ego death

Perhaps it was selfish, setting up a mouse trap like she’d been trying to, cube of cheese metaphorically manifested as her finger tracked a line down her sternum. She didn’t even realise what she’d been vying for when a licked thumb to her forehead steadily exhaled the breath from her chest, disappointment almost enough to make her cheeks flush. It felt like it’d been a long time since she’d been touched, really touched, by someone that loved her, knew her right down to her marrow. An exaggeration, perhaps – it’d only been a handful of months since she’d moved to Los Angeles but rather unnervingly, in the time she’d been dating Dom, she’d gotten used to it. It was like a stray dog getting by on scraps from strangers for years until it finally got to know what having an owner was like, someone who’d consistently tuck her close at night and kiss the top of her head in the morning. Returning to her usual suspects – rough hands, no attention paid to the words from her mouth – was, in a way, like pulling that same white sheet over her head and playing ghost again, wandering the corridors of her family home without detection. It’d been nice, for a little while. Getting to be alive, like that. Lana smiled at him like he’d given her everything and broke away from his space, jabbing a random button and making a leap to exit the elevator. She tossed a laugh over her shoulder for the cherry on top of the cake. All seamless, red velvet drawn for the theatre production to commence. There wasn’t a point in chasing more. She needed to remember that. 

Lana reached out to thumb the pink petals of a passing flower, a hoard funnelled towards her like the trumpets of an orchestra. “I used to call those Lilas,” she told him, hand moving to cup a purple, stouter type, pop of yellow in the centre like it’d attempted to ingest a buttercup, flower-on-flower cannibalism. Lana inhaled as if she’d been handed a perfume tester in a department store, breath of content parting red lips. “Vivians.” Rushed like a bee to a fresh source of honey, Lana approached another that looked like it’d only freshly unfurled, swollen and huge – bigger than any fist Lana could make, that was sure. It stuck out like a sore thumb. So orange it could’ve burnt down an entire forest, reduced Rome to ash. It was difficult to look away. Too much, almost. Staring the sun dead on without glasses. “Lanas,” she greeted with a sift at a long petal, something curdling in the pit of her stomach like week old milk. They had them in their garden when she was little. She could still remember rain splattering them down to a droop as Tommy and Caleb danced with her. Regardless, Lana wore a grin brighter than a football stadium when she turned to look at Gabe. “I’d give them all my own names. Way more fun,” came with a flit of her eyes elsewhere, memory of a shorter recipient of this story rattling around in the back of her brain. Unwanted tenant. “I think, like… everyone should give their own names to everything. The world’s more fun when it’s yours, don’t you think? When you’re friends with it.” There wasn’t a specific meaning in that, as there tended to lack in most of the things Lana rambled about – nothing someone could pick out, anyway, even if she knew what she’d meant. She severed a daisy and slid the stem behind her ear, investigating his expression as she righted it’s position. Then, she did the same. This time, for him. A step drew her closer, reaching to tuck his daisy into place. His left, her right. Opposites. “Which flower’s Gabriel?” she asked fairly nonchalant, pupils drifting to plot out familiar freckles. When she edged him further, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the flower that represented him or the person she’d known in college – a grasp for a hand in a dark bedroom, something to anchor yourself with in the middle of a bad dream. “Is he here?”

“Yeah. Those?” Gabe pointed at a few weeds that were blooming above the concrete, green and yellowish grass coming up as if the skyscraper they were on was about to be overtaken back by Earth. “My mom, uh, really liked lilacs, I guess. She made everything in my room that color when I was a kid. Isn’t it funny how pretty it is here? On top of a fucking condominium complex in New York City. I miss... trees. Maybe I should become Amish.” He took a finger once again to investigate the daisy atop Lana’s ear, softly plucking petals in a he loves me, he loves me not manner. He tickled the inside of the daisy then brushed the tip of her nose the way she would do to him sometimes, a child’s way of affection. Lana was the only person he felt comfortable with mindlessly touching, twirling, because it was what he did to him -- a scratch to the nape of the neck, a tug on the sleeve. He took his hand to the center of her forehead in between her eyebrows, creating a slight wrinkle so she looked mildly uninterested or unsettled. “There. Now you’re mysterious,” Gabe grinned, quoting the famous scene from Almost Famous. 

He moved towards the railing of the edge, lanky upper-half slumped over as he looked down. Cars and taxis and crowds of people were going by constantly, a never-ending cinemagraph. The world was always too big -- it was something both treacherous and comforting to his boy-self, but now he had felt too old for it, like he was meant to stay eternally on some beachside porch for the rest of his life in an old man’s body. He looked down and wondered what it would be like to fall or fly, body hitting the impact of something, whether deathly or otherworldly. Anything that was beyond the mundanity of his current day. His eyebrows furrowed, fixated on a cat below sauntering around the corner of a street alley. He was probably too close to the edge, he figured, but he couldn’t get his eyes off the street so many feet below them. Exhaling, he took a step back and looked at Lana again, almost like a source of comfort. A guardian angel in the flesh. They were quiet together for a big, Lana gazing at the flowers with more curiosity than he had. Gabe took it upon himself to gently braid a strand of her auburn hair like a fixation, then tucked the daisy from his ear into the braid. She now had the appearance of a Dr. Seuss character with the daisy sticking up out of her hair like an extra ear. “Hey. You pick the next place.”

Lana’s eyes goggled like she was a plush toy alien inside of an arcade machine, awing at an impending grabber. “Gabe… You can’t just speak alien out of the blue like that. That’s totally scary. Like, I feel like I’m about to be probed. Which, I mean, kinda sexy, but. Give a girl some warning next time?” she asked like she hadn’t been the one to lapse into French in the first place, dimples roused within the next second like he’d pinned a rosette to her lapel – she even straightened, slightly, chest out as if to brandish her accomplishment. “I know. I’m a pretty big wordsmith. Some guy called me a disgusting little girl just the other day. Which, like… Hello? I’m a woman. I pour my own cereal and everything. I even own those thin rimmed librarian glasses. I mean, I don’t wear them, or anything. They’re just a prop. Sometimes I feel like being all wise and lowering them. I put them on to get rid of a Tinder date, the other day. I was all, like… The results are in, sir,” came before she mocked sliding said glasses down her nose, peering whimsically over the top of them, “your dick was unsatisfactory and I’ve booked you an Uber. Cancelled. He loved it. Or… He didn’t, but. I did. That’s what counts, I think.”

Something streaked Lana’s expression like a fox across a highway, bright and unmistakable – usually she’d be better at disguising her emotions, tucking vibrant petalled sorrows in with an abundance of colourful flowers, a whole bouquet that made them hard to spot, but she hadn’t been expecting it and thus she wasn’t prepared to. It plucked at a nerve in her chest like a steel tipped guitar pick. She didn’t realise the nerve even existed in the first place, for this specific conversation – not any more, at least, not now, so many years since she and Teddy had been anything like that. “Huh. Weird,” she phased it off, even laughing as if to sling a cherry on top of this unconvincing cake, distract him with the sweet way it burst open between his molars. “Yeah, it was Blake. He kissed me while he was with him and they broke up. Super intense. He was just drunk, though. No Biggie Smalls. Anyways,” Lana squeezed Gabe’s hand without intending to, her equivalent of jabbing a remote button to swiftly change the channel, “I kinda like rats, sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, they’re super ugly, but. I mean, I trust them a little more since Ratatouille. I’d let one make me a bowl of oatmeal, no questions asked. I think some rats have kind hands, don’t you think? Like, they totally mean well. They’d cup my face if I was crying.” This, as a lot of Lana’s rambles tended to be, was inconsequential garbage – she spewed a thousand opinions on things that she forgot within the next breath, talking just to talk, just to fill her lungs and expel them, too. Her brain was a balloon that never stopped swelling, never deflated to the point where she couldn’t think of something to say. Some found it exhausting. Others confused over how she was always so on, an actress remaining in role even when the cameras cut. “I could be Amish, maybe. We can buy a bunch of butter and dump it in a bucket. I’ll churn it so good. Like, the best you’ve ever seen. Don’t you think I’d be super sexy, Amish?” After saying so, she framed her face with a hand flat beneath her chin, the easel to prop a canvas – she also flashed a grin, so bright it’d scorch every cornea in a football stadium. 

Per his instruction, Lana lapsed into what she believed to be the most sophisticated walk of all time, hands drifting as if thanking a line of spectators for their uproarious applause. “I know. I know, thank-you. Thank-you so much,” she sighed, even going so far as to gently circle a limply shelled palm, waving as she’d seen Mia do in Princess Diaries. Old Gary didn’t seem impressed, but Lana delighted like she’d won a golden buzzer on America’s Got Talent, whipping to clasp at Gabe’s forearm with both hands. She held on like he might float away if she didn’t, whatever fabric was beneath her palms scrunched up inside excited fists. “I honestly got so in role, just then, I was five seconds away from shutting my eyes and mentally riding Chris Pine in reverse cowgirl. Like, I was in it. Total commitment. It’s – wait, Katy Perry?” Her eyes grew wide. Hand slipping, she linked a pinky through his and clung onto him that way, ardent as a bush-baby unwilling to part from their mother – she even tugged him into the elevator with far too much vigour, careless to the fact he could probably stumble over his feet. She felt too hopped up to consider anything like that, giddy as a child after ransacking a tub of sherbet. “Katy Perry’s scary. She’s, like, one of my worst fears. I think she’s a cyborg,” she told him, suddenly gravely serious – she stared him in the eyes and everything, deep and intent. “Like, I don’t think her jaw’s right. I think it has bolts in it. Cyborg bolts. She doesn’t move right and she says wig way too much. Like… That’s not normal. In this essay I will…” trailed off, reaching to pluck once at one of his belt loops, ever tactile. She had to touch everything, no exceptions. “I wish you were in LA, too. You’re like… One of those moving RVs. Like, if I grew up in a mobile home with big wheels and a super pretty wind chime. You’re never in one place and…” She struggled to finish her thought, shrugging it off. She’d meant to say he felt like home, in a roundabout way, but the lights of the waterfall distracted her. Lana stepped closer, etching fingertips through the stream. Reaching out, she traced down the spot between his eyebrows with a wet index. “Simba.” Dimples prominent, smile burst to fruition. “Now you do me,” she insisted, reaching to trace a line from the base of her throat through the middle of her sternum, almost disappeared beneath her shirt’s neckline. Her eyes were sparkling. “Here. Like you’re baptising my heart or something. Like you’re making me holy again.”

“Never got a good read at Blake. A nice fellow, it seems. I’m sorry that... happened,” Gabe frowned. “Yeah? So would I. Are you calling me a rat?” His awkwardness had a boyish charm, at least to most people. Lana always had more energy than him, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes he wanted to take her hands and lay with her in a dark room for the peace of it all. He felt it right then, maybe because they were in a place so public and he had recalled that every meeting they had at Yates for a long time that wasn’t in the bathroom of a party or her barging into his room was always surrounded by others. He had always been on his own by the end of that semester, and now he was on his own semi-permanently without the comfort of the same companionship she or Teddy could provide. That was the beauty of feeling anonymous in the city, he supposed, even though he had known it for most of his life. “I’m actually so fascinated by the Amish. Don’t you think it’d be nice to not use technology and churn butter in a field? I’ve always thought about a way to escape like that, but without all the religion and maybe the cultish bullshit. Makes me think of Midsommar when I feel like fucking off into the woods. Personally I think I could thrive as long as I kept my mouth shut. RIP to knockoff Chris Pratt, but I’m different. Yes, I’m sure you could really rock a milkmaid’s dress. Every other Amish woman would be threatened in the way God would grace your presence. Whoa! I’m a fucking poet now.”

Gabe nodded in agreement. “I think she is cyborg. Certainly in the same way Ellen Degeneres is a cyborg. Their eyes are like... soulless. I’m convinced that once you reach a certain tier of fame your soul gets sold to Satan. Or the Patron Saint of humility. End the concept of celebrity, man!” He giggled at her touch, shaking his head to get away from her finger. His hair was shorter than it was at Lockwood so there wasn’t the same poodle-like effect of shaking his head. He always felt different, but then again, when was the last time he had the luxury of feeling like he belonged in his body? He stuck the pad of his thumb to his tongue and put it to Lana’s forehead, her bright eyes wide like a cartoon’s, as if expecting a bit of stardust to fall in between them. He had noticed the soft curve of her doll-like nose and slid his finger down, tapping. The urge to kiss her bubbled up almost instantaneously, though interrupted by the ding of the elevator doors opening. “Here we are.”

“Bare? Ah, oui, non-non! Sacre bleu, Gabriel! Faux pas, monsieur!” Lana lamented in a purposefully butchered accent – things were more fun frayed, it gave them character. She’d been about to go off on a whole spiel when he continued, eyes flitting to catch his face just as a beam of sun cut between buildings. Doodle you made of me. There it was, again. That gulp of hot chocolate. Her next smile was sweet, the stone heart of a sliced peach. She could almost taste it when she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. It was the kind of smile that always made her want to lean in, ask whoever had caused it if they could taste it, too. It was a reaction as knee jerk as a doctor’s rubber mallet. Gratitude, in Lana’s brain, always filtered to sex. She’d been trying to get a handle on that but it was going about as smoothly as buckling a hyperactive toddler into a car-seat. “Sigmund’s the ugliest name. I bet he had a gross dick, too. Shrivelled up like a salted slug. Like, a really severe curve – total boomerang – and an eye like an angry little earth worm.” When Gabe squeezed her hand, it felt a little like she imagined Frankenstein’s monster must have, first jabbed with that animating prong, zapped into sitting. She came alive when people touched her. Sometimes, it was so extreme that she swore she must’ve been a ghost every second that they hadn’t. When she pictured herself, alone in her room, it was all white sheet with holes cut out for eyes. 

“Still..?” she played dumb, eyes wide like a cartoon bush-baby before it broke with a laugh, giddy and genuine. “God. Throwback. Wow. We, um… We haven’t been like that for a while, actually. Fucking, I mean. He got into this whole, like, serious relationship, or whatever. Everything stopped, we didn’t even really, like… talk for a while, then – then I met someone, too. Well… I mean, I dated these two guys at the same time – like, the three of us.” She missed out the court case. Testifying against Danny. All the bloody, grisly details. Lana lived a life trimmed of fat, only ever plating meat that was whittled down, exclusively tender. Streamlined, if she could help it. “Then I broke up with them. I only really liked one of them. Leo – we’re still friends, he’s the best. Then I started dating… someone else. The longest I’ve dated anyone, actually,” she realised, brushing a strand of hair with a free hand. More an excuse to give it something to do – it suddenly felt far too empty. “But, like… You know, life or whatever. So Teddy and I are just, like, both flying solo, now. Doing the friends thing. Fucking’s kinda complicated when you used to love someone, I think. Like road head. I mean, it’s hard to focus on where you’re going. Chances of crashing into a tree and getting beheaded are, like, way higher. Kinda wanna keep my head, don’t you?” Lapsing into a hum – absentminded, unaware she had at all – Lana gently swung his hand, always thrumming with far too much energy for just one body. Sometimes she felt she ought to sprout octopus arms, just to have extra limbs to expel it with. It’d make more sense. “Hey, New York isn’t so bad. I mean, it’s kinda gross and the rats are the worst – I swear I saw one trying to smoke a menthol on the subway, when I was, like, twelve. He looked like a total Sopranos rat. Like he should’ve been wearing a suit and packing a pistol, you know? Anyways. I used to always picture the buildings with eyes and mouths and eyebrows. I’d feel bad when the sun hit the windows, ‘cause I thought it’d hurt. Make them squint and get that white spot when they blinked.” Lost in her own ramble, she almost didn’t hear his suggestion until it made her gasp, stand a little straighter. “We’ll go! I love flowers. I lived down the street from Leo’s florist. I’d buy fresh ones all the time. Kinda sad when they die, though. I mean, who remembers to water things? It’s pretty high maintenance. Super dramatic, all the wilting. Like, we get it.” Lana practically pranced between the lines of a zebra crossing, holding up Gabe’s stride just to conduct her warped game of hopscotch. A man with a briefcase twisted his nose like he’d sucked on a lemon, disgruntled at this much exuberance for what appeared to be a dreadfully stale work day. Lana cracked a grin when they reached the other side, apparently undeterred. “What’s your roster? Anyone broken your heart? Any scratches on it? We can stop for plasters, if you want. Those Hello Kitty ones, they’re my favourite. I’ll put them on for you. Kiss your boo boo better,” came with an amused glint, notorious for toeing the line of what was appropriate. “I mean, if I have to. I make a great nurse. One of my many asses – assets. Whoa. Total Freudian slip,” Lana laughed, punctuated with a sigh. “I wish I had more than one ass. That’d be kinda fun, I think.”

"Nu comme les fesses d'un bébé. Je suis un porc inculte maintenant," Gabe sighed. The language felt broken on his tongue, despite his fluency. He only ever spoken it with Aunt Adele, and he lately on the phone she would lament to him in English about how much she had missed him and how much better Montreal could be if he decided to move there instead of New York. Right then, he could see Lana there, or maybe somewhere fancier like a vineyard in France Wes Anderson-style. He laughed at Lana's comment. "God, how can you make up such disgusting imagery. It still amazes me, after all the years. I can just imagine his little coke dick wiggling around," he shook his head. The crinkles behind his eyes seemed to get deeper when he laughed, signs of insomnia putting on his corpse-like appearance for show. No, maybe he was too harsh on himself — he was getting some sun after all, more often this week than last. Normally, he'd probably be reading on his fire escape, watching the couple from the building across fight or kiss or dance around on their patio that Gabe's window overlooked. It was often that kind of entertainment or the friendly neighborhood orange tabby that would barge in and out of Gabe's room, no collar and hyperactive like it was constantly high. Lana would've liked him, he figured. He made a mental note of that.

"Tedward? In a serious relationship? God, I mean. I assumed you two were really serious. But I get the whole... non-committal thing. Considering I'm still like that. Ha," Gabe said dryly. He took his other hand to muss up Lana's hair teasingly — a secure act of affection to fill the awkwardness. He didn't know exactly why he was talking about Teddy, nor did he know how to react to Lana's array of situationships considering he had nothing to contribute to the conversation. He liked hearing her talk, obviously, but the topic at hand made him realize how agonizingly slow his life felt, paling in comparison the whirlwind of Lana's tumultuous time away from him. "Oh, the rats of New York City are what really make it. It has a certain... jenny say kwah. Romance, don't you think? You're sharing a pizza on the subway with a new lover. You drop a piece of your crust. A wild rat appears. This isn't autobiographical, by the way, but I wouldn't doubt if that really happened." Lana's energy sometimes made him want to scoop her up into his arms and throw her over his shoulder, spinning like they were kids in a playground. He realized he hadn't been intimate with anyone in a long time, despite the fact he wasn't completely celibate. He realized he had a distaste for most people despite any over-encompassing lust. How tragic it was. The thought made something in him wilt the way Lana was describing a dying flower just then. "Can't you tell? I'm a raging whore now," he swung his arm around Lana's shoulders this time in just about the same fashion as Edward Cullen doing this to Bella Swan after saying I'm already going to hell (Nai you know the scene). "I'll take a Hello Kitty band-aid. No, but my love... life. Whatever that means. Rather empty sprinkled with occasional Tinder hookups. I would consider myself off the market right now. Saving myself for a sweet Amish wife." He led Lana into the apartment building, greeting the doorman nonverbally with a sheepish smile as his hand reflexively moved to her lower back. "Act like you're a debutante. Old Gary over here either thinks I'm a resident or the son of a resident. Either way, I only know my way around because I was a laundry boy for like two weeks before the boss ghosted me. What kind of apartment complex has laundry people like it's a fucking hotel. One for elite capitalists, that's what. Rumor has it Katy Perry was seen in one of these windows." The elevator opened, a ridiculous yet charming backdrop of a waterfall glowing in between panels of marble. "Ladies first."

It felt like swallowing a gulp of hot chocolate, hearing him say that. Feeling it toast it’s way down her throat, flush in her sternum. “Not weird,” she refused with her cheeks plump, smile keeping them that way. “I think it’s weirder not to say things. I could be hit by a meteor tomorrow, you know? Splatted against the pavement. Poof. Blood and guts, like, all over a hot dog stand. Gone,” Lana chattered on, still undeniably warm with it. His hand taking hers didn’t help. It was like the seat-belt click to buckle her into that feeling, assure a long journey. She let him lead, hardly paying attention to the pedestrians in their way as she lapsed into stride – it was his face she was interested in, the tired way his lips animated words like they could hardly spare the energy. Sometimes, she imagined Gabe as a car with the fuel tank slashed, dripping a trail of gasoline wherever he went. In some ways, she’d always felt like a lit match, gobbling it up: everything flickering, all consuming orange. He never spoke to her like she was anything less than some huge, vibrant force. It was nice, being regarded like that. Like trying on a Halloween costume and not even wanting to take it off in order to pay. Normal clothes felt less. Threadbare. Dull.

“What’d you have on your walls, now? You used to have nice walls. Things on them. It’d be like… being boxed in with your brain, sometimes. Like a giant, blown up version. Taking a tour around it,” she elaborated with eyes gone wide, ever theatrical. Plucking his hand up, she whooshed them over a woman pushing a stroller – it only just grazed the top of her head, prompting a scandalised look that Lana couldn’t help but laugh at. “Sue is a total hard-ass,” she named the stranger, trading Gabe a look like they’d been dealing with her reprimands for years. “It’s, like… live a little, Sue. You’ll totally get the wine stain out of your tapestry cushion covers. There’s literally no need to take it out on the rest of us? Go rake your zen garden and chop your mother’s parsley. She’s coming for supper and she’ll lose it if it’s anything thicker than fine.” Sighing out the melodrama of her ramble, Lana cast her eyes up over a building, following it to the point – her neck craned a little, long hair descending her back. “Came to see my brother.” She didn’t mention the whole of it: the outpatient program, the fact he was setting up a support group for discharged soldiers to cater to those in his unit. It felt too much, too personal. Just hers, furled in a fist to keep it safe. “He’s doing pretty good. Like, better than I’ve seen him in ages. It’s really cool. I try to see him whenever I can, but. I’m living in LA, now. In a loft with three girls. They’re all good and sexy but you know, figures. I mean, girls always are. Girl boss. Hashtag feminism,” came with a few nods as if she was serious. “Teddy’s there, too. We moved out together. Kinda like a pact. He’s auditioning a bunch. He’s really good – I always thought so, but. Like, he’s even better. I think he’ll probably get famous and be all swanky in a Corvette, soon, strutting on red carpets. I’m mostly just… you know. Floating around. I have fun,” she skirted concrete definitions, concrete anything. Lana didn’t like to be pinned down. Not since her most recent break-up, anyway. “I think I’ve fucked a fifth of the city, already. Trying to be reasonable, but… Kid in a candy shop complex, you know? Everything looks pretty. I just, like… I mean, I know it’ll taste good, so,” came with a knowing smile, a diluted version of her usual, beaming grin. “Where’s your favourite place? Here, in the city. I wanna see it.”

"I hope you don't get hit by a meteor," he chuckled lamely. "Would probably ruin my whole year, to be honest. And the hot dog dude's, too." Usually Gabe felt like a Travis Bickle-type, minus the political agenda catapulting a vigilante's violent quest. That was dramatic, probably. The streets of the city had never felt like home to him, and when it did, it was usually when he could find a kind of escape at the skate park or in between aisles at the bookshop. How Donna Tartt of him, to thrive only in anonymity and dreading the broken home of his father and mother. He didn't know where his father was and he didn't particularly care. Occasionally Richard's new wife would send a cutesy email about "brunch", to which Gabe found new lies about professionalism and work to compensate for his absence. Lana was the opposite of the low hum of monotony. She was fresh flowers, movies in technicolor to which his grayish charm paled in comparison. It was like Penny Lane holding hands with a Tim Burton character, the two of them. If it wasn't such a sweet sight it would almost be comical.

"My walls? Kind of bare now, I guess. Like a bare 60s Frenchman, maybe? Let's see. Few polaroids from Lockwood. Doodle you made of me. Vinyl covers and random art prints from work and huge poster of Sigmund Freud's penis." He was too slow to mumble sorry to the middle-aged woman whose head he had grazed. A quiet smile was on his mouth at the mention of Lana's brother. Despite how open Lana was in her personality, it seemed too difficult for her to bring up matters that conveyed hurt. Gabe could always tell when she was holding things in, like a flowerpot ready to overflow of water but keeping the strength let it drain through. He would never pry, of course, that was their secret rule — that despite their magic glances and shared language made up of tiny gestures, he would never once force her to share too much about her past. It wasn't that he couldn't handle it, though he was awfully scared of taking on role of the sort where he ever knew what to say. It was still too embarrassing for him to this day. "I hope he's okay. I know you must've missed him," he settled on, squeezing her hand tighter. "I feel like you always belonged somewhere like LA. Lots more to do and way more sun. God, I miss that fucker. I can see him getting into Hollywood. Are you guys still..." He trailed off. He and Teddy texted very occasionally, usually with TikToks or tweets or absurd articles about crimes other men of done for them to laugh at the state of their country. "Ha. I don't know. This place... sucks, really. Hmm." Gabe scanned the street signs and the array of people crossing. A florist nearby took the outline of his grandmother, warm smile lines aged with grace. This made his eyes soften in comparison to the look Lana was giving him, like a puppy waiting for a treat. "There's this, uh, rooftop garden somewhere around here. I like to sit there and read sometimes. I think you'd really like it.”

Being back in New York felt like slipping into bathwater long after it’d gone lukewarm – it was impossible not to love the city in the same way that it was impossible for Lana to go anywhere and not find at least six things charming, but it was about as much a home to her now as a pair of shoes that’d started to pinch. She’d met up with Roxy and Angelo, latter of which still insisted on autographing his signature on whatever receipt they left behind. It was easy, talking to them, finger skimming the glob of sorbet besides Angelo’s key lime pie, always ignoring his slapped protests and going back for more. Roxy had hair white as an over-whipped meringue. She clasped Lana by the cheeks, once, freshly fifteen, and said she didn’t see the point if her hair wasn’t the colour of her mood, if she didn’t look like a living embodiment. It was pink, at the time. Maybe she’d forgotten about that, now. Even so, Lana couldn’t help but wonder what white meant – she stroked a tendril off her eyelash like a stuck snowflake, said she was the prettiest ghost the diner had ever seen. They were all a little different. Frayed around the edges, aged like wine. The love was the same, though. Lana could feel it humming through the entirety of their conversation like an engine on standby. Any one of them only had to say the word and they’d rev – perhaps people could see it as a soft spot on a bruised pear, something they ought to poke, but Lana had enough love in her heart to love a thousand and more. It’d been made to feel like a defect, by many. Marred brown on pale flesh. She’d love anyone for a lifetime, even a face she passed on the subway. Her heart was an ever expanding house.

Gabe’s room was one of her favourites. She went there, sometimes. Upturned trinkets. Tickled behind the ears of memories like they were stout, purring cats. No matter how much time passed, they never felt any less alive. They were some of the softest she’d known. 

Maybe that was why it was almost winding, seeing him. She didn’t realise how badly she’d wanted to until her grin was so wide it hurt her face.

“Gabraham.” She hadn’t stopped smiling. It was almost unnatural, the idea that someone could be that happy, warm to the point of a blister. Lana was helpless to the way she tugged him close, hugging him like no time had passed – she even pressed a kiss to his temple like a stamp on a letter she’d never want to send away, envelope tucked safe in her dresser to keep it close. It glowed like a blood moon by his hairline, a makeshift solar system she couldn’t help but gingerly touch a thumb to, laughter bubbling. “Your eyebrows are the same. And your elbows.” She’d held them just to check, like this was of vital importance. “Are your ankles? I hope so. They’re nice ankles. Kinda sleek. Feminine ankles. You’d probably kill an open toe stiletto. Ever think about investing?” Lana couldn’t help but fawn over everything. To an extent, she wanted to verify he was there, delivering a gentle pinch to his forearm through the fabric – really, though, there was no excuse, that was just Lana. Always touching. Tactile as a toddler with a stack of building blocks. She’d never lost the urge to investigate everything. “I thought about you, last week. It was raining. Van Morrison came on. Brown Eyed Girl, remember? I went outside in it, got, like, totally drenched. This guy Donovan didn’t even get it when I said it felt yellow. Isn’t that dumb? You would’ve got it. You always get it.” Eyes wildly flitting to drink in everything, tuck any minor change into a cabinet to keep her ‘Gabe’ file updated, she barely realised she’d started humming the hook until she had to interrupt it. Disorientating. Sometimes, talking to Lana was like trying to juggle twelve balls at once. ”Wanna take me somewhere?” Vague. She preferred surprises. Spontaneity. She’d never gone on the same rollercoaster twice. “I missed you. I wanna know everything.”

He didn’t realize how much he’d missed her until her face seemed to brighten the dark cloud of his brain, her smile doing so much more than a cup of coffee on a rainy day. It was ridiculous to him, maybe, and of course he would never admit it to anyone. Not to himself him out loud and never to her. His laugh chimed at the kiss on his temple and her whimsical ramblings. He could’ve kissed her straight on the mouth right then and there, like all the dreams he’d had about her before, where there was a halo above her head and her appearance was nothing more than a symbolic, pleasant alternative pathway of his life. He would wake up wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, sighing at his inability to form meaningful relationships in real time. But with Lana? It was different. Even with the anxieties it still felt natural with her that perhaps Gabe’s guard was let down completely. “I thought about you, too,” he found himself saying. I’ve been thinking of you often, this whole time. “Every time something good happens, kind of. Because I imagine what your reaction would be and stuff. Sorry, is that weird? I just haven’t... I haven’t been in touch with anyone in a long time.” His grin could light a few football stadiums, he was sure of it. It was rather unlike him, quite frankly. Seeing Lana felt the same as a brain freeze, in which the pleasure to his tongue was something zany and sweet but the head rush still left him a bit overwhelmed all the same. Because of this, he decided to succumb. It had been too long anyway. “Fuck, I don’t have shit to do.”

Instinctually, he took her hand, and the warmth of it was enough to calm him. “Uh, I think I should be asking you that,” he remarked. “Anyways. Moved back home, hated it, found a shitty studio apartment by chance, got some jobs to cover it by the help of some internal forces. I eat corn flakes for breakfast and maybe I do less drugs now. I can’t afford it. What brings your pretty face to this godforsaken city, though? I would’ve fled to Italy when I had the chance.”

"Are you listening to me?" pestered Lourdes. The blonde was a Luna Lovegood type, though the variation that was mixed with an Effy Stonem manic episode along with a habit of calling Gabe a "tiny cunt" whenever he neglected her in conversation. Unfortunately, that was rather often. "No, absolutely not," Gabe groaned, staring out the window of the cafe with a sort of nostalgic longing that was probably only the result of his horrid mood and the fact that the girl across from him was so intent on having some sort of coworkers to friends to lovers relationship. Gabe was never one to take the initiative in any relationship, therefore Lourdes was almost the only friend he had around at the moment.

"Christ, are you on Benzos? Anyways, that fat man out there. I can tell he kidnaps children. Don't you think?"

Gabe nodded numbly like a depressed muppet. He remembered playing this game with friends from Lockwood — assigning narratives to strangers. Lana was the best at it, he thought. It had almost gotten the two of them in trouble a few times. "I'm shit out of inspiration. You go again," Gabe muttered. Lourdes giggled with delight, scanning the city crowd with hawk-like eyes.

"That girl. Wow. Definitely a Hope Sandoval type. I bet she's following some band around like she's in Almost Famous when in reality her dad's a hotshot cross country owner somewhere in rural Connecticut." Gabe followed her gaze, which settled on a girl with a lithe bounce to her, her figure almost dancing in the way she walked. She looked to the side before crossing the street, eyelashes ready to blow the rest of the Tri-State area away. Gabe's eyes squinted. "Wait. I gotta go. Um, second job has me on a surprise shift." He slid out of his chair and tapped the blonde's head as a goodbye, much to her annoyance. On the street, he jogged towards the girl on the street, eventually catching up and nearly stumbling in the process thanks to a lanky fifteen year old nearly running him over with a skateboard. "Jesus fuck," he mumbled under his breath, winded and embarrassed as the girl turned to make eye contact with him. He didn't quite know what had caught his tongue once their eyes met, but all he could say at that moment was her name. "Lana." @strvwberryblcnde​