So This is Your Scrap of Dignity V
Author’s Note: Thanks to Marti for the help with this chapter and the ideas. I’m certainly not over writer’s block, so the chapters will be slower in coming.
Smeared black ink: your palms are sweating, and I'm barely listening to last demands.
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering,
What's buried underneath where I am?
--The Postal Service, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight”
They leave the store and the air is refreshingly oppressive. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t attempt to start a conversation. She picks the destination again.
“Where are we going?”
She closes her eyes and spins around. The choices start to whittle down.
“There are four directions. How long will this take you?”
She wants to reply an eternity and maybe more. But when she’s done she frowns because she’s too dizzy to turn anymore.
“I don’t know where you plan to take me, but I’d like to get a car. My leg doesn’t hold up as well as it used to. Ya know, infarction and all?”
“Ah, so return to your tried and true defense. Applause for the gentleman wielding the cane.”
He squints at her and can’t think of any good comeback. She has found a crack.
She revels a moment in the euphoric elation of victory. It’s a small victory, but she considers any win a win and does not dwell on the size or importance. Battles are yet to be fought.
Cameron glances into his eyes. There is no reflection of atmosphere; the blues of his irises match the sky.
They stand now, not circling, but contemplating. He speaks first and it’s with a mix of genuine interest and hardened derision.
“You worship broken men.”
“You want a married woman.”
She kicks a rock and watches it roll to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He takes his cane and swipes at it. The hapless rock skips across the pavement and onto the street with merely a small noise. It’s like them in this large world; they make no more than an undetectable plink.
The flow of people streaming down the street forces them closer to one another. She shivers with the force of the 98.6 degrees of body heat radiating from him towards her.
The people continue to move past them on the streets, melodramatic thoughts speeding through their minds. Anyone of them, she knows, can be a terrorist with a bomb, a mother with an errand, or a teenager on their way to a friend’s house. People are blank and she fills them in to suit her needs. They aren’t personalities, but empty slates. She knows that she’s just another blank slate for them, too. They’ll fill her in as House’s daughter, disgruntled lover, or sympathetic friend. He’s probably a miserable cripple and she’s probably his loving caretaker.
But the truth is always shadier than the lie and she’s so frustrated by this mess that she wants to cry.
“Call a cab,” he angrily growls.
Her hands fly to her hips and she purses her shiny lips.
“You.”
“Defiant much?” He pokes her ankle with his cane. She kicks it away.
“Taxi!” She shouts with a little too much verve and reverberating vibe.
She doesn’t know what to say because words escape both of them when they need them. A cell phone plays some glaringly bad pop song and she waits for House to crack a sparkling gem.
But he doesn’t and the taxi comes. It’s an odd carriage, she imagines, for a would-be prince and his would-be princess.
“After you Prince Charming,” she mutters.
He sweeps in and then she sits down next to him. She directs the driver to a nearby park where geese and pigeons feed on leftover crumbs from generous octogenarians.
“You don’t believe in God, but you’ll invest your faith in fairy tales. Fascinating,” he murmurs looking at the glass divider, but never her face.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“But you believe in me.”
He turns his head accusingly. She meets his gaze.
“I’ve learned to stop believing in people. I believe in what you do.”
“And you don’t believe in God and His miracles? But you believe in mine?”
“Because yours are tangible. Real.”
“There are different types of miracles?” He ridicules her with a sarcastic inflection of the last word.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. She jerks her head to look out the window. The pop songs play on endlessly; there is no difference between artists and titles, and the melodies are trite variations. House eagerly taps his cane to keep his mind occupied, but she knows these songs must irritate him just as much as they irritate her.
There are the smells, typical eau de taxi, but something else, too. She watches his nostrils flare in an attempt to classify her scent.
“It’s Chance.”
“Chance?”
She briefly wonders if she’ll spend the next hour explaining the logic behind her choice of perfume, but he nods his head gently. She speculates on whether or not he’s avoiding conversation intentionally.
They’re built on crumbling foundations. As the taxi hurtles to its known location, she fears the terminal implications.
She feels close to him. It’s a tight fit in the back of the taxicab and his bad leg remains its own separate body. She’s never been this close to him. Her nose turns on its own volition and inhales the musk of hospital and broken people.
His eyes delve into hers, reading her mind. But he’s always had a fatal flaw regarding human motivation-he’s emotionally blind.
So, she uses it to her advantage and strokes his thigh. This is turning into a game of cat and mouse with no definitive roles. He takes her hand and stops it in mid-stroke.
“Stop.”
She withdraws her hand and her face to glare at the passing trees. Dealing with livid women is the plant’s unerring expertise.
The car whirrs and hums, giving notice that words are not supposed to be spoken because taxis provide as much privacy as public bathroom stalls.
They’ve tried religion and innocent innuendo. This trip starts to become nothing more then a decrescendo.
“Maybe we’re not meant for this,” she whispers to the window, and she knows he can hear because he hears everything.
And now they’re speeding along at their terminal velocity. The two of them are nothing more than unwanted curiosities.
Cameron knows that the driver thinks they’re no different than any other hesitant couple he’s ever ferried. They’re nameless and will vanish into facelessness. The sensation is akin to a conversation via telephone.
The cabby’s asking for more directions and they’re at the end of the physically short, but emotionally long drive. She grapples with her bills before leaving without a glance in at House’s direction-he will survive.
Smeared black ink: your palms are sweating, and I'm barely listening to last demands.
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering,
What's buried underneath where I am?
--The Postal Service, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight”
They leave the store and the air is refreshingly oppressive. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t attempt to start a conversation. She picks the destination again.
“Where are we going?”
She closes her eyes and spins around. The choices start to whittle down.
“There are four directions. How long will this take you?”
She wants to reply an eternity and maybe more. But when she’s done she frowns because she’s too dizzy to turn anymore.
“I don’t know where you plan to take me, but I’d like to get a car. My leg doesn’t hold up as well as it used to. Ya know, infarction and all?”
“Ah, so return to your tried and true defense. Applause for the gentleman wielding the cane.”
He squints at her and can’t think of any good comeback. She has found a crack.
She revels a moment in the euphoric elation of victory. It’s a small victory, but she considers any win a win and does not dwell on the size or importance. Battles are yet to be fought.
Cameron glances into his eyes. There is no reflection of atmosphere; the blues of his irises match the sky.
They stand now, not circling, but contemplating. He speaks first and it’s with a mix of genuine interest and hardened derision.
“You worship broken men.”
“You want a married woman.”
She kicks a rock and watches it roll to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He takes his cane and swipes at it. The hapless rock skips across the pavement and onto the street with merely a small noise. It’s like them in this large world; they make no more than an undetectable plink.
The flow of people streaming down the street forces them closer to one another. She shivers with the force of the 98.6 degrees of body heat radiating from him towards her.
The people continue to move past them on the streets, melodramatic thoughts speeding through their minds. Anyone of them, she knows, can be a terrorist with a bomb, a mother with an errand, or a teenager on their way to a friend’s house. People are blank and she fills them in to suit her needs. They aren’t personalities, but empty slates. She knows that she’s just another blank slate for them, too. They’ll fill her in as House’s daughter, disgruntled lover, or sympathetic friend. He’s probably a miserable cripple and she’s probably his loving caretaker.
But the truth is always shadier than the lie and she’s so frustrated by this mess that she wants to cry.
“Call a cab,” he angrily growls.
Her hands fly to her hips and she purses her shiny lips.
“You.”
“Defiant much?” He pokes her ankle with his cane. She kicks it away.
“Taxi!” She shouts with a little too much verve and reverberating vibe.
She doesn’t know what to say because words escape both of them when they need them. A cell phone plays some glaringly bad pop song and she waits for House to crack a sparkling gem.
But he doesn’t and the taxi comes. It’s an odd carriage, she imagines, for a would-be prince and his would-be princess.
“After you Prince Charming,” she mutters.
He sweeps in and then she sits down next to him. She directs the driver to a nearby park where geese and pigeons feed on leftover crumbs from generous octogenarians.
“You don’t believe in God, but you’ll invest your faith in fairy tales. Fascinating,” he murmurs looking at the glass divider, but never her face.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“But you believe in me.”
He turns his head accusingly. She meets his gaze.
“I’ve learned to stop believing in people. I believe in what you do.”
“And you don’t believe in God and His miracles? But you believe in mine?”
“Because yours are tangible. Real.”
“There are different types of miracles?” He ridicules her with a sarcastic inflection of the last word.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. She jerks her head to look out the window. The pop songs play on endlessly; there is no difference between artists and titles, and the melodies are trite variations. House eagerly taps his cane to keep his mind occupied, but she knows these songs must irritate him just as much as they irritate her.
There are the smells, typical eau de taxi, but something else, too. She watches his nostrils flare in an attempt to classify her scent.
“It’s Chance.”
“Chance?”
She briefly wonders if she’ll spend the next hour explaining the logic behind her choice of perfume, but he nods his head gently. She speculates on whether or not he’s avoiding conversation intentionally.
They’re built on crumbling foundations. As the taxi hurtles to its known location, she fears the terminal implications.
She feels close to him. It’s a tight fit in the back of the taxicab and his bad leg remains its own separate body. She’s never been this close to him. Her nose turns on its own volition and inhales the musk of hospital and broken people.
His eyes delve into hers, reading her mind. But he’s always had a fatal flaw regarding human motivation-he’s emotionally blind.
So, she uses it to her advantage and strokes his thigh. This is turning into a game of cat and mouse with no definitive roles. He takes her hand and stops it in mid-stroke.
“Stop.”
She withdraws her hand and her face to glare at the passing trees. Dealing with livid women is the plant’s unerring expertise.
The car whirrs and hums, giving notice that words are not supposed to be spoken because taxis provide as much privacy as public bathroom stalls.
They’ve tried religion and innocent innuendo. This trip starts to become nothing more then a decrescendo.
“Maybe we’re not meant for this,” she whispers to the window, and she knows he can hear because he hears everything.
And now they’re speeding along at their terminal velocity. The two of them are nothing more than unwanted curiosities.
Cameron knows that the driver thinks they’re no different than any other hesitant couple he’s ever ferried. They’re nameless and will vanish into facelessness. The sensation is akin to a conversation via telephone.
The cabby’s asking for more directions and they’re at the end of the physically short, but emotionally long drive. She grapples with her bills before leaving without a glance in at House’s direction-he will survive.