Vignette 11
Jess hasn’t slept well for months. She goes to bed at the same time every night (just past one in the morning), she gets up at nine. She rolls around on her mattress though, glaring at the clock every hour or so, thinking “If I fall asleep _right now_ I’ll get so many hours of sleep.” She’s never fallen asleep _right now_. She’s certain there’s a trick to it, some sort of self-hypnosis.
Every day she drags herself from the comfort of her bed into the cold air of her bachelor apartment. It’s a Spartan little thing. She has a bed, a reading chair, a desk for her school work. Her kitchen is stocked with neccessities and little else (she keeps cocoa for special occasions). There is only one wall decorated, a jumble of pictures spread out chronologically, first of James and Sarah, then of James and Amy, then of James and Amy and Sarah, then of James alone.
Every day, there are new pictures, but only one ever goes up on the wall. Latelly, they’ve all been sad pictures, the ones that bore more insistently into her heart and nest there. She walks past them, pisses, showers, dresses, eats a bagel toasted with some butter, and brushes her teeth. Then she opens her blinds and starts waiting.
James always wakes up later than she does. He works the afternoon shift at one of the coffee shops on Coffee Corner, and doesn’t need to be up until eleven in the morning most days. His routine isn’t as regimented as Jess’ is. He gets up, sits on his computer in the living room, his shoddy curtains barely hiding his naked form. Early in the day, he can be hard to see because of the glare off the windows, but today there’s an overcast, and she can see him fine.
He isn’t a remarkable specimen of manhood. He’s o
ut of shape, a little chunky. He hasn’t shaved in weeks and looks terrible with a beard. He’s eating Cheerio’s out of a box, shoveling them into his mouth with his hand. He clicks away at the computer for a while; she’s always wondered what he does on it, but the screen is angled away from her, impossible to see.
He dresses without showering, puts on some deodorant, and leaves the building. She takes a picture of him as he walks out the door, head down, hands in his pockets. There’s an almost sexual thrill in her as she puts her coat on, wraps the tether of her camera around her hand, fluffs up her hair a bit, and walks out the door. She only talks to him once every couple of weeks. She doesn’t want it to be obvious.
Down the stairs and out the door, she walks around the block to give him time to get settled. Her heart beats heavy in her chest, thumping against her arms. Her palms are sweating, and she can feel beads of moisture on her forehead. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She walks to the coffee shop slowly, trying to calm herself down. It’s just a cup of coffee, she tells herself. Just a cup of coffee, given to her by the man whose pictures decorate her wall.
He’s behind the counter, wiping the surface clean with a rag when she enters. His coworker is putting something away in the back. The place is nearly empty. She was hoping it would be busy, so she could blend into the c
rowd a bit. Normally, it’s busy this time of day. Normally, she sits across the street at the competition’s store and takes pictures from a distance.
“… serve people drinks in,” James is saying as she approaches the counter.
“Touche,” says his co-worker. “Customer.”
“Mocha, please?” Jess asks, barely able to force the words out of her mouth. He’s more than just a person to her; he’s her rock star, her movie celebrity.
“Sure,” James says. “What size.”
“Oh, just a little one,” she says. “I never remember if you’re the coffee shop that pretends it knows Italian or not.”
“Whip?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” Yes, oh god yes please.
“Hamster?” he asks, smiling. She isn’t sure if he’s making fun of her. She wants, desperately, for him to like her, but she’s never been very good with people, never understood how making fun of people means you like them. Why can’t you just be nice?
“Sorry,” she says. “What was that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. She gives him her money, gets back her change. She opens her mouth for a moment, trying to say something fun, something that will get him to talk to her, but nothing comes out. She watches her shoes as she goes to get her drink, and wonders if she’ll ever really know him.
The first picture, the girl with the camera, is a picture I stole from Brad MacD. He takes pretty pictures. Jacony blogged the second picture from Otarako, who also takes pretty pictures. The song is “Such Great Heights,” performed by Iron and Wine, originally performed by The Postal Service. I liked this one. ^_^
