BYE, BYE

                                                            mia doesn’t chalk it up to his demeanor that holds eeriness, intimidation, so much as the fact that it’s the dead of night. suddenly she regrets not pulling tracy away from the brunette’s flavor of the evening. while it wouldn’t have helped the lack of CAR situation, at least she’d have someone to walk with. asking rides of potential suitors is almost always a mistake, leave it to them to get the w r o n g idea almost every time, past experiences pending.

                              her eyes dart down once she’s addressed, they’re heavy. she speaks softly, quietly, there’s a touch of bitterness in her tone only it’s found in a scoffed laugh —- one in spite of herself. “yep … &&. as you can see, i opted for the ultra early walk of shame.” it’s a joke, again, in spite. her pace slows the slightest, fingers anxiously toying a loose thread along the corner of her clutch.

low consideration is his first answer, coming in the form of a i-see-how-it-is kind of glance. the one where his mouth thins into a quiet line, eyes soft and brows even softer. it is sympathetic but pointedly not empathetic, because there’s never been a moment where he could have related to her current predicament, nor one where he could imagine himself in it. he’s a purely sideline player, a no-move athlete, if that metaphor made sense right now (with all things considered). 

   ❛ not gonna lie, your jacket’s pretty freakin’ sweet. ❜

             No effort is made to follow closely behind the man as he enters his apartment. Instead, the teen takes his time wandering from the elevator and into the living space beside his own. He closes the door behind him naturally as if it were his own and he had done it hundreds of times. It feels like his own just displaced. The space is very similar to his in fact but far more sparse. Despite having moved not long ago, there are no boxes and Simon suspects this is as furnished as the space might ever be. 

             He spends some time just looking around and taking in the details ( or lack of ). He eventually finds himself at the window, looking out at the parking lot. There’s something weird about the sight. He’s seen in often enough but never from this perceptive. Just like the front door, it’s his own space just misplaced. 

             The television is on and silently, Simon wanders over and sits on the unoccupied side of the couch. He sinks into it’s corner and lets his mind stray from the screen as his tongue plays with the gum in his mouth. He bites on one end of the pink rubber and stretches it across the roof of his mouth while coming up with stories about the man beside him. He pieces him together with jobs and imagines even when he knows are wildly unlikely. The man beside him is a good honest man who has a sick daughter he’s trying to support. Boring. The man is a former police officer who has gotten mixed up in the crime he was meant to stop and has been on the run since. Unlikely. The man beside him is a stripper in a gay nightclub. He glances over for a moment at the neutral but well structured face. Possible. He looks back to the tv. He is a pimp. He remembers the neutral but well structured face. Impossible. 

vacancy overtakes his expression, as things step sheepishly back into their usual routine. he walks like a clock, right over the same numbers every day on every second, never missing a beat and rarely needing a good rewinding or downtime. no, when the sun’s at its highest the driver loyally croaks that it is noon, and in twelve hours the moon’s silhouette will replace the memory of vibrant whiteyellows that your children mimicked in crayola and will be replaced, instead, by artificial things and smaller versions of unwelcome suns that know how to keep their distance.

             “I usually don’t like being at home.” The answer comes after a short pause, it only feels right after the speed of the man’s statement to let the air settle into another silence before retorting. He knows his answer suggests a broken or abusive home and while it may be broken, it’s not a bad place to be. His brother works hard so the teenager can live in relative ease even if he rejects the opportunity. Something about home feels dense as if the air is heavier when he walks in the door. It’s too quiet and too empty in such a small space. It suffocates him. He requires constant movement even if the urge to get away occurs past midnight. He always returns home but frequently he craves the sense of freedom and progression that comes from escaping. 

             Today isn’t one of those days but he still can’t stay still in the apartment so he’s confined himself to the elevator. With no will to leave the building, the stranger comes with an opportunity. Escape but not stray far. Explore but remain.

             The subtle traces of a smile come to him from the answer and exits the elevator shortly after the stranger. “I don’t care.” He admits as he’s given the condition of being watched. He doesn’t bother specifying if the man means after this time spent in his apartment or the next time he leaves the building. He still doesn’t care. 

he unlocks his door,  bustling by in an easyfast way, nudging the rest of it open with his elbow before slipping inside. natural sunlight, despite the slowroll fade of the sun, dominates any need for lamps.   ❛ do whatever you want, ❜  he half-mumbles, slipping into the primitiveness of routine immediately after the offer. and asides from his temporary guest, it really is business as usual. he beelines to his room, too quick to be noticed or followed, the keys of his car jangling shyly between his fingers before they’re tucked into the drawer of his bedstand for future safekeeping. a vague crossthought contemplates making dinner, but he’s not particularly hungry and his cooking is one-hundred per-cent unimpressive. he isn’t catering, isn’t running half a motel for any person that told him they forgot his key. temporarily sheltering has a nice ring to it. he keeps with that.

with trembling fingers, she dug through her pocket- pulling out the envelope of money. she slid it up to the front seat, not bothering to count out an amount. she knew how much was in there, she’d checked before she’d agreed to stay, as with any good business transaction. she didn’t care about the money- she just wanted out. plus, coming from the southside, a part of her knew it was a dangerous risk to not just hand over anything she had to offer. no one did anything for free.  “ here, just take this. do you… do you have a smoke? i don’t know what the fuck just happened. fuck. ” mandy swore under her breath, but an exhaled sigh of relief exited her lungs as the car began to move.

the hotel && all it’s horrors faded in the distance, almost certain the man was still looking for her- his face burned into her memory. she was frozen in the past, visions flashing over && over again. blue eyes snapped forward to stare at the stranger, a sharp bite in her tone at his absolutely ( in her opinion ) asinine question.

     “ you want to fuckin’ know why? fine. you can know why. because my client just got murdered && i’m pretty fuckin’ positive that the guy who killed him was about to kill me, too. ” she paused, her pulse racing as she finally said it out loud. “ i don’t fuckin’ feel like dying over some cheapskate one- timer. ”

he replies curtly,  ❛ i don't smoke, it's bad for the lungs, ❜ eyes boring somehow into her's through the proxy of the driver's mirror. there is nothing hair raising about him. nothing even unusual, in fact. he's cool - but maybe a little too cool. a quiet voice in the back of his head thinks that she should be just as passive as he is but he's well ware of how unrealistic those standards are. and maybe, of course, the most unnerving part of him was the fact that he had no nerves at all. he drives, head set straight and body relaxed and the leather grips of his gloves a quiet neutral that blended in with the rest of the car, became part of the car. he doesn't glance at the money or ask how much is there, but by the end of the night he may very well be taking it.

❛ i'm going to take you to a storage garage. ❜ he's out of private places (because you could not discuss business in apartments, in motels). there's no more options that might be more comfortable. he cannot go back to the place he was told to go back to. he cannot take her to any place personal. he can only take her to nondescript dreampieces that sat on the line of spaces that were LIMINAL and spaces that were not.

             The teenager spent an hour watching the parking lot shortly after noon but his restlessness led him to wander out to his own car and drive to a convenience store that most don’t bother to stop at for good reason. He left with three packs of his favourite bubble gum, a foil of baseball cards ( which he didn’t know were still a thing ), and a lighter all without having to take out his wallet. The most difficult steal was the lighter which was sitting on counter but he was only prompted to take it by the cashier ducking into the back. He spent the remaining afternoon watching flames curl foil, dancing and twirling the wrapper until it was small, black, and sickly all the while radio static drowned out Ariana Grande.

             Time passed and Simon only thought of the stranger when he saw his car sat in the parking lot. He would be getting ready for bed and see the vehicle there, like an apparition just lingering as if it were ready to vanish if he were to turn away and look back. 

             A confrontational Tuesday led to the teen avoiding school all together on Wednesday which was nothing particularly new. However, he had no inclination to go for a drive or fill his pockets with cheap treasures. Instead he stood, back pressed to the elevator wall as visitors passed through and he blew pale pink bubbles. The stranger entered. Simon didn’t look up but instead remained focused on the thinning carpet under his sneakers. Without a glance, he knew who it was. His frame was committed to memory and was recognizable even in his peripheral vision. His bubble gum stretched from his lips before the tension of air and taut sugar popped. He collected the flavor-faded debris with his tongue and chewed. 

             The elevator stopped and Simon murmured, “We’re neighbors” The apartment ( and occasionally hotel room ) beside his own has been empty for sometime now and from the distinct thump of the elevator, he know they’re on his floor. He looks to the corner before the stranger can escape and asks, “Can I come to your place? My brother isn’t home yet and I forgot my key.”

TICK IN HIS EAR. that’s what he is, always gnawing around the subject until he’s suddenly right on top of it, and then no matter what this kid seems to have a convenient explanation and excuse for his loitering. none of it so far has been untrue, however, and while he was not personally a very normal teenager in his years, he never did this. maybe it’s new. maybe everyone’s digging to burrow into their neighbor’s apartments, craving a los-angelian brand of hospitality where what was mine is yours but do not touch, do not touch ; there’s snakes in some places and if you reach too far you’re bound to get bit.

but so far, he hasn’t reached too far. just a bit ambitiously and doggedly. the driver considers his answer for a moment, head turning slowly to reexamine the other in a finer detail. the fluorescent lights in the elevator weren’t exactly top of the line, but it was better than the dimness of the garage.  ❛ i’ve never seen you around. ❜  he replies slowly, outstretching an arm to block the doors from closing. no one is entering and no one is leaving. the driver doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t wait for the explanation as to why he’s been so scarce to the point of nonexistence up until a few days ago. everyone has their reasons, and he’s fine with those. keep in-the-moment honest. that’s all he expects.