Jack Lavender
Smash Cadet
I usually like to keep my writing life and my game life separate, so i visit occasionally, but i never post. I'm making an exception for this story, simply b/c of the few allusions to smash (near the middle of the story). And sorry if the formatting is hard to read. Not used to posting stories. hope you enjoy.
He leans over the table to kiss me. There's an aching rift between us and he hopes to make it better with a kiss. He knows better, but he doesn't know what else he can do.
Stop, I say.
He stops.
It's over.
He looks at me, still leaned over the table. He doesn't want to move, hoping maybe that time will stop right here, before anything else happens. I tell him again. It's over, Hector.
He goes back in his chair, a little faint. We don't say anything, listening to the rain and the occasional car. He usually likes the sound of cars driving through the rain. It makes him think of classic black and white movies, though neither us understand the association. But right now the rain is just white noise as the time staggers by.
At this particularly slow minute there is a girl down the street skipping home from school. Halfway to her home she slips and falls on her bottom. It hurts her mildly. The fall could have been far worse but she doesn't think much of it. She gets up and walks the rest the of the way, a little sore. She doesn't skip again for an entire year.
He bites his tongue, his mouth still closed. He's trying to think. Trying to understand. Taken aback by how unexpected this feels to him. When we got together we felt like we would be infinite, just like we were supposed to. We made fun of ourselves for being young, foolish. We tried to be sensible. I used to say to him, Hector, we have to be sensible. We can't get carried away. And with his naturally serious voice and face he would say to me, Okay, we'll be sensible. Then he would smile his soft smile that made me tumble into infinite love again.
Sitting here, simply sitting, not saying anything, it's awful. I want to speak. He wants to speak. The idea of talking is terrible though.
The girl in the rain just arrived at her home. She takes off her soaked shoes and socks and puts on new ones. She settles onto the couch to read a book about a homesick wolf, which will soon be her favorite novel. She finishes a short chapter and then doses off into a nap.
Finally, he asks why. Why?
I close my eyes. I see a chess board. Or a checkers board. Confined and empty squares. There are no pieces. There is no strategy. I open my eyes. I don't say anything.
He sighs. And again he asks. Why?
I answer him this time. We're not happy. We haven't been for a while. Sometimes I think of you and it just makes me feel bad. Thinking of you, it's become such an effort.
I'd like to think that there's no one to blame. That these things happen. But it's just not so. I blame the plumber for introducing us. I blame his dog, for never giving me a chance. I blame the shiny pilot, for getting drunk and picking a fight with Hector. Everything would be perfect if Hector never … never wobbled that pilot. He didn't want to, but it all happened so quickly. And of course, I blame those Eskimos, for teaching him such an ugly thing.
I get up and go to the kitchen for something to drink. On the counter is a bottle of orange soda. I bring the bottle and two cups with ice. I pour some for me and Hector. It's flat. The soda does not rise. And neither of us likes orange soda. We start taking sips.
He asks me, So what happens now?
What do you mean?
I figured you would know.
The way he said that annoys me. I do know, but I won't answer him. I drink more soda, trying to wash away the after taste of soda. There's a slight relief initially, the ice numbing my tongue. But then it's warm sticky orange again. I finish my glass. I pour more soda.
Hector is thinking. Thinking. Waiting for something to click or crash inside of him. What's he supposed to do? I love you, he wants to say. But then he remembers last month, when he didn't want to love me. He thinks about the constant arguments over books, colors, and cookies. He thinks about me and his dog not getting along. He takes a glance at me. He likes what I'm wearing. He bites his tongue, feeling bad for thinking about sex right now.
I button up my jacket.
He's realizes he's been caught. He bites harder into his tongue.
The girl who slipped is waking up. She looks outside. It's raining harder and the sky has gotten dark. She was asleep for half an hour, dreaming of lost wolves in her bed. She goes to the kitchen and looks in the fridge. She takes out an un-opened bottle of strawberry soda. Wonderfully strawberry, it shimmers in the kitchen light. Still drowsy, she pours too much too fast. The carbonated fuzz spills over. That ****ing *****.
Irrationality wins. I love you, he says.
I love you too.
He wants to stab me in the face.
I sip some soda.
Why do you tell me that? he asks.
You started it.
Fine. Whatever. He gets ups and goes to the couch for his jacket.
Wait.
What?
I didn't get into this wanting it to end. I never looked forward this. I gulp down my soda. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to say that. The words felt like needles and turnips on my tongue.
That doesn't help, he says.
It will, but I don't say anything.
He puts on his jacket, says bye, and leaves. And I can't help but worry. Will he get home all right? Will he eat? That idiot. He's going to want to go out to drink and smoke, but he doesn't do either. So he'll settle for tap water and stale oatmeal cookies. He'll try to be silly about all of this and try to laugh. But he'll just go home, to his bed, hungry and hollow.
The girl who spilled is in her room, getting tipsy from sweet strawberry soda and vodka. She cries, longing for her wolf to be real so it can grab and pillar her sweet spots.
I pour myself more soda.
EVERYTHING OVER
He leans over the table to kiss me. There's an aching rift between us and he hopes to make it better with a kiss. He knows better, but he doesn't know what else he can do.
Stop, I say.
He stops.
It's over.
He looks at me, still leaned over the table. He doesn't want to move, hoping maybe that time will stop right here, before anything else happens. I tell him again. It's over, Hector.
He goes back in his chair, a little faint. We don't say anything, listening to the rain and the occasional car. He usually likes the sound of cars driving through the rain. It makes him think of classic black and white movies, though neither us understand the association. But right now the rain is just white noise as the time staggers by.
At this particularly slow minute there is a girl down the street skipping home from school. Halfway to her home she slips and falls on her bottom. It hurts her mildly. The fall could have been far worse but she doesn't think much of it. She gets up and walks the rest the of the way, a little sore. She doesn't skip again for an entire year.
He bites his tongue, his mouth still closed. He's trying to think. Trying to understand. Taken aback by how unexpected this feels to him. When we got together we felt like we would be infinite, just like we were supposed to. We made fun of ourselves for being young, foolish. We tried to be sensible. I used to say to him, Hector, we have to be sensible. We can't get carried away. And with his naturally serious voice and face he would say to me, Okay, we'll be sensible. Then he would smile his soft smile that made me tumble into infinite love again.
Sitting here, simply sitting, not saying anything, it's awful. I want to speak. He wants to speak. The idea of talking is terrible though.
The girl in the rain just arrived at her home. She takes off her soaked shoes and socks and puts on new ones. She settles onto the couch to read a book about a homesick wolf, which will soon be her favorite novel. She finishes a short chapter and then doses off into a nap.
Finally, he asks why. Why?
I close my eyes. I see a chess board. Or a checkers board. Confined and empty squares. There are no pieces. There is no strategy. I open my eyes. I don't say anything.
He sighs. And again he asks. Why?
I answer him this time. We're not happy. We haven't been for a while. Sometimes I think of you and it just makes me feel bad. Thinking of you, it's become such an effort.
I'd like to think that there's no one to blame. That these things happen. But it's just not so. I blame the plumber for introducing us. I blame his dog, for never giving me a chance. I blame the shiny pilot, for getting drunk and picking a fight with Hector. Everything would be perfect if Hector never … never wobbled that pilot. He didn't want to, but it all happened so quickly. And of course, I blame those Eskimos, for teaching him such an ugly thing.
I get up and go to the kitchen for something to drink. On the counter is a bottle of orange soda. I bring the bottle and two cups with ice. I pour some for me and Hector. It's flat. The soda does not rise. And neither of us likes orange soda. We start taking sips.
He asks me, So what happens now?
What do you mean?
I figured you would know.
The way he said that annoys me. I do know, but I won't answer him. I drink more soda, trying to wash away the after taste of soda. There's a slight relief initially, the ice numbing my tongue. But then it's warm sticky orange again. I finish my glass. I pour more soda.
Hector is thinking. Thinking. Waiting for something to click or crash inside of him. What's he supposed to do? I love you, he wants to say. But then he remembers last month, when he didn't want to love me. He thinks about the constant arguments over books, colors, and cookies. He thinks about me and his dog not getting along. He takes a glance at me. He likes what I'm wearing. He bites his tongue, feeling bad for thinking about sex right now.
I button up my jacket.
He's realizes he's been caught. He bites harder into his tongue.
The girl who slipped is waking up. She looks outside. It's raining harder and the sky has gotten dark. She was asleep for half an hour, dreaming of lost wolves in her bed. She goes to the kitchen and looks in the fridge. She takes out an un-opened bottle of strawberry soda. Wonderfully strawberry, it shimmers in the kitchen light. Still drowsy, she pours too much too fast. The carbonated fuzz spills over. That ****ing *****.
Irrationality wins. I love you, he says.
I love you too.
He wants to stab me in the face.
I sip some soda.
Why do you tell me that? he asks.
You started it.
Fine. Whatever. He gets ups and goes to the couch for his jacket.
Wait.
What?
I didn't get into this wanting it to end. I never looked forward this. I gulp down my soda. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to say that. The words felt like needles and turnips on my tongue.
That doesn't help, he says.
It will, but I don't say anything.
He puts on his jacket, says bye, and leaves. And I can't help but worry. Will he get home all right? Will he eat? That idiot. He's going to want to go out to drink and smoke, but he doesn't do either. So he'll settle for tap water and stale oatmeal cookies. He'll try to be silly about all of this and try to laugh. But he'll just go home, to his bed, hungry and hollow.
The girl who spilled is in her room, getting tipsy from sweet strawberry soda and vodka. She cries, longing for her wolf to be real so it can grab and pillar her sweet spots.
I pour myself more soda.