Status: i love writing this | please don't be a silent reader
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Lunch
Scott woke me up with pecks on my skin, accompanied by sunshine and a rush of the morning breeze.
“I’ve got to be at the office earlier today,” he whispered, his lips touching my ear. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
“Mhmmm,” I mumbled with slumber.
With one last peck to my lips, he left without a sound. I tried to fall back asleep, but I was too aware of the light that seeped from the curtains.
Ever since I returned to Seattle, I had been crashing at Scott’s loft. I wanted to make daily trips to my apartment so I could at least grab some clothes of my own, but he insisted in lending me his clothes. I smiled at myself, happy that I could smell his cologne whenever I wanted—and not only when he got close to me during conversations like before.
It was an entire new world. From what I gathered during the week about Scott and his small every day habits, I felt like I hadn’t known him that well before. He had an immense collection of cereals, which he always ate for breakfast, no matter how delicious my pancakes seemed to be; he enjoyed putting puzzles together in the evenings as a way to destress from work, and my attendance was mandatory—it was a rather fun activity, especially whenever we laughed our butts off for no apparent reason. I loved every second and every moment in between.
“Hey, Mom,” I spoke when she picked up my call.
”Oh, darling, darling. Hi! How are you? How was the trip?”
I silently laughed at her enthusiasm. “It was good! The wedding was stunning,” I fiddled with the cheque on the kitchen counter, “I’ll show you some pictures when I pick Bailey up. Speaking of which, can I pick him up tonight? I’ve been missing him like crazy and the pictures you keep sending of him aren’t helping,” I chuckled.
“Dinner’s on me then, love. Can you make it at 7pm? I’d do it earlier, but Bailey’s going to take a bath late afternoon. I believe by that time, he’ll be home. He has missed you even more, I’m no match!”
“That’s perfect, I’ll see you then! I love you.”
I could hear her smile, “Love you too! Bye bye.”
The anonymous cheque of $2,460 stared back at me even after I had shoved it in my bag. Most people would’ve been happy to sell out in their opening night, but I felt bittersweet. Why buy them if you’re not going to bring it all back home?
Photography for me had never been about the money—at least not until I needed to help my retired, financially struggling mother since writers didn’t earn as much as their talent coveted.
Photography for me was a passion, something I chose to work with because it made breathing easier. When I pictured selling them, I thought about how it’d look hung up on people’s walls. Yet they were still on Scott’s gallery walls.
My phone buzzed to life with a text message.
--------John @ 8:43am
--------Sorry. Had to leave early last night. Breathtaking work, by the way.
I had that entire evening planned in my mind. I’d talk to the people belonging to the art world, discuss my art for the duration of two glasses of champagne, and then I’d escort John on his own private tour with the real stories behind the pictures instead of some pretentious explanation. But then again, plans don’t often go as planned—they actually tend to go towards the opposite direction—and before I knew it, he was gone as if he never arrived.
--------Me @ 8:46am
--------Tell me all about it at lunch? 81 Rockefeller St, Apartment 204.
I waited several minutes for his reply, but nothing came up. Instead of asking for confirmation, I chose to believe he’d come regardless.
After picking up my sole outfit and bag, I got into a cab and headed home. When I arrived, I was welcomed by dust—the furniture and hardwood floors were covered in it. I had ample time before John arrived (at least I hoped), so I rolled up my sleeves and began cleaning duty.
It took me a couple of hours to not only clean, but organise some surfaces and drawers. My apartment was very manageable when it came to maintenance: it was a two-bedroom cocoon that lacked space, but not style. Before I dropped out from Architecture School, my father had given it to me as a 21st birthday present. Ever since then I kept the traces of him, the furniture and decorations, in its original positions.
John arrived before lunch could. Being the terrible cook I was, I had ordered something.
“Please tell me you like Chinese,” I nervously said as a greeting.
He furrowed his brows in confusion. “I like Chinese?”
“Good!” With a hand on my chest, I sighed in pure relief. “Come on in!”
John laughed, “Is that your usual greeting?”
“When there’s food involved,” I locked the door behind him, “yes!”
He stood in the middle of the living room, taking it all in. I ventured off to the kitchen, not knowing what to say if I kept him company in the living room. So I poured water into a couple of glasses with all the care in the world as so to buy myself some time.
“I feel like I stepped into a cabin in the woods,” John shouted from his location.
I snickered, “My dad was really into that whole rustic vibe.” I walked back and placed the glasses on the coffee table, making myself comfortable on the couch soon after.
“This was his apartment?” John joined me.
“No, no. It’s always been mine. The furnishing was a birthday gift.”
“I suppose you don’t use the kitchen very much, do you?” When his smirk came alive, I felt as though it hadn’t been a week since we last sat down and talked.
I twisted my face in mockery. “I couldn’t be perfect,” I teased, “or else I’d put Martha Stewart to shame, no doubts.”
He threw his head back and shook his head in disapproval in between laughter. When his laughter died out, I felt each inch of my skin as my nerves crawled all over it.
“So,” I broke the silence before it could crush me, “are you planning to stay here for long?”
“Uhh no, not at all. I’m actually heading to Portland next week.”
“Do you live there?” I frowned at the question and muttered an apology, “I don’t recall you ever mentioning it. Besides that you’re from Arizona,” I smirked, remembering drunk John and his humorous babbling.
He covered his face with a hand whilst he muffled a laugh, “I was hoping we’d both forget that. But I actually still live in Arizona. I don’t think I’d ever leave.”
I nodded in comprehension, wondering how long it took from here to there—not that I planned to ever go there, I thought.
“Why Portland then?”
He hesitated and decided to chug his glass of water before replying.
“I’ve heard it’s nice this time of year!”
Before I could interrogate him further, my mom called me.
“Hey Mom,” I said with knitted brows.
”Hi, love. Are you home? I’m on my way there. Bailey’s toothbrush is over there.”
A wave of fresh nerves rose. “Right now right now?”
”Yes, I hope that’s alright!"
“Uhh, sure. Sure! See you just now then.” I turned to face John with an apologetic face. “So, that was my mom…”
He chuckled, “That was your mom.”
It was my turn to cover my face and hope we’d both forget this moment. “And I don’t think she’ll be joining us for lunch. I have, however, been wrong multiple times in the past.”
We briefly talked about embarrassing mother stories until the doorbell rang and I let my mom in.
“Mom, this is John. He played at the wedding.”
“I heard from multiple sources that the band was absolutely lovely,” she entered, leaning in for a hug from John as though they were long-lost friends.
“You’re too kind,” he said through a grin.
When she stepped back and took a good look at him, she hesitated. John and I looked at each other as an attempt to comprehend why she kept carefully staring at his face.
She broke off the creepy stare and spoke with enthusiasm.“You look younger in person!”
My brows were glued together at this point. I glanced at John for an explanation, but his solemn eyes stared at the elderly woman pointing a manicured finger to him.
“There were some lovely poems in that book of yours, young man!”
“I’ve got to be at the office earlier today,” he whispered, his lips touching my ear. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
“Mhmmm,” I mumbled with slumber.
With one last peck to my lips, he left without a sound. I tried to fall back asleep, but I was too aware of the light that seeped from the curtains.
Ever since I returned to Seattle, I had been crashing at Scott’s loft. I wanted to make daily trips to my apartment so I could at least grab some clothes of my own, but he insisted in lending me his clothes. I smiled at myself, happy that I could smell his cologne whenever I wanted—and not only when he got close to me during conversations like before.
It was an entire new world. From what I gathered during the week about Scott and his small every day habits, I felt like I hadn’t known him that well before. He had an immense collection of cereals, which he always ate for breakfast, no matter how delicious my pancakes seemed to be; he enjoyed putting puzzles together in the evenings as a way to destress from work, and my attendance was mandatory—it was a rather fun activity, especially whenever we laughed our butts off for no apparent reason. I loved every second and every moment in between.
“Hey, Mom,” I spoke when she picked up my call.
”Oh, darling, darling. Hi! How are you? How was the trip?”
I silently laughed at her enthusiasm. “It was good! The wedding was stunning,” I fiddled with the cheque on the kitchen counter, “I’ll show you some pictures when I pick Bailey up. Speaking of which, can I pick him up tonight? I’ve been missing him like crazy and the pictures you keep sending of him aren’t helping,” I chuckled.
“Dinner’s on me then, love. Can you make it at 7pm? I’d do it earlier, but Bailey’s going to take a bath late afternoon. I believe by that time, he’ll be home. He has missed you even more, I’m no match!”
“That’s perfect, I’ll see you then! I love you.”
I could hear her smile, “Love you too! Bye bye.”
The anonymous cheque of $2,460 stared back at me even after I had shoved it in my bag. Most people would’ve been happy to sell out in their opening night, but I felt bittersweet. Why buy them if you’re not going to bring it all back home?
Photography for me had never been about the money—at least not until I needed to help my retired, financially struggling mother since writers didn’t earn as much as their talent coveted.
Photography for me was a passion, something I chose to work with because it made breathing easier. When I pictured selling them, I thought about how it’d look hung up on people’s walls. Yet they were still on Scott’s gallery walls.
My phone buzzed to life with a text message.
--------John @ 8:43am
--------Sorry. Had to leave early last night. Breathtaking work, by the way.
I had that entire evening planned in my mind. I’d talk to the people belonging to the art world, discuss my art for the duration of two glasses of champagne, and then I’d escort John on his own private tour with the real stories behind the pictures instead of some pretentious explanation. But then again, plans don’t often go as planned—they actually tend to go towards the opposite direction—and before I knew it, he was gone as if he never arrived.
--------Me @ 8:46am
--------Tell me all about it at lunch? 81 Rockefeller St, Apartment 204.
I waited several minutes for his reply, but nothing came up. Instead of asking for confirmation, I chose to believe he’d come regardless.
After picking up my sole outfit and bag, I got into a cab and headed home. When I arrived, I was welcomed by dust—the furniture and hardwood floors were covered in it. I had ample time before John arrived (at least I hoped), so I rolled up my sleeves and began cleaning duty.
It took me a couple of hours to not only clean, but organise some surfaces and drawers. My apartment was very manageable when it came to maintenance: it was a two-bedroom cocoon that lacked space, but not style. Before I dropped out from Architecture School, my father had given it to me as a 21st birthday present. Ever since then I kept the traces of him, the furniture and decorations, in its original positions.
John arrived before lunch could. Being the terrible cook I was, I had ordered something.
“Please tell me you like Chinese,” I nervously said as a greeting.
He furrowed his brows in confusion. “I like Chinese?”
“Good!” With a hand on my chest, I sighed in pure relief. “Come on in!”
John laughed, “Is that your usual greeting?”
“When there’s food involved,” I locked the door behind him, “yes!”
He stood in the middle of the living room, taking it all in. I ventured off to the kitchen, not knowing what to say if I kept him company in the living room. So I poured water into a couple of glasses with all the care in the world as so to buy myself some time.
“I feel like I stepped into a cabin in the woods,” John shouted from his location.
I snickered, “My dad was really into that whole rustic vibe.” I walked back and placed the glasses on the coffee table, making myself comfortable on the couch soon after.
“This was his apartment?” John joined me.
“No, no. It’s always been mine. The furnishing was a birthday gift.”
“I suppose you don’t use the kitchen very much, do you?” When his smirk came alive, I felt as though it hadn’t been a week since we last sat down and talked.
I twisted my face in mockery. “I couldn’t be perfect,” I teased, “or else I’d put Martha Stewart to shame, no doubts.”
He threw his head back and shook his head in disapproval in between laughter. When his laughter died out, I felt each inch of my skin as my nerves crawled all over it.
“So,” I broke the silence before it could crush me, “are you planning to stay here for long?”
“Uhh no, not at all. I’m actually heading to Portland next week.”
“Do you live there?” I frowned at the question and muttered an apology, “I don’t recall you ever mentioning it. Besides that you’re from Arizona,” I smirked, remembering drunk John and his humorous babbling.
He covered his face with a hand whilst he muffled a laugh, “I was hoping we’d both forget that. But I actually still live in Arizona. I don’t think I’d ever leave.”
I nodded in comprehension, wondering how long it took from here to there—not that I planned to ever go there, I thought.
“Why Portland then?”
He hesitated and decided to chug his glass of water before replying.
“I’ve heard it’s nice this time of year!”
Before I could interrogate him further, my mom called me.
“Hey Mom,” I said with knitted brows.
”Hi, love. Are you home? I’m on my way there. Bailey’s toothbrush is over there.”
A wave of fresh nerves rose. “Right now right now?”
”Yes, I hope that’s alright!"
“Uhh, sure. Sure! See you just now then.” I turned to face John with an apologetic face. “So, that was my mom…”
He chuckled, “That was your mom.”
It was my turn to cover my face and hope we’d both forget this moment. “And I don’t think she’ll be joining us for lunch. I have, however, been wrong multiple times in the past.”
We briefly talked about embarrassing mother stories until the doorbell rang and I let my mom in.
“Mom, this is John. He played at the wedding.”
“I heard from multiple sources that the band was absolutely lovely,” she entered, leaning in for a hug from John as though they were long-lost friends.
“You’re too kind,” he said through a grin.
When she stepped back and took a good look at him, she hesitated. John and I looked at each other as an attempt to comprehend why she kept carefully staring at his face.
She broke off the creepy stare and spoke with enthusiasm.“You look younger in person!”
My brows were glued together at this point. I glanced at John for an explanation, but his solemn eyes stared at the elderly woman pointing a manicured finger to him.
“There were some lovely poems in that book of yours, young man!”