#a-mys

there is a moment, here. a suspension, elastic and humming, where the room decides whether it would become something. it stretches and it waits. it listens to the rain clawing at the siding. her question hangs there in it all, recognizes the tenseness the way a soldier recognizes the sound of a weapon being cocked. he has this dull, leaded weight within imagining what all the lessons it takes to take a shape like that. hopper does not raise his voice. he just stares at this stranger. maybe a little too long. long enough for the rain to resume and long enough for the house to remember it is old and poorly insulated and absolutely complicit in this. “ it's raining.. you're short a roof.. ” simple and unadorned. the kind of observation that does not long to be argued with. “ that's all. ” the thunder answers him, loud and rude and crashing right up against the side. “ don't make it weird. ” lands sideways, some humored boundary drawn with a piece of chalk. jim hopper has learned that his humor tends to be the more appropriate way of slamming a door. he turns away, escaping before she can decide what to do with it. it's intentional. IRISH GOODBYES AND WHATNOT. the hallway swallows him in flickering light, wood paneling and familiar creak of his weight. in finality, jim's voice carries back through the small space, filtered through walls and distance and muffled sound: “ if i start takin' applications, you'll be the first to know. ” it's a joke. kind of.

and suddenly the world is small yet again.. manageable. hopper stands there in the kitchen-space, hands on his belt and staring at the counter. his thoughts come to him then, intrusive and wiser. ⁽ you're doing it again, hop... bringin' strays home. ⁾

PRECINCT PRESSES AS A MUNICIPAL AND CIVIC WEIGHT : the walls lean inward with fluorescents that thrum and stutter in arrhythmic complaint. “ .. happily. ” flat and sarcastic. jim hopper occupies the chair with back slung against plastic, boots planted on carpet, one hand scrubbing along through his hair. THE STRANGER across from him remains entirely unmoved, a figure cut clean from rain and attitude, her boots propped on the edge of his desk with the casual audacity who has already decided upon this conversation and its direction. dark hair clings to her jaw and collarbone in wet ropes, mascara smudged into a smoke wet bruise across her eyes. defiant. tired. unimpressed. “ so we're clear, ” he continues, voice low and irate. “ i'm askin' to keep you outta the middle of all this when it goes ugly. and it will go ugly. ” a pause for restraint, for the decision to neither raise his voice or turn this into the sort of exchange that leaves dents in desks and paperwork ruined by coffee spills.

The scene around them had changed several times over,  from the tiny,  dying family - owned grocery store at the corner of the block where the fruits looked odd and the vegetables strange,  but could be trusted for their freshness;   to the barren little park that was certainly dilapidated in spirit, if not in its physical steel bones and false - grass skins;   to the line of tilting houses with their dead beds of flowers and thriving lawns of weeds .. gradually growing in size and shape until the two of them marched beneath elderly elms standing guard prettily in front of so - called real houses with their quaint porches,   complete with the season’s fashionable outdoor decor,  front steps clean of the litter of life signs.   All this,  without more than a few looks and syllables passed between as they shopped,  walked,  and kept their thoughts to themselves.

Beth supposed she preferred this,  if not enjoyed a little.   It reminded her when she’d gone to a country where she knew only a pittance of the language,  and so found herself in the space of her own head,  living and breathing the world within,   and only poking out in the smallest of ways —a nod here, a gesture there— when those in the places outside herself needed her. In these places,  the image of who she was was most clear on the chessboard and that was,  in fact,  what she most preferred. If she could not have that,  a lack of intrusion would do. So that she might keep her own head in order;  so that she might not needlessly expend precious stamina,  precious thought on words without meaning or direction. And so far,  the other woman seemed good for it. Perhaps,  it was a matter of being like - minded,  though Beth held some chagrin to think her own mind was just the same  — or even near being the same  — to someone…   anyone else’s.

Not all the house numbers were easy to see,  some hidden away behind decorative bushes,  others stylized to appear as much as part of the house itself as possible,  rendering the signage useless  — but not house 1620.   Here,  the owner had made sure that the numbers were clear,  large,  and unmistakable.   Beth stopped before the front lawn,  plain and tidy,  and stared back at the windows staring out at them. The lawn was neat,  the steps well - levelled,  and the pathway leading up to the dark blue front door swept free of debris;  she knew if she went around the back and opened up the grill,  she’d find a spare key.   A part of her was humoured:   all this knowledge of a house and it isn’t even mine.   But it did remind her of her own.   How was it?   Her small house in Kentucky,  tucked away in a suburb that seemed to be older and older,  crankier and crankier,   each time she returned to it.   That lawn wouldn’t be as neat,  the front path as clean.   It needed her to come home.

But she couldn’t go home yet.   So,  for now,  this place was hers.   Or maybe it could be this woman’s,  if she needed a place to stay for a few days and would rather have it.   A sigh and a glance over,  and Beth startled,  finding piercing blues drilled into her rather than the house before them.   What,  she’d uttered,  a little rudely,  the word flat and sharp as a blade brandished.   I wonder what you’re thinking,  was the returning rasp and with that,  Beth accepted that maybe their minds were more alike than she would’ve liked.   She didn’t rush to indulge the woman.   Considered her options,  instead.   What she was thinking,  well—  there was plenty to choose from.   In her head,  there was never just one thing,  was there? The hour around them changed and the street lights between the elms blinked on,  the yellow glow winking off one of the house’s windows at them,  at Beth.   “  I was thinking I should’ve just gotten a hotel room.  Like I usually do.   ”   She shook her head and began up the path.

the hideout exhales in fits and starts, a wild animal finally instructed to lie down. beer ghosts evaporate off the floor in sweet-rot. post-show euphoria is a peculiar weather system and eddie munson is weathered into something quieter. sweat-slick clinging at his nape, eyeliner half-survived, smudge into the geography beneath his eyes. amy occupies a different gravity and flips through those shitty paper menus like tarot paper edges whispering, greasy fonts in the form of lo mein or calzones or whatever the hell it is that keeps people alive at this hour. but the funny thing about it is ( ... ) they match.

same palette with same shadows and same black-on-black sensibility, like two negatives pulled from different decades and melded together. mirror-distortions. she's offered him a luxury over the years: no posturing, no 'on'. she's seen him smaller, louder, dumber and even grow teeth. eddie wipes his face with the hem of his shirt, smearing what's left of the stage off of himself.

CB. he figures he ought to feel bad about it and he does. nearly seventy - two hours did he leave Amy on read,  unable to find the right words,  the right mindset,  the right intentions to message her back even when she’d made it so easy for him.   it’s a yes or no question he already knows the answer to,  infinitely simpler than any other of the one - hundred - and - one questions rattling around his panic - addled brain and still..   he'd froze.   for three days the text weighed down the slim,  flat body of his phone,  transformed into nothing short of a dense fucking brick in his pocket that pulled him into imbalance,  changed his gait,  and made the world tilt the wrong way.   he didn't want the chaos and the stupidity of his life as it is to bleed through,  not even by accident,  if he were to message her back so unthinkingly,  without at least a hint of a plan in place. Amy texts and Carmen’s mind makes two - three - four ( ! ) incredible,  exhausting bounds into the future where everything’s on fire and he’s lost yet another potential friend.   dead and demolished before they even had a chance to get off the ground.   all because he wasn’t careful,  all because he’d gotten used to and so good at cutting with the sharpest of knives.

it takes him time to write the words   —   first in his mind, then just before the bear’s doors had opened .. and there wasn’t a single sound in the back alley except for the humming of the walk - in freezer in conversation with the ticking of the kitchen clock that was the perpetual white noise of his mind,  on his phone,  sent to Amy:

HEY,  OF COURSE TOMORROW OKAY?

it’s also good to know Carmen then sat on another three words for the entirety of the saturday night service,  regretting not sending them earlier when it might’ve made a difference,  thinking it might not be too late even now to quickly hit send if he can get his hands free for five seconds,  worrying that it might be the biggest mistake he could make to not send them.   three more words,  never sent:

ARE YOU OKAY?