05-14-2013, 09:15 AM
Sunday
Sera never does not know what time it is when she wakes up. How ironic, that moment of disorientation when she crawls out of a deep sleep, breathes in the hour, the slant of the sun through the windows, the heat of the room, the settling sound a half-empty house makes on the odd Sunday afternoon.
It is Sunday afternoon. Sunday, May 12. The crack of two-thirty p.m. Two-twenty-seven. Awareness of it asserts itself in the back of her throat.
She crawls out from beneath the nested mound of her comforter, the warm comfort and her plush bed. Pulls on a t-shirt as much for warmth as for modesty's sake, just long enough to cover her ass, the first two inches of her thighs, and glances back at the bed. Was there someone in there with her last night? If so, he or she is gone now. She pushes experimentally against the mounded covers, but: no. The remaining lumps look empty.
Yawning luxuriously, she scrubs her face and scratches thoughtfully at her stomach. Snags a pair of novelty boxers (these have beer mugs and hard pretzels in a skull-and-crossbones design) from the depths of one of her dresser drawers and glides into them and is then suitably presentable for company. Or at least her housemates.
The house is quiet, though. Sunday. Dahlia has family in the area and Sunday is always family day. Rick's out looking for another part-time job because he hates Toy 'R Us and the gig at the record shop fell through because of course it did. There are three remaining gigs at record shops in the greater Denver area and they are all reserved for someone cooler and more adaptable to functional obsolescence than anyone has any right to be.
She can hear Dan in the music room upstairs, noodling around, feel a breeze drifting cool from an open window. Wanders into the kitchen with a leather-bound notepad and sniffs the coffee to guess its age, then dumps it and makes herself a fresh pot. Her hangover is beginning to assert itself. Sometimes she can just sleep her way through them, but this one is there, a dull throb behind her eyes as she adjusts to being awake rather than asleep. The unpleasant churning in her stomach, the rubbery exhaustion in her limbs. The truth is, she doesn't mind the hangovers - they give her a different sort of focus. Sera indulges in the lassitude that accompanies them, grumbles quietly, and treats the symptoms as they should be treated, with caffeine and carbs and an easy afternoon. Maybe even a night off.
While the coffee brews, she opens up the journal and, frowning, begins to sketch.
--
Dan is drawn down from the upper reaches of the house by the scent of coffee, or perhaps just the familiar sound of Sera waking. He finds her seated at the kitchen table, legs curled up under her body, leaning over the book, doodling.
"You hungry?" He asks, "I'll make you my famous skillet-potato-and-whatever hangover special."
She doesn't respond, not immediately. He picks up the coffee pot and pours two cups of coffee. Sets one down in front of her, leaning over her shoulder to glance at whatever it is that has her concentrating so hard.
"You," he says, fondly, one hand on the back of her chair, " - are a terrible artist. Give it up." That hand slides into her hair as he glances at the page opposite, where she's scribbled notes in a scrawling hand. " - but there's a kernal. I think we could do something with that." Reaching across her to point to a particular phrase as he inhales her familiar sour-morning scent.
"No." She arrests him with the negation and cuts him a sudden glance upward. Her expression is enough to make him stop; to make him understand that the handful of words are not the kernal of a song, but something Else entirely. "I had a dream." Her voice is sober, but were it not, he knows what she means. She draws in a deep breath and expels it through her nostrils, all at once.
She's thoughtful, reflective. Not looking at him, but aslant, into that interstitial space where things assert themselves. Then, considered, like she's still turning the idea over in her mind, the way she would a stone in her hand to see the shape of it, "I might go see that priest.
"But, meanwhile" all at once, she wakes up to his presence, tipping her head back, flashing him the crawling edge of a familiar grin that does not offset, entirely, the pulled sense of distance in her eyes. "I will avail myself of your offer to cook for me.
"Cure my hangover, you magnificent bastard."
Dan laughs, turns toward the fridge, and starts pulling out ingredients. Potatoes and oil, first and foremost. Mushrooms and sausage and onions and peppers. Then, whatever else he can find.
Sera never does not know what time it is when she wakes up. How ironic, that moment of disorientation when she crawls out of a deep sleep, breathes in the hour, the slant of the sun through the windows, the heat of the room, the settling sound a half-empty house makes on the odd Sunday afternoon.
It is Sunday afternoon. Sunday, May 12. The crack of two-thirty p.m. Two-twenty-seven. Awareness of it asserts itself in the back of her throat.
She crawls out from beneath the nested mound of her comforter, the warm comfort and her plush bed. Pulls on a t-shirt as much for warmth as for modesty's sake, just long enough to cover her ass, the first two inches of her thighs, and glances back at the bed. Was there someone in there with her last night? If so, he or she is gone now. She pushes experimentally against the mounded covers, but: no. The remaining lumps look empty.
Yawning luxuriously, she scrubs her face and scratches thoughtfully at her stomach. Snags a pair of novelty boxers (these have beer mugs and hard pretzels in a skull-and-crossbones design) from the depths of one of her dresser drawers and glides into them and is then suitably presentable for company. Or at least her housemates.
The house is quiet, though. Sunday. Dahlia has family in the area and Sunday is always family day. Rick's out looking for another part-time job because he hates Toy 'R Us and the gig at the record shop fell through because of course it did. There are three remaining gigs at record shops in the greater Denver area and they are all reserved for someone cooler and more adaptable to functional obsolescence than anyone has any right to be.
She can hear Dan in the music room upstairs, noodling around, feel a breeze drifting cool from an open window. Wanders into the kitchen with a leather-bound notepad and sniffs the coffee to guess its age, then dumps it and makes herself a fresh pot. Her hangover is beginning to assert itself. Sometimes she can just sleep her way through them, but this one is there, a dull throb behind her eyes as she adjusts to being awake rather than asleep. The unpleasant churning in her stomach, the rubbery exhaustion in her limbs. The truth is, she doesn't mind the hangovers - they give her a different sort of focus. Sera indulges in the lassitude that accompanies them, grumbles quietly, and treats the symptoms as they should be treated, with caffeine and carbs and an easy afternoon. Maybe even a night off.
While the coffee brews, she opens up the journal and, frowning, begins to sketch.
--
Dan is drawn down from the upper reaches of the house by the scent of coffee, or perhaps just the familiar sound of Sera waking. He finds her seated at the kitchen table, legs curled up under her body, leaning over the book, doodling.
"You hungry?" He asks, "I'll make you my famous skillet-potato-and-whatever hangover special."
She doesn't respond, not immediately. He picks up the coffee pot and pours two cups of coffee. Sets one down in front of her, leaning over her shoulder to glance at whatever it is that has her concentrating so hard.
"You," he says, fondly, one hand on the back of her chair, " - are a terrible artist. Give it up." That hand slides into her hair as he glances at the page opposite, where she's scribbled notes in a scrawling hand. " - but there's a kernal. I think we could do something with that." Reaching across her to point to a particular phrase as he inhales her familiar sour-morning scent.
"No." She arrests him with the negation and cuts him a sudden glance upward. Her expression is enough to make him stop; to make him understand that the handful of words are not the kernal of a song, but something Else entirely. "I had a dream." Her voice is sober, but were it not, he knows what she means. She draws in a deep breath and expels it through her nostrils, all at once.
She's thoughtful, reflective. Not looking at him, but aslant, into that interstitial space where things assert themselves. Then, considered, like she's still turning the idea over in her mind, the way she would a stone in her hand to see the shape of it, "I might go see that priest.
"But, meanwhile" all at once, she wakes up to his presence, tipping her head back, flashing him the crawling edge of a familiar grin that does not offset, entirely, the pulled sense of distance in her eyes. "I will avail myself of your offer to cook for me.
"Cure my hangover, you magnificent bastard."
Dan laughs, turns toward the fridge, and starts pulling out ingredients. Potatoes and oil, first and foremost. Mushrooms and sausage and onions and peppers. Then, whatever else he can find.
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula