Tate Bowen: Journalist

Tate’s autumnal habit had become a year-long practice due to the stresses of his work life. He’d started smoking in his teens because he found a poetry in watching smoke meet the cool air of the Fall. He always felt smoking, from a literary standpoint, looked much more attractive if you were bundled up; as if the cancerous tobacco stick was the sieve by which you dragged life into your lungs. He’d grown less sentimental over the years when he realized that smoke was smoke and more often than not, it was the by-product of slowly poisoning yourself.

Antoinette and Tate had not parted well; from behind the cobwebs that softened the harshest of memories, he could always remember the wave of her hair as she turned to leave him; it was a violent wave, a tsunami of Chanel no. 5 and seething that he’d never forget, as long as he lived. He stared out over the hospital grounds at dawn, replaying her hair over and over, feeling the very aura of her on his skin. 

He had always believed that he’d been born with an apology in his mouth; he also believed that he’d spent it by now, but was always shown how wrong he’d been. 

I’m sorry for being broken before I got a chance to begin, Dad. 

I’m sorry you had to die, Mom. 

I’m sorry that I’m not who you expected when you saw me, but I’m much more than a chair.

 I’m an asshole, I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry I have cancer, I’m going to probably go out like my mother before me. 

I’m sorry I had a mental breakdown for it, but I’m still writing. I’m still working from chemo/rehab. 

I’m sorry, it’s the best I have in me.

Overall, none of these were the apology he was born to give, the one that lived under his tongue. He flicked the butt of his cigarette out and over the railing, contemplating another. He fiddled with his lighter, watching his medical bracelet tremor around his wrist. He silently wished that Ann would come and find him, that she was a better person than he was. That somewhere on this planet, her mind told her something was not right. That she was running on those red-soled heels back to him, probably to slap him but he knew he deserved it. He wanted her back; he’d made a mistake. He needed her now more than ever.

The last time she really spoke to him, was well that incident and her heart sank along with her body. Resting her head on the steering wheel, all the memories flooded back. After all this time, that whole argument was, stupid. She could barely remember what they were angry about, she was the one who probably caused it. When her heart sank into her stomach, she could feel the acid crawl up making her throat burn. Regret just pooled in her mouth, this all could have easily been avoided.

Gathering up the courage, she pulled her gloves on and took in a deep breath stepping out of the car and taking the longest walk of her life to the Hospital. She couldn’t believe he was here, rotting away behind cold walls. She could only imagine him going insane. A mutual friend of theirs told her where he was, and she felt obligated to see him, well, not obligated. She wanted to see him, she wanted to see him smile, and laugh like he always did.

Cursing under her breath she immediately wiped her face, walking up to the front desk meeting eyes with the woman behind the desk.

“Hi, uhm, Tate Bowen’s room?” She said in a sort of sheepish tone while the nurse seemed to look right through her.

“He’s not really expecting visitors,”

“Oh. Well, I’m certain you can make an exception for me can’t you?” The blonde tried smiling but it was shot down with just a sort of icy stare. “Right, I guess I’m just going to thrash in every room until a find him then,” Standing up straight again the blonde was about to take a step before the nurse stood up quickly. Antoinette raised her eyebrows, “Room?”

“201.”

“That wasn’t so hard was it,” Scrunching up her nose with a smug sort of smile, she walked down the chilly hall and looked at the door. Wetting her lips a bit, she took in a deep breath, throat closing up she just shrugged it off then rapped on the door with her knuckles a few times. Opening the door slowly, giving him a chance to react first before she stepped in.

“I hope you’re decent,”

He was altered, the chemotherapy having lead his body to general wasting and the inability to maintain appetite or keep food down. The hair was going to start going, but he was pleased she’d arrived before that ship had sailed. He took in her form, as wonderful as he remember. He longed to reach out and take her hand, but he still wouldn’t move.

“Ann.” he seemed to state, as if announcing her to the gentry of a bygone court, “ I wasn’t expecting...” What? Her, anyone at all? Both were correct. He just wasn’t sure what to make of this cosmic shift.

‘She’s the Man’ Sentence Starters

          It was a good thing that Fleurette had learned to laugh about her disability,           but it was only with fondness that she thought back to what felt now like          a distant memory—or was it ? She was never entirely sure. All she knew           was that she valued Tate’s company exponentially.

“I’ve been out of town for my work a lot, so it probably has been. I’m just glad you’re free today. I brought you a little something from far away.” He twisted about in his chair, reached into his backpack and pulled out a present wrapped in brown paper and tied off with twine. It had a vague aroma of new book smell and lavender.

“It’s just a little something…” he stated, sliding it across the tabletop to her.

Fleurette was quick to come to realise how important his companionship now. How ignorant had she been to her own sentiment ? He made her laugh without fail and always encouraged a smile. Now that he was back, she was rather thankful to have him around again.

❝Oh ?❞ A quizzical hum sounded in the albino’s throat. Tentative hands reached to grasp the package curiously, ghosting the wrapping in puzzlement. She quickly took to unwrapping it, and it occurred to her just what it was. A book, but no ordinary book—it was Braille. And in her own language, no less !

“I knew it was your favorite, and I thought it would be nice to read it in your native tongue. It was my pleasure, truly. I thought of you in Paris quite often.”

‘She’s the Man’ Sentence Starters

          It was a good thing that Fleurette had learned to laugh about her disability,           but it was only with fondness that she thought back to what felt now like          a distant memory—or was it ? She was never entirely sure. All she knew           was that she valued Tate’s company exponentially.

❝Only if I do not trip over my own feet.❞

It was simply the way they were, and how they had been since they had met: ever jesting and playful in their mannerisms, and it was something that she wholly appreciated. She appreciated him as a person, in fact, and was ever gratuitous when he gave her the time of day. She settled her chin against the palm of her hand, and it was with an endearing smile that she motioned to her companion with a humoured chuckle.

“I’ve been out of town for my work a lot, so it probably has been. I’m just glad you’re free today. I brought you a little something from far away.” He twisted about in his chair, reached into his backpack and pulled out a present wrapped in brown paper and tied off with twine. It had a vague aroma of new book smell and lavender.

“It’s just a little something...” he stated, sliding it across the tabletop to her.

‘She’s the Man’ Sentence Starters

          It was a good thing that Fleurette had learned to laugh about her disability,           but it was only with fondness that she thought back to what felt now like          a distant memory—or was it ? She was never entirely sure. All she knew           was that she valued Tate’s company exponentially.

“Metallic…..like blood?” A stupid question, maybe, but all things considered…. the woman had not tasted anything in almost a century. The taste of things was something that faded, eventually not leaving behind a trace. No memory. And for a moment she wondered if that was what it had to feel like, turning blind. Did they forget about colour the way she forgot about taste?

He didn't feel he needed to say anything further about the subject. She'd misinterpreted his life for an act of betrayal. Being alive was not a crime, neither was doing his job. However, it also wasn't fair of him to grow angry when she was the one struggling with a true grievance. Yet, his annoyance was piqued and he wasn't going to sit there and let it gnaw on him like that. 

He’d take the key card and followed along to the room. It was a nice hotel, certainly felt clean. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched Tate analyzing. “…I know you do.” He admitted a little bashfully. “… You forgot that I read pretty much everything you write.” He cleared his throat a little and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Hey I wouldn’t even be bothered if you wanted to work on your review tonight, if you intended to write one. I’m good at being quiet.”

That and he’d totally sketch Tate while he worked. He wouldn’t tell him about that though. That might be a little weird for the reporter. “And there is nothing wrong with being a nerd. Trust me, I am too. Comes with my job though.”

Max started to nod as he was saying he was going to shower and then blinked, looking behind him to look at the bed. “Oh… I hadn’t noticed either. I… I mean I don’t mind. I’m well behaved. Promise.” He smirked a little. “Promise I’ll behave.”

" Dang, look at all this free soap. 's a pity carry-on rules are so strict." Tate backed up into the bathroom, and set things onto the sink group by group. He called back into the other room. 

" If you want to shower first, I don't mind. I take a bit in here, big fuss and to do, really." He was referring to getting in and out of his chair and trying not to get it wet. But, it was Max's choice. Tate was hopped up on arabica coffee beans, dark roasted. He would be up for at least another hour and a half, maybe two if he did intend to type up a quick review for the Hilton on his blog.

He had gone away

       He had forgotten to go back to the B&B.

He did abandon her. 

Granted he was a reporter and he had deadlines, travel, and all other sorts of things. It wasn't an excuse and he knew that. A promise was a promise and he always made a point to keep his. He seemed to sink into the gel cushion of his wheelchair, the joy he'd felt seeing her eroding into shame.

"I...I'd say sorry, Hettie, but to just seems like the worst possible thing to say right now. Feel shoddy...taste metallic, like sucking on rusty coins."

When Tate was heading back inside he’d take one last drag off his own cigarette before sending it to a similar fate. He’d grab the door from Tate, holding it open for the other man so he wouldn’t have to worry about it closing on him and then followed in after him.

While they were heading back to the gate, Max would finish off his coffee, pop it in the rubbish bin and loosen his scarf slightly since it was much warmer inside. However, when the announcement came on he looked up a bit and listened. He gave a small sigh. “Predictable. Seems to be the way it always goes in these situations.”

The artist wound nod in agreeance and head for the service desk. He couldn’t help the frown that painted itself onto his features when she mentioned a Days Inn. Not the best sort of place to stay in, even if it’s for a night.

Before Maxwell could say anything about where he’d stay, it seemed Tate had spoken for him, but he didn’t really mind. A better hotel seemed great after such a long and tiring day. His teeth caught his bottom lip at the question if he’d like to stay with him and he nodded.

"Yeah…. I think I’d like that. I mean… as long as you don’t mind having the extra company. I wouldn’t want to intrude."

" The customer service desk as O'Hara called. Welcome to the Hilton, Mr. Bowen & Mr. Hoff. I have your room ready;  and we've reduced the rate for the night, given the situation. Will you be sharing the cost."

Before Max could even reach for his wallet, Tate pulled out his company card for travel expenses and had the man checking them in run it through. He inquired about breakfast services and them took the room keys from him. Tate handed one off to Max and headed off to the room.

"First impressions...niiiice. Crisp white sheets, pleasant smell. Oooh, coffee maker," he turned to look at the wall that divided bedroom from the bathroom suite, " yep. Buzzer for the hearing impaired. This room is nice." Tate did a full spin in his chair, checking the clearance space, then looked at Max with a bashful air. He even blushed.

"I'm sorry. Reporter habit. I have a travel blog-I rate accessibility wherever I go. Hotels, theme parks, Comic-con, etc....I'm a nerd." He realized that their main bags were lost in transit, but would be home before they were, most likely.Lucky for him, hotels were great about supplying toothbrushes and all other accouterments for those who suffered as they now suffered. He moved over to make the call.

"They're bringing up all we need for hygiene, we have breakfast service in the morning, I'm gonna shower in a minute... and I just realized, we only have one bed...." he was listing, as if he were planning out a set of tasks, and the revelation came suddenly. He looked up at Max, then smiled.

" I'm cool if you're cool."