5Crystal Vases: Two
She is in my bed, and I'm holding her. Her hair is soft – she's picking it up and draping it across my face, letting it fall over my cheeks, tickling my eyes and my nose. She's smiling at me. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I touch her face; she takes my hand and kisses my fingers. One. By one. By one.
I could not possibly be happier.
/
I'm downstairs. The guy at the front desk pushes a lighter towards me. I take it. Light my cigarette. I don't look at him, and he doesn't really look at me. This guy knows; he never asks questions, never tries to start a conversation. He just pushes the lighter across the counter, and then takes it back when I'm done. He's a good guy. Quiet. I like naturally quiet people.
"Thanks," I grumble. He nods.
He worked here when I first moved into the apartment, with her. He was quiet then too. I remember she used to try and joke with him. She'd pretend to flirt, just to see what the old guy would do. Funny thing is, he wouldn't do anything. He'd just kind of smile at her, but not say anything. She would lean across the counter and laugh and joke with a man who never responded, except for a distant smile. Then she would come back by me, take my hand and squeeze it.
"Just kidding," she would say, "You're the only man for me!"
And then she'd kiss my cheek. I thought it was cute. I thought everything about her was cute. I was so in love. Shit.
One day, not long after she left, after she just vanished, the old man spoke to me as I borrowed his lighter and lit another cigarette. He had a solid, course voice. He didn't ask where she went, just commented that it had been awhile since he'd seen her. I laughed. Asked him if he missed her. I knew I sounded bitter. He didn't answer, but waited for me. I remember standing there for a long time. I told him she was gone, and he nodded.
"She reminded me of my wife," he said, very quietly. I looked at him, maybe for the first time. I could see how old he was, could see the lines in his haggard face. He looked down at the counter, and I knew his wife was dead.
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out another cigarette, and laid it on the counter in front of him. He looked up at me, just looked into my eyes for awhile. Then he picked it up, lifted it to his lips, and lit it with the lighter that would become the symbol of our wordless understanding. And we smoked together, there in the lobby.
He's a good guy. Doesn't ask questions.
I leave the apartment complex. It's a little chilly out, but it doesn't bother me. There's smoke in my lungs, and the cool breeze blows the memories from my mind. I pause on the sidewalk and look up, find the window to my apartment. I can see that kid. He's got the shades pulled up, and he's wiping the glass. For some reason, he leans his head against the window and grimaces, then pulls back and cleans the place where his skin touched the glass. I watch him for a moment, then turn away and keep moving. I really couldn't tell you why, but that kid really irritates me.
Maybe it's his haircut. Or lack of one.
The filter on my cigarette burns. I flick it and pull the other one out of my pocket. But then I remember that I don't have a light. I let the cigarette sit on my lips and head towards the nearest grocer. I should buy another pack of lighters. It's pretty stupid that all my pants have cigarettes in them, but no lighter to light them. Just doesn't make sense.
I'll get another pack while I'm at it.
/
When I get back to my apartment, go to put my key in the lock, the door pushes open the moment I put weight on it. I'm suspicious, my first thought being that that dumb kid left the door unlocked and now I've been robbed, but then I see the cleaning cart still sitting in the hallway. And I hear singing.
I push the door closed behind me, letting the mechanisms click softly, and follow the sound to the open doorway of my bedroom. I lean against the door frame, cross my arms, and narrow my eyes at what I'm seeing. It's that same kid, and he's still in my apartment, making my bed. He flips the sheets out, letting them rise and parachute down several times over before letting the fabric settle onto the mattress. Then he moves to the side, smoothing the edges, tucking them in.
And he sings as he goes, softly, his voice a little awkward and off pitch, but not actually that unpleasant. His hair's falling in his face, and you'd think with all the care he takes with my sheets, how meticulously he makes my bed, that he'd be as neat with himself and get a damned haircut. Guess people just don't work that way.
"Hey," I bark, before I can stop myself. It's clipped, angry sounding, and I know it. But I am angry. Angry that this kid is still here in my damned apartment.
He jumps like I'd fired a gun, then stares at me like I'm pointing one at him. I frown, feel my upper lip twitch. I wish this kid wasn't such a bloody rabbit. It doesn't make me feel bad, just serves to make me angrier. He holds onto his apron and presumably waits for me to speak again. I can see the initial terror wane, and now he's just standing there, nervous. Again, I wonder if it's just me, or if he's like this at everyone.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask. I try to stifle the anger out of my voice, try not to yell at him again. None of the other maids have complained about my temper before, complained about how I swear at them and throw in the occasional threat if I'm in a shitty mood. They're used to it, I figure. They all knew me before. Most of them don't say anything at all, just silently continue about their business and leave when it's done. Some of them though, the younger ones, some of them give me this look. Like they feel sorry for me.
The point is, none of them make any kind of formal complaint. This kid is new though. The last thing I want is for him to go crying to the company, wailing that I assaulted him or some shit. You never know with these kids.
He swallows, pushes his hair out of his face.
"Well sir, I'm cleaning," he says.
No shit. I can fucking see that, you idiot. What I want to know is why you're still here in my goddamn apartment, why I'm still looking at your stupid, little, rabbit face.
"Yeah," I say, "Yeah, I can see that."
He looks at me, waits. Then his eyes move around the room and I see his fingers worry the apron, pinching and twisting the fabric. He looks at me again. It's like he can only speak when his hands are busy.
"Then, uh, what's the problem, sir?"
I raise my eyebrows, give a short laugh. I can see him shrink a little, his eyes narrowing the smallest amount. I straighten up, stop leaning against the door frame and fill it up instead.
"The problem, kid," I say, "is that you're still here. I've been gone long enough, you should be done by now. So what's your problem? Are you just a shitty maid that it takes you this long?"
His eyebrows knit and he frowns, looking down at his white sneakers before pressing his lips together. I'm being a shithead. I don't really care.
"Well, uh, sir," he says, and I roll my eyes, "first of all, I'm not a maid. I'm a domestic worker. Maids are female, I'm not, and you're not supposed to call female domestic workers 'maids' anyway. And, uh, secondly, I'm just trying to do my job, and if it's taking me longer than you're used to…I, uh, well then, sorry, I guess. I'm just trying to do a good job."
I frown, watch him. He works the edge of his apron in his fingers, won't keep eye contact with me. After awhile I sigh and turn out of the doorway. I want to see what this little punk's been doing all this time.
At first, it doesn't seem like much. Looks like the typical cleaning job. You can tell the rug was vacuumed, my shit isn't strewn all over the couch, or the floor, or the coffee table any more. But then I notice the little things, shit the other cleaning ladies didn't do.
Like the fact that the few pictures I have hanging on the wall, some stupid paintings I bought down the line (I took down all the ones she bought. She came and got them anyway) are all hanging perfectly straight now. Or that all the surfaces are actually shining now, that the oven is clean, that those stains I thought would never come off the stove's surface are completely gone. The bathroom is bloody glistening. The medicine cabinet is organized, oddly enough still with my method of organization, just neater looking…
Everything is pristine. He took care of places and things that I didn't even realize were dirty because they were that way when I bought the apartment. I've never seen them clean. I've never seen this apartment this clean. And the kid isn't even done yet. He's still working on my bedroom.
I go back and lean in the doorway again, look at him. He's got my bed totally made now, everything perfect, the comforter smooth and folded back, some throw pillows I forgot I even had arranged all nice at the headboard. Where in the hell did he find those? He's wiping the dust off the blinds now. He pauses and looks over at me, his brows knitting together. He looks nervous.
"If, uh, if I did anything you don't like…" he mumbles, his fingers fussing with the duster's feathers in his hand. I sigh, frown, even though I've got nothing to be upset about. I think my face just frowns automatically, when it doesn't know what else to do. The kid continues to fidget, look nervous. I wonder if he's scared I'll get him fired. I probably could, actually. I mean, he must have gone through my shit to find those throw pillows, and he organized my bloody medicine cabinet. That's got to be some kind of violation of something.
But I actually don't mind. Yeah, he went through my shit, which is irritating and maybe I should get him fired for that, but other than that, he did a really good job cleaning this dump. He went above and beyond. Not the usual behavior of an idiot university student with a part-time job. So instead of yelling at him, or going to find someone to complain about him to, I just lean my head back against the door frame and pull another cigarette out of my jean pocket.
"S'fine," I say, bringing one of my new lighters up to my lips, pushing my thumb over the little metal gear so that it clicks and a small flame shoots up to burn the end of my cigarette. I inhale, put the lighter back in my pocket, and blow the smoke through my nose. I glance the kid's way and he's watching me, a mousy look on his face. It makes me frown again, automatically, and I cross my arms. He fidgets.
"Just hurry up," I tell him, and I'm about to head into the living room to play some music and pretend he isn't here until he leaves, when I have a troubling thought. I give him a hard look and he blinks, startled at the change I suppose.
"You didn't touch the vase, did you?" I ask. I hear the low, threatening tone to my voice and watch him shrink, our eye contact breaking as his gaze shoots anxiously around the room.
"Uh, no, sir, no, I did not," he stammers, and I half expect him to start nervously tearing the feathers from that little duster. "I, um, I thought about emptying the ashes out, since it looked full, but it looks so expensive, I thought maybe I shouldn't touch it….without your permission."
"You're damn right you shouldn't, and you're lucky that you didn't," I bark, and I point a finger at him, my lit cigarette hanging from my hand. "You don't touch that vase, do you hear me? Don't touch it."
He nods, his eyes wide. I wrinkle my nose, put my cigarette back between my lips and take a long drag.
"Good," I say, and blow the smoke out with the word. The kid just nods again, starts fussing with the shades again, and I turn out of the room. I move into the living room and pause in front of the mantle to stare at the vase. I trace it curves, its details with my eyes. I think of touching it, but instead tip the ash off the end of my cigarette into the vase's open mouth.
I sink into the couch and lean my head back. I can hear the kid moving around in the other room, bumping into things. I look at the vase again and think of her. She was so beautiful.
/
After our wedding, we went straight back to the apartment. She, being the silly thing that she is, went directly to the bedroom and fell asleep in her wedding gown. There were friends helping us take our things in, wedding presents and such, and she just completely ignored them. She took my hand in hers and kissed it. She said, Let them take care of it, and she tugged me gently towards our room. I was alarmed at first, there were people here, and I didn't know what she was up to.
But she just fell back onto the mattress and crawled up towards the pillows, her gown taking up nearly the whole bed. She smiled at me, her hair falling gently into her face, and she looked like an angel. A beautiful, perfect angel, all draped in white and pearls, and curled up so delicately amongst the pillows and cotton.
"Damien," she whispered, "lay down with me."
And I did. I didn't bother kicking off my shoes, just crawled onto the mattress and settled in right next to her. I wrapped my arms around her and she nestled into my chest, her slender hands tugging at the lapels of my expensive tuxedo. I could feel her knees huddled up near my waist, and she smelled like the lilies at our wedding.
"Damien," she whispered again, and I closed my eyes. She said my name like no one else.
"Damien, I love you."
Her fingers came up and touched my jaw. I kissed her head and felt her sigh, felt her settle in, felt her breath even out. I felt her fall asleep, and I smiled. I loved her so much.
A guy, someone she worked with I think, pushed the door open and tentatively poked his head inside. I looked at him and smiled, raised my eyebrows in a silent question. He took one look at her and gave a short laugh, then stepped halfway into the room. In his hands, he held a beautiful crystal vase. It was a wedding gift from my mother, even though she couldn't make it to the wedding. There were tears in my father's eyes when he gave it to me at the reception.
"Hey," the guy whispered, "where should I put this?"
I shrugged, didn't really care at the time. All I cared about was that she was in my arms, breathing against me, clutching the lapels of my expensive tuxedo. I cared that she smelled like the lilies at our wedding.
"Put it on the mantle," I whispered, waving him away with a free hand. The guy nodded, gave us one last smile, and then ducked out of the room. He closed the door, and I couldn't hear the chattering of her friends and family anymore. It all evened out to a dull murmur. I touched her hair, gently. She sighed in her sleep, brought her face in towards my collar. I couldn't possibly be happier. Quietly, I hummed our song, the one we had just danced to as the last dance of our wedding.
"Unforgettable," I whispered, barely carrying the tune, "that's what you are…"
I thought, I want it to stay this way forever.
/
"Um, sir?"
I open my eyes, but can't see straight for a few seconds. When my gaze does focus, I see the crystal vase and my stomach churns. I must have dozed off, by accident. It's the kid who's talking, standing across from me, the coffee table serving as a barrier between us. The vase is visible over his shoulder.
I run a hand over my face and grimace. I hate naps, especially accidental ones. They make me feel grimy. I'm about to get up, but then realize something and start furiously patting myself down. There was a cigarette in my mouth before I fell asleep. I don't know how many times I've dozed off with a light in my mouth, then been woken up when it either fell off my lips and burned me, or it burned down and the cherry got me. But the kid speaks again and answers my silent question as to why there's not a hole in my shirt and a matching circular burn.
"Oh, uh, your cigarette. You fell asleep with it lit, so I just kind of took it and put it out. My dad used to do that. It's in the ash tray," he says, and points. Sure enough, there it is, and in good shape too. The kid must be telling the truth about his dad, because anyone else would have smashed it out and wasted anything left. But he put it out gently, and that means I can relight it.
Which I promptly do, reaching out to grab the old cigarette while simultaneously reaching into my pocket for a lighter. I inhale, blow out the smoke, and look at him. He looks back at me, fidgets with his hands.
"Um, I'm done," he says, and I raise my eyebrows. Does he expect a pat on the back? An applause? A tip?
When I don't answer, he pushes his hair out of his face and turns away from me.
"See you tomorrow," he says quietly, his eyes on the floor. He pauses a moment longer, and then shuffles almost noiselessly out of the room. I listen to him grab his cart, open the front door, and then push through it. I listen as the door clicks closed behind him. Hell, I listen to his steps as he walks down the hall, listen until I can't hear him anymore.
Then I take a hard drag on my cigarette and close my eyes again. Part of me wants to go back to sleep, wants to try and dream of her again. But the other part of me knows that's shit, and kind of pathetic too.
So instead of taking another nap, I sit up and head towards the phone. I need to think of something else, something that isn't her. The kid's face comes to mind, his blonde hair falling in his eyes. I think about him singing.
There's something about him, something I can't quite pin down. He's irritating, and I don't think there's anything about him that doesn't frustrate me, but there's something…something about the way that he looks at me. Not just the wide-eyed rabbit stare, the look behind that look. It's there, behind the fear and nervous awkwardness. It was there when he woke me up, when he just stood there, looking at me. It was there when I lit my cigarette, and it was there right before he left. I don't know what to make of it.
I pick up the phone, hold the receiver to my face, and dial the manager to the cleaning staff of the building. She answers after a few rings.
"Hello, how may I help you?"
"Hey. I had a question…about the cleaning staff. There's a new kid, some blonde boy, I believe Aldona's watching after him. Do you know who I'm talking about?"
"Yes, sir, I do. Is there a problem?"
"No…no problem."
I pause. The line is silent.
"You had a question, sir?"
I'm frowning, squinting at the fibers in the rug. My finger taps agitatedly against the receiver.
"Yeah. That kid. What's his name?"
I wait through the pause that follows.
"Jody. His name is Jody, sir. And you're sure there's not a problem?"
I rake a hand through my hair and sigh, exasperated, irritated. Jody? What kind of name is Jody, for a boy? Jody…is a girl's name.
"No. No problem."
Chapter two, thanks for reading~