And it keeps on coming
“Wake up, Trix!”
A voice disturbs me from equally disturbing dreams. I look around groggily, and then press my face back into my pillow, a long train of red hair keeping out the daylight.
“C’mon Trix, I made breakfast, like I promised.”
It’s Jack’s voice. I grumble. I thought I had dreamt that too.
“Jesus Jack, what time is it?” I mutter, turning over onto my other side, trying to get away from him.
“It’s about 10am,” He says. No wonder he’s so damn chipper.
“Why on earth are you awake?” I inquire between clenched teeth.
“Plenty of people are awake,” He says, dodging my question, “What, not a morning person Trix?”
I don’t even answer. Instead, I scowl, pressing farther into my pillow. Not a morning person? I don’t even remember what 10am feels like.
“Wake me up at 2 and then I’ll give you an answer.”
“Your eggs’ll be cold by then, c’mon,” he insists, pulling away the covers before I have time to protest, revealing the slinky nightgown I never did get rid of, even if I ditched the man who gave it to me. I reach for my robe, crumpled in a pile beside my bed.
“There better be coffee,” I say as I throw it on, trying to make my hair presentable. Jack grins at me foolishly.
“Look at you Trix, you’re such a fox.”
I shoot him a disgruntled look. Maybe it’s a compliment, or maybe it’s just a reference to my red hair, a vivid shade in this light. My eyes, however, match the gloomy grey outside. Jack’s are baby blue, a match to his personality. We don’t look much alike, but who knows how much blood there truly is between us. Mother was never married, and never kept a man too long, yet here we both are.
I follow him into the living room and slump into a seat at the counter that divides the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. The eggs don’t really interest me, although I suppose I’ll have to eat them to keep Jack happy. At least he had enough sense to brew a pot of coffee.
Before anything, I light up another cigarette and reach for the newspaper. The headlines don’t even catch me eye; I head straight for the obituaries.
And sure enough, there he is, Mr. George Wenton, good man and loving husband, dead at the ripe old age of 62. The guys at the paper sure don’t waste anytime. I wonder if there’s an investigation going on down at the police station, too.
Jack peers over my shoulder as he pours me a cup of coffee.
“Geez Trix, you really aren’t a morning person,” he comments, noting my choice of reading.
“Business, Jack,” is all I comment in return, but he seems to understand. I take a sip of coffee, my eggs looking lonely as they start to run all over my plate. Mr. Wenton was a by the book kind of man it seems, wealthy, successful and dull as dirt. His story further unravels; they agree with Mr. Wiltern that Wenton was a class A kind of guy. Maybe that’s true, or maybe they just need to say something to fill the space. They certainly aren’t shy as they recount the Swiss scandal in colorful detail. They must have sold a lot of papers that week.
My attention is quickly diverted as I feel a familiar feline rubbing up against my leg. Must be my cat Marvin, returning from his usual late night romp. I can’t imagine what he gets himself into, prowling the streets in the dead of night, but he looks as bedraggled as I do, come morning.
I scoop him up like a child, planting a kiss on his furry little forehead, although I wonder where it’s been. Jack grins at the exchange, and I realize my maternal instinct is acting up again. But Marvin and I have a special connection. He doesn’t need my love, he simply appreciates it from time to time, and I’m the very same way. Is that so wrong?
It’s no wonder I can only get so far with the opposite sex. It’s like we’re a different species altogether. But how much of that is what we are and how much of that is what society forces us to be?
I rub my eyes and grumble. It’s only ten thirty. It’s too early to be so damn thoughtful. I’ve got plenty to do, and for once, plenty of time to do it. But somehow, so much daylight is daunting. I suppose I can suffer through it, this once. I just hope no one expects me to smile.
To my surprise, it takes me a long time to find something to wear. Most of my wardrobe is evening and nighttime attire, go figure. I manage to uncover a bright green polka dotted dress buried in the back of my closet. I’m overwhelmed with the memory of the last time I wore it, which was, appropriately enough, the last time I saw this much daylight, and the last time I was with a man to boot. I’m tempted to bury it once more, to try and forget it, like so many other things, but here it is, come back to haunt me. Whose to say that won’t happen again and again?
So, I put on the polka dotted dress. Time to make a new memory.
As I make to leave, I notice Jack doing the dishes. I don’t understand what has turned him into such a gentleman. Maybe his time in jail put things into perspective. But I can’t be certain, just yet. Only time will tell.
He catches me as I’m heading out the door, pulling me into a hug, thoroughly startling me.
“Thanks for letting me stay with you Trix. I promise I won’t disappoint you again.”
He smiles and lets me go. I’ve heard that before, but this time, it sounds like he means it.
“I hope so, Jack,” I reply tiredly. I guess it would be nice to have someone to rely on. It’s a hard concept for me to wrap my mind around, but I know it’s possible. So I’ll give him one last chance. But that’s it.
As I head out, I ponder my agenda for the day. I better go check in with the guys down at the station, before anything else; see what they know. It’s important we’re on the same page.
A voice disturbs me from equally disturbing dreams. I look around groggily, and then press my face back into my pillow, a long train of red hair keeping out the daylight.
“C’mon Trix, I made breakfast, like I promised.”
It’s Jack’s voice. I grumble. I thought I had dreamt that too.
“Jesus Jack, what time is it?” I mutter, turning over onto my other side, trying to get away from him.
“It’s about 10am,” He says. No wonder he’s so damn chipper.
“Why on earth are you awake?” I inquire between clenched teeth.
“Plenty of people are awake,” He says, dodging my question, “What, not a morning person Trix?”
I don’t even answer. Instead, I scowl, pressing farther into my pillow. Not a morning person? I don’t even remember what 10am feels like.
“Wake me up at 2 and then I’ll give you an answer.”
“Your eggs’ll be cold by then, c’mon,” he insists, pulling away the covers before I have time to protest, revealing the slinky nightgown I never did get rid of, even if I ditched the man who gave it to me. I reach for my robe, crumpled in a pile beside my bed.
“There better be coffee,” I say as I throw it on, trying to make my hair presentable. Jack grins at me foolishly.
“Look at you Trix, you’re such a fox.”
I shoot him a disgruntled look. Maybe it’s a compliment, or maybe it’s just a reference to my red hair, a vivid shade in this light. My eyes, however, match the gloomy grey outside. Jack’s are baby blue, a match to his personality. We don’t look much alike, but who knows how much blood there truly is between us. Mother was never married, and never kept a man too long, yet here we both are.
I follow him into the living room and slump into a seat at the counter that divides the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. The eggs don’t really interest me, although I suppose I’ll have to eat them to keep Jack happy. At least he had enough sense to brew a pot of coffee.
Before anything, I light up another cigarette and reach for the newspaper. The headlines don’t even catch me eye; I head straight for the obituaries.
And sure enough, there he is, Mr. George Wenton, good man and loving husband, dead at the ripe old age of 62. The guys at the paper sure don’t waste anytime. I wonder if there’s an investigation going on down at the police station, too.
Jack peers over my shoulder as he pours me a cup of coffee.
“Geez Trix, you really aren’t a morning person,” he comments, noting my choice of reading.
“Business, Jack,” is all I comment in return, but he seems to understand. I take a sip of coffee, my eggs looking lonely as they start to run all over my plate. Mr. Wenton was a by the book kind of man it seems, wealthy, successful and dull as dirt. His story further unravels; they agree with Mr. Wiltern that Wenton was a class A kind of guy. Maybe that’s true, or maybe they just need to say something to fill the space. They certainly aren’t shy as they recount the Swiss scandal in colorful detail. They must have sold a lot of papers that week.
My attention is quickly diverted as I feel a familiar feline rubbing up against my leg. Must be my cat Marvin, returning from his usual late night romp. I can’t imagine what he gets himself into, prowling the streets in the dead of night, but he looks as bedraggled as I do, come morning.
I scoop him up like a child, planting a kiss on his furry little forehead, although I wonder where it’s been. Jack grins at the exchange, and I realize my maternal instinct is acting up again. But Marvin and I have a special connection. He doesn’t need my love, he simply appreciates it from time to time, and I’m the very same way. Is that so wrong?
It’s no wonder I can only get so far with the opposite sex. It’s like we’re a different species altogether. But how much of that is what we are and how much of that is what society forces us to be?
I rub my eyes and grumble. It’s only ten thirty. It’s too early to be so damn thoughtful. I’ve got plenty to do, and for once, plenty of time to do it. But somehow, so much daylight is daunting. I suppose I can suffer through it, this once. I just hope no one expects me to smile.
To my surprise, it takes me a long time to find something to wear. Most of my wardrobe is evening and nighttime attire, go figure. I manage to uncover a bright green polka dotted dress buried in the back of my closet. I’m overwhelmed with the memory of the last time I wore it, which was, appropriately enough, the last time I saw this much daylight, and the last time I was with a man to boot. I’m tempted to bury it once more, to try and forget it, like so many other things, but here it is, come back to haunt me. Whose to say that won’t happen again and again?
So, I put on the polka dotted dress. Time to make a new memory.
As I make to leave, I notice Jack doing the dishes. I don’t understand what has turned him into such a gentleman. Maybe his time in jail put things into perspective. But I can’t be certain, just yet. Only time will tell.
He catches me as I’m heading out the door, pulling me into a hug, thoroughly startling me.
“Thanks for letting me stay with you Trix. I promise I won’t disappoint you again.”
He smiles and lets me go. I’ve heard that before, but this time, it sounds like he means it.
“I hope so, Jack,” I reply tiredly. I guess it would be nice to have someone to rely on. It’s a hard concept for me to wrap my mind around, but I know it’s possible. So I’ll give him one last chance. But that’s it.
As I head out, I ponder my agenda for the day. I better go check in with the guys down at the station, before anything else; see what they know. It’s important we’re on the same page.