#cod musing

At first you think there's some sort of mistake. The long stretch of tracking at the start standard with these cheaply produced films takes its time - enough so that you check to be sure it's playing properly twice before the graphics of the responsible studios begin to reel by. No names, all. Long defunct, no doubt. Kyle always knows how to pick 'em.

It's a cold open - a dynamic shot, evidently POV, shoe gazing as the camera man walks down the street. Like the opening static, you not something is amis, spend too long looking at nothing. You wonder if this was perhaps supposed to be the opening credits, an unobtrusive background shot and tuneless whistling of the camera man that never did get overlayed with the proper attributions and graphics. It makes sense to you at first. Combined with the unmarked spine of the tape, you wonder if Kyle somehow managed to get his hands on someone's proof of concept, if this is perhaps the proto-tape of some big blockbuster you've already seen a million times. The thought makes you chuckle, the odds just as long as the ridiculous scene.

Bored, your thoughts start to drift, and just as you're getting ready to mark Kyle down for his first L, the shot changes, the camera man glancing up to nod amiably at someone walking in the opposite direction. It's more of nothing, really, but it grabs your attention nonetheless after the long lead up. You start to infer things about the faceless character - a man, judging by the shoes; likely attractive if the number of women you catch turning their gaze to follow is anything to go by. It's borderline clever film making, leaving them in. They distract from the brief glimpses of location that trickle through - nondescript brownstones and low-lit windows just beginning to flick on with the early hour. The camera man also seems to note this new development, the shot largely panned up now to take in the brief samples of domesticity, and as it does so, the gist of the movie begins to take shape, gauzy and ill-defined as the people who move about their lives behind the scant privacy of embroidered curtains. You slip past many buildings, each with some perverse peek, but the camera man doesn't slow, pace dogged and practiced and he turns down streets he never bothers to look at the names of. 

And yet, you seem not to need him to. 

It takes a while, but it's there. Familiarity. Deja vu. You know the streets he will turn onto before he even reveals them to you, the windows of which apartments will be left dark as his steps take him to a busier corner of the city, where the rent is cheaper and the neighbors know better than to test the integrity of each other's curtains. You don't recall leaning in so close, and yet you can feel the static of the CRT pulling at the errant strands of your hairline as you watch him stroll confidently closer, as if he's supposed to be there. Nonsensically, you check your window as if you'll be able to see him outside, but of course he can't be. This video would have been filmed decades ago, and Kyle, probably finding it funny that someone would have kept such a strange home video, had leant it to you as a prank without knowing the significance of how close to home it would have landed. Still, you snap the curtains closed when you're done, the rosy sky reflecting in the puddles outside just a little too familiar for your comfort.

But as you sink back into your seat, your heart feels as if it keeps falling through the floor. On screen, gloved hands shove through a misshapen shrub you know well, scrabble along the ledge of a windowsill and pull the camera up over the mass of the plant to rest front and center against the pane. The lens adjusts a few times, struggling to make sense of the amorphous sheer sitting static in the foreground and the writhing mass behind it. And still, like deja vu, you know what it will finally settle on before it does. 

Four nights ago, the last of a brief stint with a man you'd met in the produce section. He'd been charming and smart, if not a little self absorbed and it had all come to a head that night, dissatisfying sex from a disappointing partner who couldn't listen. You'd been fine enough to leave it buried in the past when he left, but with dawning horror you realize someone else wasn't. His fingers trace the shape of your heaving chest, exertion pinching your face in lieu of pleasure. The cameraman scoffs but he keeps watching, zooming in to where a fluorescent green vibe is pushed against your mound by unpracticed hands, far too high to do you any good. 

more photos means more visual, means seeing him in a well-fitting t-shirt and the biceps it clings to. he's a bit more stern in all the subsequent pictures. more stiff when he knows the camera is on him. but he wears it well and honestly you can't blame him, it's not like your own collection of head shots portray a photogenic natural. his profile is… efficient. brief, but serviceable. you get a sense of something institutional about him and nearly swipe left, but one last parting peek at his pretty eyes reminds you of his non-regulatory beard and you change your mind at the last minute.

which is how you wind up pressed against him at an overpacked table little more than a week later, his solid thigh radiating heat through the thin material of your skirt. you'd balked when he'd suggested hibachi as a first date - something about the atmosphere didn't seem conducive to regular First Date Talk. but you couldn't deny it's nice sitting beside him. less oppositional, maybe. gives you a way to hide your nervousness, more like. he's somehow more attractive in person. bigger, for one, tall and broad - doesn't hurt - but more than that is the assuredness, the confidence you had mistaken for brevity in his communication.

john price was not a man of few words because he didn't know what to say, he was a man of few words because he didn't need many; just like he didn't need a reason to pick you up, he simply did; just like he didn't need to make a big show of opening doors for you, he just wanted to.

you're hearing wedding bells by the time he pushes your chair in for you, a giddiness bubbling in your stomach when you dare to think he might be too. his eagerness is infectious and sweet and just plain honest in a way you hadn't been prepared for - months of terrible 'whoever cares more, loses' types of dates and situations leaving you on the back foot when - go figure - faced with someone who actually understood the point of dating apps. it's fun. refreshing. so much so that you barely notice the people filing into place around you until he does, his steady gaze catching and holding on a handsome young couple seated directly across from you. for a moment you worry he's some sort of bigot, worry at the threads of the conversation to see if there was something you might have missed. but then he catches the sharp blue gaze of the one with the mohawk and arches his brow - borderline threat, and the man only smirks, lethal.

they know each other. the other man too, likely, considering how innocently he avoids your partner's gaze. john startles when you ask to confirm your theory, grunts something about co-workers before becoming too engrossed in the waitress's shuffling as she moves about the table taking drink orders. it takes the poor man a bit to settle back into himself now that he knows he's being watched, but you try your best to help him forget and he manages to loosen back up by the time the chef's cart comes rattling closer.

of course, that's when things start to get a bit more social around the table, all your anxieties about the setting now playing out in the strangest way, the focus of the conversation dominated entirely by the couple across the way from you. they like being the center of attention, that's for sure, commentating loud enough to carry. you're not sure it's necessary, but the chef seems like he's seen worse so they carry on uninterrupted, that implacable bravado of cockiness and confidence unique to young men like them, too attractive for their own good and too smart to let it go to waste. it sets your teeth on edge, makes you understand why john had frowned at the sight of them. you're determined not to let them ruin your night, but it gets a bit hard to ignore when their commentating begins to stretch itself across the gulf of the chef's pit to you, a bawdy 'things are really heating up, huh?' interrupting when john leans close to whisper something in your ear, the scratch of his beard against your helix not quite enough to cover it. of course, when you shoot them a disgruntled look they're innocently observing the sudden rush of flame across the grill when the chef sets the oil alight.

(or perhaps innocent is a strong word, given the animal excitement in mohawk's eyes.)

"soaps's a bit of a pyro," john says by way of explanation when he catches you staring a beat too long.

"should we get that cart away from him, then?" you ask, nodding toward the bottles of cooking oil and grain alcohol which sit much to close to soap (soap?) for your taste.

john just smirks. "don't worry, darling. he's a professional."

you struggle to picture that man as a professional anything, but john said he was a co-worker, so you keep that bit to yourself. "what's the other one's name?" you ask instead, and grin when john gives you yet another terrible nickname. "gaz? no wonder the pyro likes him then, huh?"

you think you say it quietly enough but to your horror, the pyro in question winks at you. "nae, that'll be on account of his good looks," he imparts before swooping in for a kiss which leaves his handsome partner all soft.

once the conversational gate opens between the lot of you, there's no closing it. gaz asks john what he's drinking and then orders one for himself. soap asks how the two of you met and then lights john up when you answer truthfully, the tips of the older man's ears growing pinker by the minute. when the chef starts tossing bits of veggies into peoples' mouths, john gets his revenge by volunteering (a perfectly willing) soap - says that big mouth of his will be perfect for it. when you make the mistake of chuckling, they decide you must be fair game, leveling john with a leery sort of good-for-you grin when you open your mouth wide to let the chef shoot sake down your throat. it isn't the stunt that makes you choke, rather the mortified expression on john's face and the way he leans as if to shield you from their lecherous eyes, taking a stream of sake straight to the chest in the process.

The view from summit was a mottled brown, the maples only just starting to dress themselves for fall while the silver birches turn gold. You don't mind, find joy instead in one of the few remaining warm days before winter steals them away. Already, the days have grown short, and as you make your way back down, you tell Ian you're glad you made an early trip of it. Though it's only noon, the trail cuts down the north face of the mountain, and the steep incline of summit casts long shadows across the twisted roots that slow your progress, making your descent nearly as difficult as the hike up. You're tired, Ian too if his sudden silence is anything to go by, though you're excited for that base camp high, the satisfaction of a tiring trip and the shakiness in your leg as you drive home.

Lily seems nearly as excited, bounding ahead as far as she dares before returning with a stick or some other found treasure in tow. You've got her on a retractable lead to give her some freedom, but the exaggerated darkness has lulled you into a false sense of security, not really expecting to see anyone just starting up the trail when the mountain's nearly plunged the trail into darkness. And yet here's one now, a man stopped some feet below as Lily barrels toward him.

"Shit," you mumble. "Lily!"

Lily stops on a dime and turns back to you, tongue lolling. You snap your fingers and motion for her to come close, letting the lead retract as she obeys until you've stepped off the trail with her in tow, where she sits patiently at your feet until the man can pass.

He smiles at your small group graciously, bushy cheeks crinkling kind blue eyes. As he comes closer, you note his whole kit: a hat to keep the sun and bugs out of his eyes, a thick button, outdoorsy slacks, well-worn boots that look heavy, though not as much as the pack he wears on his back. If you found it odd he'd made such a late start of it before, it made sense now. He was probably camping or something - making his way through the connecting trails. You try not to let your embarrassment show, out of breath and tired after a quick up-and-back.

He slows a bit as he comes closer, eyes first on Lily where she lays at your feet despite her obvious excitement, and then on Ian.

"She's a good girl," the man comments, the thick English accent taking you both by surprise.

"Yeah, she is," your partner replies fondly. "Sorry we didn't see you earlier."

The man waves it off. "No worries. Was sort of hoping she'd come say hi, honestly," he winks, and the two of them laugh as the stranger carries on past.

You linger a moment longer, watching the man's broad back as he continues his ascent, miffed a bit that he spoke over you. And then Lily sneezes excitedly as Ian sets off and you follow him easily enough.

After, in the car, your partner suggests lunch at a local brewery. It's a touristy spot, a trap for the out of towners coming to experience fall foliage. The two of you fall into it willingly, sunning your weary limbs on the patio. Lily sits patiently in the car with the windows cracked and a bowl of water on the back seat. You watch her from your position by the outdoor fireplace, keeping an eye on her as she keeps an eye on the passing patrons. Many people stop to coo at her, but she remains stoic with her head resting calmly on the window sill.

Ian gets a flight, and then another, and then grabs a pint of his favorite when the game comes on the projector. The food's gone cold and at some point Lily's grown bored of the view and settled down outside of where you can keep an eye on her. When Ian surprises you by motioning for one last round, you ask the waitress for a bottle of water and excuse yourself to check on Lily and give her a walk.

The patio has grown crowded in the hours since you've arrived. Thick, local accents blend seamlessly with the tourists, friendly chatter mixing unlikely neighbors. You note a lot of outdoor gear, sweaty brows and dirty nails, the boisterous laughs of people who've earned a good meal. At the bar you spot a dusty hat, folded brim placed next to a tall, dark beer. Squat fingers linger on the rim, hairy knuckles and a tan line that suggest a ring he hasn't worn in some time. Your eyes flick up to his face, find him smiling warmly at his neighbor, the man's girl friend all but forgotten on his right.

Yeah, that's him. He's made good time, you note mildly, though you're not so surprised. Without his pack on, he seems even broader somehow, as if your brain had skewed scale to make his ridiculous pack seem more reasonable. You wonder now what he was even carrying if not equipment - bricks?

Lily greets you lazily when you open the door, stretching languidly as you attach her leash. You take her for a tour around the parking lot and complain lowly to her about Ian. You wouldn't have minded staying out like this, but some heads up would have been nice, you reason, and Lily just blinks at you sagely, completely understanding. She hops up into the car eagerly, watching as you refill her bowl with the water bottle you'd ordered. You wait to see if she laps at it eagerly, but it seems she hadn't been going too thirsty in here because she just settles back down on the seat and huffs at you.

"Alright, sorry girl, just a little bit longer okay? You're being so good, you know?"

Closing the door, your eyes take a minute to adjust from the dome light. You turn back toward the bar, but something about the shape of the neighboring truck gives you pause, hackles raising as you hear Lily behind to growl from the car.

A hand wraps over your mouth first, solid and sweaty. You thrash as Lily starts to bark, but the weight that crashes into sends you reeling hard enough to get your car rocking on its hinges. Lily yaps again, startled, and a bushy cheeks brushes against your own.

"Shut her up or I will," a voice growls in your ear, and you snap your fingers toward where the window still sits slightly ajar.

Lily quiets down, though you can still hear her grumbling about it.

Intuition, the handwriting - something should have tipped you off, surely? It's been years, but you know better than to slack like this. Knew the consequences well: your address scrawled neatly on an envelope in your mail box, your parents' signature holiday 'care of' sticker tucked carefully into the sender's corner. You'd smiled when you'd found it, a welcome reprieve among the stack of bills growing more and more urgent. You'd been moving a lot these last few years, leases left unrenewed as you flit around the country, and your savings have dwindled because of it. 

You hadn't grown lax, really, but you'd missed your mother very much and it had been years since you'd seen her for her birthday - surely it had been long enough? He couldn't still be keeping tabs -?

Belated, instinct finally starts to kick in when you see the gaudy cover of the card, takes shape in too much glitter tickling your skin as it falls to the floor. If your mother is a devout believer in anything, it is only in the generic blend of nondenomination holiday iconography and the effectiveness of a personalized photo postcard, but what greets you now can only be described as overwhelmingly Christian. White and gold and angelic, a verse you don't bother to read fully preaching something about a holy infant. You know it well enough anyway, heard it all before. The reason for the season, he'd harp at you, pulling you along to mass each year just to sandwich you between his own bulky body and his judgemental mother's sharp elbow. 

Compromise, you'd called it. Important to him, and so, important to you. You'd sit in that pew for hours, inspecting the depictions of the stations you only vaguely knew the story of, and wonder if he would eventually drag you along to your wedding much the same way, piercing blue eyes pinning you in place as a wrinkled hand fed you stale wafers. 

Compromise. The backbone of every great relationship.

Your hands shake as you open the card, enough to knock the photograph tucked within loose. It lands with a dull thud, the edge of it slicing through the air before falling, face up onto the counter. It's pixelated, zoomed in well past the capabilities of the average phone camera. There was equipment behind this. You don't know why that's what you note first, but you do - before the glare of a window in the foreground, a street light shining on back-lit windows; before the actions of the subject, lighting candles at a well-dressed table, heaping with savory dishes and drinks you can still taste, fresh in your memory. Before even subject yourself, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you take great care to ensure everything looks just so for your mother's birthday dinner. Candid, taken from the street outside, and flaunted here now to twist that moment of safety and happiness. Control it and contort it, reframe it through his lens. He was back from deployment, it seemed. You knew better.

Tears splot the ink of his messy note as you read it, sobs you hadn't realized were building distorting the words as you read them aloud: