05-20-2013, 10:38 AM
It's a dismal, rainy Monday morning when Sid finally trudges through the front door. It feels like she hasn't walked through that door in a month. It feels like everything should be different, things should be out of place, but everything is as it should be. There's the L-shaped couch, massive and comfortably situated in front of the large flat-panel television docked in the wall. Behind the couch there are shelves and shelves of movies. Beneath the TV is a low entertainment center full of consoles and controllers. All Frank's, of course. Sid can barely afford to put food for herself in the fridge most weeks. It's thanks to her roommate that she can afford to live in a place this nice in this part of town. As she stands in the doorway she wonders for the third time this year how long this can possibly last.
Her roommate is still getting ready for his own day. He's in his room, standing in front of the mirror he keeps next to his door, halfway done twisting his tie into a Windsor knot. When he hears the front door open he has only to lean forward a little to peer out and see Sid there, just closing the door behind her.
"Sid?" he asks, stepping out into the living area, tie still undone. She looks up when she hears her name, her brows furrowed above her dark-rimmed glasses. When she sees her roommate, peeking at her curiously from out his bedroom door, suddenly she feels like crying. And that's so stupid. She didn't cry in the motel room. But Frank is different. She's known Frank far longer than she's known anyone that was in that room. He's the best friend she has in this life. She ducks her head and starts for the door to the basement, but Frank isn't having any of that, not today.
"Whoa whoa wait, hold up," he says, moving to block her, holding up his hands to the height of her shoulders, stopping just short of reaching out to her. His presence is enough to halt her attempted escape. Standing there in the middle of the hall, feeling absolutely uncomfortable, Sid keeps her head down and away. Frank, momentarily imposing, asks, "What happened?"
What happened. What can she tell him that he would understand? Certainly not the truth, at least not all of it. So she settles on the thing she can share that he will understand. "I got fired again," she says softly, brows tensing, bottom lip sucked in.
Frank's entire demeanor shifts, the protectiveness melting away into the warm comfort Sid has come to expect from the man. He doesn't wrap her up in his arms, though it's clear he wants to. He's felt a sense of older brother protectiveness for the redhead ever since she first crossed the threshold into this house, asking about the Craigslist ad for the downstairs room.
"Oh, hon. Come on, sit down." He moves forward, arms outstretched, preparing to herd her backwards toward the couch by the power of that impenetrable bubble of personal space she keeps around her like an invisible wall of iron. After living together for a few months they've reached a point where sometimes, occasionally, if Sid has been having a particularly good day or seems to be especially relaxed, he can nudge her shoulder or bump her arm with his elbow. Now, clearly, is not one of those times. Except, maybe it is? He's able to get a few steps closer to her before she turns away and goes where he wants her to go. She can't see the way his brows lift at this, or the surprise in his eyes. Best not to draw attention to it. It could be a fluke, after all. They sit on the couch, he on one side of the L, she on the other, hands folded into her lap, her head down. Moments pass in silence before he says gently, "Talk to me, Sid."
She tucks her hair behind her ear. "Uh, well." A moment is spent chiding herself for not coming up with a believable reason behind being fired before now. She can't tell Frank what happened, of course, that would open doors she's not sure she wants him to open. His life is ordinary. For a while, hers was, too. Then she started tripping over Willworkers everywhere she went.
Don't matter what show you want to get cast in. You've been cast. And the curtain's going up, Sid.
She doesn't like to lie, especially not to Frank, but if she wants to keep him in the dark, keep him protected, she has to. But, how long will all of this last?
"My manager said that maybe Target wasn't the place for me." The truth, but not really. These are Sid's thoughts presented as someone else's.
Frank says nothing. He folds his hands together and leans forward, becoming a taller, darker, better dressed and far more relaxed mirror of the woman sitting across from him. "What are you going to do?" he asks in a way that, on the third time, has the ring of habit, or tradition. This is what they do. Sid gets fired, comes home, complains, Frank asks what she'll do, she says she's going to find another job, he tells her he'll cover her until she's gotten one, and then maybe they stay home and watch bad daytime television together. Except she's already broken the tradition. Without saying when she was fired, Frank assumes it was Thursday night. Instead of immediately coming home to complain she'd gone away somewhere. He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to know unless she wants to tell him.
Sid shrugs in the way that she does, her head tilting down toward her lifted shoulder, looking momentarily ten or more years younger than her years. "Look for another job, I guess."
"Can I make a suggestion?"
Sid turns to him, brows lifting and then crashing back down into her wary and suspicious look. "Yeah," she says, her voice low, tentative, as though she's waiting for the trap to snap up and claim an appendage.
"I think your manager is right. Ex-manager, excuse me." Planting his hands on his knees, he pushes himself up off the couch and heads into the kitchen. Pitching his voice so that she can still hear him in the living room, he continues, "This is, what, the third time you've been fired since you moved here? It's obvious, Sid, that retail is not the place for you. Now, you know I don't mind picking up the slack for a couple of months while you find something else and get settled." He's back now, an open fresh-from-the-fridge bottle of beer in hand. This he holds out to her. "But maybe this time you should really think about what you want to do and go do that." When she doesn't immediately take the bottle from his hand he waves it a little, gives her a Go on look.
"Frank, it's not even eight o'clock in the morning."
He shrugs this off, holds the bottle a little closer to her. "So? You're unemployed, embrace it. Go put your PJs on and dissect the neighbor's cat." Frank has had a long-standing grudge match against the neighbor's tomcat, who routinely hangs out around Frank's bedroom window calling out to the ladies of the neighborhood, despite supposedly being neutered. That he hasn't been eaten by a coyote yet is a constant surprise.
Sid grins. Not a little half-formed, flitting thing, but actually grins up at him. "Thanks," she says, accepting the beer at last. He leaves her to alone then, claiming one of his meetings today is too important to blow off, no matter how much he may want to catch Fresh Prince reruns on TBS.
Sid never gets into her PJs, and she definitely doesn't try to dissect any animals, particularly not the neighbor's cat. She did think about the other thing Frank said. What she wants. That's easy, Sid knows exactly what she wants to do. Unfortunately, she lacks the credentials for some of the lowest ranking positions in the field. Still, maybe it wouldn't hurt to look and see what's out there.
Sometime before noon she pulls herself together, gets her ass up off that couch, and heads to the library. The sun is already shining. It's Denver. Grey skies never last for very long here.
Her roommate is still getting ready for his own day. He's in his room, standing in front of the mirror he keeps next to his door, halfway done twisting his tie into a Windsor knot. When he hears the front door open he has only to lean forward a little to peer out and see Sid there, just closing the door behind her.
"Sid?" he asks, stepping out into the living area, tie still undone. She looks up when she hears her name, her brows furrowed above her dark-rimmed glasses. When she sees her roommate, peeking at her curiously from out his bedroom door, suddenly she feels like crying. And that's so stupid. She didn't cry in the motel room. But Frank is different. She's known Frank far longer than she's known anyone that was in that room. He's the best friend she has in this life. She ducks her head and starts for the door to the basement, but Frank isn't having any of that, not today.
"Whoa whoa wait, hold up," he says, moving to block her, holding up his hands to the height of her shoulders, stopping just short of reaching out to her. His presence is enough to halt her attempted escape. Standing there in the middle of the hall, feeling absolutely uncomfortable, Sid keeps her head down and away. Frank, momentarily imposing, asks, "What happened?"
What happened. What can she tell him that he would understand? Certainly not the truth, at least not all of it. So she settles on the thing she can share that he will understand. "I got fired again," she says softly, brows tensing, bottom lip sucked in.
Frank's entire demeanor shifts, the protectiveness melting away into the warm comfort Sid has come to expect from the man. He doesn't wrap her up in his arms, though it's clear he wants to. He's felt a sense of older brother protectiveness for the redhead ever since she first crossed the threshold into this house, asking about the Craigslist ad for the downstairs room.
"Oh, hon. Come on, sit down." He moves forward, arms outstretched, preparing to herd her backwards toward the couch by the power of that impenetrable bubble of personal space she keeps around her like an invisible wall of iron. After living together for a few months they've reached a point where sometimes, occasionally, if Sid has been having a particularly good day or seems to be especially relaxed, he can nudge her shoulder or bump her arm with his elbow. Now, clearly, is not one of those times. Except, maybe it is? He's able to get a few steps closer to her before she turns away and goes where he wants her to go. She can't see the way his brows lift at this, or the surprise in his eyes. Best not to draw attention to it. It could be a fluke, after all. They sit on the couch, he on one side of the L, she on the other, hands folded into her lap, her head down. Moments pass in silence before he says gently, "Talk to me, Sid."
She tucks her hair behind her ear. "Uh, well." A moment is spent chiding herself for not coming up with a believable reason behind being fired before now. She can't tell Frank what happened, of course, that would open doors she's not sure she wants him to open. His life is ordinary. For a while, hers was, too. Then she started tripping over Willworkers everywhere she went.
Don't matter what show you want to get cast in. You've been cast. And the curtain's going up, Sid.
She doesn't like to lie, especially not to Frank, but if she wants to keep him in the dark, keep him protected, she has to. But, how long will all of this last?
"My manager said that maybe Target wasn't the place for me." The truth, but not really. These are Sid's thoughts presented as someone else's.
Frank says nothing. He folds his hands together and leans forward, becoming a taller, darker, better dressed and far more relaxed mirror of the woman sitting across from him. "What are you going to do?" he asks in a way that, on the third time, has the ring of habit, or tradition. This is what they do. Sid gets fired, comes home, complains, Frank asks what she'll do, she says she's going to find another job, he tells her he'll cover her until she's gotten one, and then maybe they stay home and watch bad daytime television together. Except she's already broken the tradition. Without saying when she was fired, Frank assumes it was Thursday night. Instead of immediately coming home to complain she'd gone away somewhere. He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to know unless she wants to tell him.
Sid shrugs in the way that she does, her head tilting down toward her lifted shoulder, looking momentarily ten or more years younger than her years. "Look for another job, I guess."
"Can I make a suggestion?"
Sid turns to him, brows lifting and then crashing back down into her wary and suspicious look. "Yeah," she says, her voice low, tentative, as though she's waiting for the trap to snap up and claim an appendage.
"I think your manager is right. Ex-manager, excuse me." Planting his hands on his knees, he pushes himself up off the couch and heads into the kitchen. Pitching his voice so that she can still hear him in the living room, he continues, "This is, what, the third time you've been fired since you moved here? It's obvious, Sid, that retail is not the place for you. Now, you know I don't mind picking up the slack for a couple of months while you find something else and get settled." He's back now, an open fresh-from-the-fridge bottle of beer in hand. This he holds out to her. "But maybe this time you should really think about what you want to do and go do that." When she doesn't immediately take the bottle from his hand he waves it a little, gives her a Go on look.
"Frank, it's not even eight o'clock in the morning."
He shrugs this off, holds the bottle a little closer to her. "So? You're unemployed, embrace it. Go put your PJs on and dissect the neighbor's cat." Frank has had a long-standing grudge match against the neighbor's tomcat, who routinely hangs out around Frank's bedroom window calling out to the ladies of the neighborhood, despite supposedly being neutered. That he hasn't been eaten by a coyote yet is a constant surprise.
Sid grins. Not a little half-formed, flitting thing, but actually grins up at him. "Thanks," she says, accepting the beer at last. He leaves her to alone then, claiming one of his meetings today is too important to blow off, no matter how much he may want to catch Fresh Prince reruns on TBS.
Sid never gets into her PJs, and she definitely doesn't try to dissect any animals, particularly not the neighbor's cat. She did think about the other thing Frank said. What she wants. That's easy, Sid knows exactly what she wants to do. Unfortunately, she lacks the credentials for some of the lowest ranking positions in the field. Still, maybe it wouldn't hurt to look and see what's out there.
Sometime before noon she pulls herself together, gets her ass up off that couch, and heads to the library. The sun is already shining. It's Denver. Grey skies never last for very long here.