we have an interview when we get to Paris, so I am nervous… I do not know what to expect, and French is difficult,” she says, then purses her lips and raises her glass to take a sip.

“They’ll have a translator for you if they want to interview in French. If they don’t want that, they’ll speak in English,” I say automatically, speaking from experience.

She immediately picks up on it. “So you are in a band too?”

“Um yeah. I play the guitar. Do you know of Tokio Hotel?” I ask her, moving to place my elbow on the counter and prop my head up with it.

“No, I can’t say I have heard of that,” she answers, studying me carefully, and I get the impression that she’s curious, and that she’s maybe trying to find answers on the outside of me – in my clothes, in my face, in my stance.

I give her those answers. “Well that’s the band I’m in with my brother and my friends. We play rock too,” I say, not really used to starting introductions from scratch anymore. The interviewers all know who we are these days.

“Did all of you move?” She asks and I’m taken aback – she had heard what Lukas and I were talking about before. She’s looking at me with her head tilted, sort of mirroring my position, and it seems like she’s just curious.

“Well… no. Bill and I moved, and Georg and Gustav stayed. They’ve got girlfriends here, so…” I trail off there, not really knowing what to say about it, not really knowing what all she wants to know.

“Isn’t it hard being separated? How do you write music if you are not together?” The way her eyebrows knit together tells me she’s truly puzzled, and I give a maybe half-smile.

“I don’t really know – it isn’t long enough to tell. We finished moving there only… yeah, exactly three weeks ago, so it’s… we’re taking a break from most band stuff,” I tell her, then move to take a drink of my nearly forgotten beer.

“So why are you back so soon?” she asks and I barely manage to keep from choking. The question is so straightforward and innocently prying that I don’t really know what to do.

“I um…” My brother is acting strange and it’s scaring me out of my mind. He hasn’t really talked to me in weeks and it hurts… I didn’t know what to do other than to bring him back home, and even that was a last resort. I thought that maybe he might have been homesick like I was, but apparently that’s not it because nothing has changed between us…

Really, I just want things to be normal again.

But I can’t say any of that. I look down toward my glass, my heart suddenly feeling much heavier.

“Americans have this Thanksgiving holiday at the end of November. Bill and I didn’t really want to stick around when we had no family or friends to celebrate it with, so…” I say, unwilling to spill my guts to a near complete stranger.

“So you came home,” she says, and her words sort of strike a chord within me. I came home.

When I look back up, my eyes lock with hers once again, and I know she sees right through my façade. I breathe a silent sigh then, realize suddenly that I don’t care. I feel an odd sort of calm with her, like even though I don’t know her or much of anything about her, I’m not in any danger – she doesn’t care enough to give any secrets I might divulge to the press.

Yet she cares enough to come over here and tell me I looked lonely, enough to sit here and smile at me as I basically lie to her face.

“Yeah, I…” I break eye contact once again, almost afraid that her smile will pull me in and I’ll never get free.

“Lára,” someone says and I look up to see the bearded man – Kjartan, I think – walking up to stand behind her. He then proceeds to say something completely foreign to my ears, in a language I’ve never heard before, and I’m instantly transfixed by how he’s speaking.

Lára’s face falls a little, though, and my attention comes back to her, the way she suddenly looks a bit stressed. Then she says something back to him, and the words seem to tumble out of her mouth, fluid and softer than German, but still what an American might call ‘harsh.’

Kjartan frowns a bit then, and looks at me. I stare back, assessing him as he does me, finding that outwardly, we couldn’t possibly be more different. He’s got on jeans, a semi-formal looking blazer, and a burnt orange scarf and ski hat. His shoes are brown leather and I can’t see his shirt, but I assume it’s something equally as homey and comfortable. His blue-gray eyes are piercing and his hair is dark. His cheekbones are high like Lára’s are, but his features are sharper in general, almost severe.

It’s a weird feeling, being sized up by a stranger, someone you don’t even understand, let alone identify with in any way. I don’t know what he wants from me, or what he wants me to do, so I just inwardly sigh and stare back at him, wondering what he’ll do or won’t do, why he’s paying me any attention in the first place. After all, Lára doesn’t know who I am, why would he?

After another few seconds, he merely looks away and shakes his head, makes a noise of disapproval. He gives one last word as he turns and walks back to where shaggy blonde hair is doing something on his phone and Jónsi is pulling the other man in for a kiss goodbye.

Lára just blows out a breath of air and takes her glass up again, finishes whatever she’s been drinking. She’s staring into space, staring at her empty glass like it’s a crystal ball, and I can see a worry wrinkle between her eyebrows. Her smile is long gone, and for some reason all I can think is how do I get it back?

“You alright?” I murmur, and she snaps out of her thoughts.

“Ah, um…” She looks at me, deer in headlights, and I can see her trying to find words to say in the right language. It’s like looking into a mirror of myself sometimes.

“Yeah, he’s just… he’s… what do they call it? The worry wart,” she says lightheartedly, an apologetic smile in place and I’m somehow relieved – at least it’s a smile at all.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, smiling back a little and then taking another drink of my beer.

We sit in silence for a moment, sort of just enjoying the close warmth of the place, and I can see her memorizing it. She’s gazing at the Christmas lights that drape the wall behind the bar, the unrealistic number of old lighting fixtures that hang from the ceiling.

“I probably should…” she says then, starting to slide off of the wooden barstool, and I nod as she drops to the ground behind it.

“Yeah. It was nice talking to you. Thanks,” I tell her and she smiles once again. It’s contagious.

“Lára!” a voice calls, and we both look to see Jónsi waving her over. He’s put on one of those earflap hats and I have to smile a little at how awkward he looks just standing there in the silly plaid hat and loose brown corduroy pants.

“Bye, Tom,” she says, a shine in her eyes, and I’m a little caught on the way she says my name, almost making the ‘t’ a ‘th,’ and saying the ‘o’ with less of an ‘ahh’ sound. Then she turns to walk over to where Jónsi is, join her bandmates as they leave. I watch, transfixed, as they share a wordless smile and he wraps an arm around her shoulders in a hug of sorts, then follow Orri and Kjartan toward the door.

At the last second, she turns, smiles, and waves at me. I don’t know what to do other than smile and wave back as the strange Icelandic girl disappears out of the bar, into what’s become darkness and windblown drops of rain. For a split second, I wonder if maybe she’s taken something of me with her, if maybe I’ve given her a tiny shard of myself somewhere along our conversation, but I just shake my head at myself. It’s a childish thought, an illogical one, and I know it. I don’t dwell on it – instead, I just sigh and smile a little, pondering the little light that was there in her shadowy eyes.



Later, as I slip into the strangely near-empty house, I wonder how her show went, whether they sold all their tickets, and if there was a good crowd. I wonder if maybe I should have gone with them just for the hell of it, and seen if I could have gotten a ticket for myself just so I could know what the band was all about.

But my thoughts turn now to Bill. All of the lights are out and the house is quiet. How did he spend his evening? Was he okay here alone? Did he miss me at all? Should I maybe have stayed here instead of going out?

I walk through the living room and kitchen, down the hallway and to its end, where I stop at my brother’s closed door, and my heart sinks. His door is always closed these days. I reach up without knowing why, gently put my palm against the door, wonder why I suddenly feel like crying.

I blow out a sigh and tap on the door. “Bill? I’m home.”

I wait for a moment, wondering if maybe he’s gone to sleep, but shake my head – it’s only half past 23 o’clock. Finally, I hear his voice come softly through the wood of the door.

“Alright, thanks.”

And that’s it. There’s silence after that, and my heart must be dropping through the floorboards by now.

“Bill, I…” I trail off, knowing exactly what I want to say, but for some reason not being able to breathe another word.

I wish we could be back to normal. Why are you so distant? Why do I feel so lost here – in a place that’s always been my home?

“Goodnight,” I say and even to me, it sounds sort of strangled, like a kid afraid of the dark.

And it is dark. The only light where I am is the reflection of the phantomlit night’s glow on the hardwood floor. The illumination is seeping in from the front room’s windows and bouncing from place to place, creating a dull glimmer on the oak, and lighting the hallway just slightly. I run my hand over my braided hair and sigh again before entering the room across from my brother’s – my room.

And as I lie in bed a little later, just listening to the raindrops on the windows, I wonder if my emotions are really my own, or if they’re just an echo of my twin’s. Even if they’re not, I know he’s sad. I know he doesn’t feel well, and I know that he feels lost, and consequently – or maybe just coincidentally – I do too. I’ve always liked to think it was a way I could take care of him – knowing exactly how he felt at any given time – but now, I’m not so sure.

Now, I’m overwhelmed with the feeling that there’s nothing I can do to help, and it has me so scared. Nothing’s ever hurt me more than the feeling of helplessness and now, as the December cold seeps through the walls, I just wish I could go back to the days when we were kids. Back when nothing could touch us – we both made sure of that – and back when we could always come back home to each other, and unconditional warmth.

But I know those days are long gone. Just like that special something that made this place really home. Maybe it’s missing what little life it held – the pictures and trinkets our mother sent us off with when we moved out of their house, that lived in feel. It doesn’t take long for dust to settle on the furniture, and I never realize how much I love having the dogs around until they’re not here.

The heat is on and working fine, but it still feels so cold. I roll over in bed to lie on my side so I can see the window – so I can see the shadows of raindrops sliding down the glass cast onto the blinds. The patterns made are peaceful, but dreary, and I wonder superstitiously if somehow, something is matching the weather with my emotions. Still, the slight patter of the rain and the sliding of its shadows is so calming, and soon, I find myself beginning to drift. It’s a relief, I realize. It’s a relief to be able to abandon the hurt and the fear and the sadness… and just float.