5. (skins) i am living underwater - 2/3.
i am living underwater | part two
the middle
Beginnings are usually scary and endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts. You have to remember this when you find yourself at the beginning.
- Sandra Bullock
*
six: 2011
chris is 21
‘Shit’ with Angie starts to sour. Chris counts the ways on his fingers:
one: She has really short showers.
two: They spend less time in bed and more time with their clothes on.
three: Apparently her job is ‘very important’ to her, as according to Angie.
four: They fight like a married couple.
five: Sometimes, he has to sleep on the lounge. Angie’s lounge is as hard as a rock.
six: Chris gets a job. He has more fun at the job, flirting with this tall, leggy redhead named Charlotte.
seven: Chris saves the money he’s earned from his job. He doesn’t spend them on flowers or chocolates or DVDs that are on the list, pinned to her fridge.
eight: When he wakes up in the morning, he makes his side of the bed.
nine: There are no more tumbles in the sheets.
ten: Jal was right. Getting into a relationship with Angie would end with him in a pile of shit.
-
The pile of shit, so to speak, doesn’t blow up until after he’s shown Angie his new flat. And they’ve christened it at least twice. The third time they christen it is with their arguing ... and their impending break-up.
She sort of ends it. But she ends it in a ‘we’re going on hiatus, let me go fuck someone else for a while’ sort of way which leaves Chris’ skin crawling. Chris doesn’t really understand where it comes from at first. But it’s Merve. It has Merve written all over it.
“You know he’s a bit ... funny, right?”
“Chris!” Angie says, her eyes wide. It’s like he’s telling her Santa isn’t necessarily real. He feels like he’s breaking a kid’s spirit. “I told you -”
“Yeah, I know what you told me. And you told me a lot of things. Like how you loved me -”
“Merve came first, Chris. He asked me to marry him.”
“Ages ago.”
She looks like she’s going to smack her foot on the ground. She’s looking at his floor, seeming to retreat into herself. “Still. “
Chris nods, more to himself than to her. “I see,” he says, quietly. “Well, I guess I just mean nothin’, yeah? Jus’ somethin’ to play with while you wait for your little funny guy.”
“Chris,” she draws out his name. She looks at him. He looks away. “It isn’t like that.”
He nods, humming. “Yeah, but it is like that. Isn’t it?”
Angie doesn’t pick up what little she’s left in his apartment.
-
They’re at the bus stop. He’s smoking; Jal gives him her shoulder to cry on, if he needs it.
“You know, I can’t fuckin’ believe her,” he says, exhaling the smoke. “She loves me, yeah, and then, all of a sudden, this funny little thing walks along and she doesn’t anymore.”
“She’s a bitch,” Jal says, swinging her legs slightly. She’s sitting further up the bench chair, curling her legs around it as she waits this out. “You shouldn’t worry about it, Chris.”
“But I love her,” he says.
She pats him on the shoulder. “Dry your eyes princess,” she says. “If you want, we can board a bus today.”
“Really?”
She nods. “It’s on me.”
-
They meet at the bus stop every day. He brings her an umbrella when it rains.
-
It’s his idea to meet up in the early hours of the morning.
Chris is there before her. He’s sitting at the bus stop, watching as a few cars drive by.
She sits beside him. “It’s fuckin’ early,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She tries to stifle a yawn.
Chris nods. “I know,” he says, glancing at her. “Have a nice beauty sleep?”
“Fuck off,” she mumbles, yawning.
“I stand corrected. Did you have a nice nice sleep?”
Jal curls her hand into a fist and punches him in the shoulder. She looks out at the street, mumbling, “Fuck off.”
“You’re awfully weak in the mornings,” Chris says, flicking her ear. “Weak in patience, I mean.” He laughs.
She glares at him. “If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’m going home and sleeping.” Jal makes a move to get off the seat, but Chris catches her wrist, pulling her down.
“I wanted you to sit out here with me. While it’s still quiet.”
He doesn’t let go of her hand.
-
“Y’know, Jal,” he says, approaching her at the bus stop. “We must stop meeting like this.” Chris sits.
Jal rolls her eyes. “You need to watch new movies,” she mumbles.
Chris sighs, feeling the sun start to cook his back. “I’m so glad I wore red today.”
She turns to look at him. “Why?”
“It’s not black. Black absorbs heat, Jal.” He looks at her shirt. It’s an old shirt she bought a few years ago at some concert he can’t remember. The image is fading, having been washed one too many times.
“Sorry, Mr Genius. I left my pure white dress at home.”
Chris shakes his head. He mutters, “Angry-Boots.”
She punches him in the shoulder. He can officially conclude that she is much stronger when she’s more awake.
-
He doesn’t really know how it happens, but he kisses her at the bus stop, early in the morning.
He leans over; she turns, probably having seen him advancing in her peripheral, and gives her a quick peck. When he pulls away, Jal is frowning.
He’s about to say something when she rolls her eyes. “You’re paying for the bus fare.”
“If I had known that was all it took -”
She places her hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Chris. Don’t ruin it.”
*
“Your idea of a date is the bus stop?”
Chris shrugs, pulling out his shirt from his pants. He’s wearing a light blue business shirt with a pale criss-crossed pattern with a pair of his cleanest three-quarter pants. Angie had advised him to buy a couple of shirts for his gig at the real estate to appear more ‘professional’ and ‘in their league’. Chris did so because he liked the cuffs and the sleeves. She hated the colour and the print, but he liked it. “Fuck it. I’m -”
“I’ve heard this one before,” she says, laughing. Chris smiles, happy to see the frown slide off her face. She’s wearing the dress they bought years ago. The v-neck doesn’t dip as low as Michelle would’ve liked, but it ends above the knee, which everyone, including Maxxie, was once appreciative of. Jal likes nice legs when she lets them out of their cage. She likes to pretend the dress is green while he likes to appreciate how the black compliments Jal’s dark hair and draws his eyes to her nice legs. His gaze lingers there for a moment. He thinks he’d like her in any colour, really, but he doesn’t tell her so. Her head is big enough already.
“You look nice,” he says, sitting next to her. He makes sure that his leg is brushing against hers and that the space between them is minimal.
Jal grins. “Well, I had some help pickin’ out this thing.”
He grins. “I always told you black was a nice colour.”
“It’s a shade.”
Chris leans down and picks up the paper bag he’s stashed underneath his legs. He places it on his lap and pulls out a burger. “Thought you’d like some McDonalds,” he says, passing her the burger. “Got you a Big Mac.” He pulls out a cardboard box from the bag.
Jal starts laughing. “A Happy Meal?”
“Well, yeah. I’m hungry and I’m happy.”
Jal smiles. “You’re happy?”
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to smile. “Though, I’d be happier if you bought me a falafel.”
She hits his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.” Chris grins, opening his mouth to speak. She rolls her eyes. “Shut it.”
He opens the box and pulls out his own burger. He takes a bite, saying with his mouth full, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They eat in silence, watching the cars go by. She steals a few of his chips until he gives her the packet, taking a handful out and placing them on his lap. He picks one at a time to eat.
He asks one more time for a falafel. She declines.
They end up back at his apartment. He opens the door for her, bowing and gesturing wildly for her to enter. It’s clean; last time she was here, the clothes were strewn over the lounge and the floor, his bed was unmade and the kitchen had dishes drying in the rack. This evening sees none of this, except for a few garments shoved underneath a pillow on the lounge.
He shuts the door, kicking off his sneakers, and stands beside her. He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “You still owe me a falafel.”
She rolls her eyes and snakes her arms around his neck. He murmurs, “I like your dress.”
“It’s green.”
“Well, then,” he says, wrapping his own arms around her waist. “You still owe me a falafel then.”
“Since when?”
“Since ... you broke the agreement.” Before she can ask ‘what agreement?’, he pulls her a little closer and starts to sway. “You said you wouldn’t say ‘no’. Well, you’re sayin’ ‘no’ right now when I tell you that your black dress is nice.”
Jal rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll get you a falafel if you shut up.”
Chris smiles. “I think I can do one better.” Then, he kisses her. He gives her mouth a few playful pecks before she catches him in an open-mouthed kiss.
Chris starts to lead them towards his bedroom, turning them so he’s backing her into the room. She tugs at his tie, pulling it apart and drops it to the floor. She kicks off her leopard print flats and he stumbles over them, smiling into her mouth.
His hands go up into her hair, running through it and tugging it at the same time. Jal likes the sensation, running her own hands through his short hair, gripping it when he moves his mouth to her neck.
The back of her legs hit the end of the bed. Chris stops moving, his legs standing still as he continues to kiss her neck. Jal’s fingers undo the buttons holding his business shirt together, trying hurriedly to get it off. Chris is too busy moving from her neck to her shoulder. She tries not to get distracted with his hands pressing firmly into her back, gripping the dress at random intervals.
Somehow, Jal finds herself leaning back, with Chris pressing into her front. Jal breaks away from him, moving to kneel on the middle of the bed. Chris follows her, grinning like he’s a cat that’s caught the mouse. When he’s in front of her, he’s kissing the corner of her mouth before running his lips over the skin of her neck. Jal palms his shoulders, her hands sliding down his back and coming back up along the trail of his spine.
Chris’ fingers flutter across the skin of her back to her shoulders where he plays with the strap of her black dress. She pulls his face to hers and opens her mouth under his. He pulls the strap down only to pull it back up again. He finds the side zipper of the dress and pulls it down, his palm then travels back up the exposed skin to move back down again. Jal squirms a little, smiling into his mouth. She feels Chris’ move to form a grin. He murmurs against her mouth, “I forgot you were ticklish.”
Jal frowns, though he comes to press his lips against her forehead. She thinks about saying something before he presses his mouth to hers, his hands pulling down the straps of her dress. His fingers skim over the skin of her arms. He intertwines the fingers of his right hand with hers for a few seconds before pulling away with the strap of her dress. Her dress sits at her waist with his hands bunched in it, trying to somehow get it over her bent legs. She smiles.
His fingers glide over her back, skimming over her strapless black bra. Jal’s fingers hook around the waistband of Chris’ pants, pulling them down to the bend of his knees. Chris pushes her backwards until she’s lying flat on the bed, her head barely reaching the pillows. Chris grins, pulling his pants off and kicking them off the bed. His fingers grip the soft fabric of her dress and she lifts her hips so he can pull it off her body.
Chris kisses her stomach, smiling against her skin. He mumbles, “Y’know, wearin’ black means you were expecting somethin’.” He looks up at her, his hair mussed and pointing in all directions, “I don’t like the insinuation that I’m easy.”
Jal cocks her eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s green.”
Chris grins, moving so his mouth is hovering above hers. “Even better,” he says, before pressing his mouth to hers. She feels his hand on her breast, following the feel of her strapless bra until his hands are trapped behind her back. She lifts herself up, pressing her front against his, and he undoes the clasp of her bra. He tosses it to the side, a comment of being a gentleman crosses her mind but Chris attacks her mouth, his hands gliding across every plane of her body. He finds the ticklish spots of her sides and skims his fingers over them lightly.
She feels him hard against her leg through his Tom & Jerry boxers. Jal’s laughter is muffled by his mouth pressing hard against hers. She feels his smile as he kisses his way across her cheek towards the corner of her eye. He’s leaning across her, trying to not move his body at all if he can help it, to reach inside the drawer beside the bed. His stomach hovers near her as he reaches in to grab one of the many condoms she knows he keeps in there and she presses kisses along his hot skin before he places his face at the crook of her neck.
She thinks she must have said something, or made some sort of noise, because she can feel Chris grinning against her neck and he’s pulling away, taking his warmth with him as he shimmies out of his boxers. He rips the packet in his hands open and slips the condom on. Pressing his lips to her ankle, he travels up her legs, leaving patches of kisses in his wake, until he meets her inner thigh. He lingers there. She can feel a tiny grin on his face.
She nudges him somewhere near his shoulder with her foot. He takes the hint, she thinks, because he’s got his fingers hooked in the waistband of her underwear and is pulling them down. He manages to slip them off her feet and makes his way back up to her mouth, leaving kisses along her skin.
He presses his lips hard against her own, opening underneath her as he takes her leg, where it bends at the knee, in his hand and pulls it up. He’s hard against her thigh. Jal wraps her legs tightly around his waist, feeling his mouth pressing hard against hers. Her hands run through his hair, gripping at it, and she pulls him harder, if possible, against her mouth.
When he enters her, he moves slowly, so frustratingly slow, and she runs her hands through his hair before gripping it. She gives it a little tug before her hands escape to the planes of his back, her blunt nails leaving little red lines across it. He picks up the rhythm, thrusting harder and faster, and she meets him, pushing her hips into his.
She comes before him, wrapping her legs tight around his waist. He murmurs a breathy “Fuck” against her mouth and breaks away, moving his mouth to her neck as he moves inside her. He soon follows, merging “Fuck” and “Jal” with a groan.
Jal loosens her hold on him, feeling him slacken against her slightly. He moves his mouth to her shoulder where it lingers hot and wet over the skin.
She doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Eventually, he moves, coming to lie beside her. She turns onto her side and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He kisses the back of her neck. She never really imagined him to be a cuddler.
.
Jal wakes up two times in the night. The first, she finds a thin sheet wrapped around her and odd coolness at her back. She can see another light in the apartment on, barely touching the walls of his room. It’s the kitchen.
The second time, she can hear his voice murmuring from somewhere in the apartment. It is dark. “Look, just come home,” he says, and for a moment, her heart lurches, thinking of his mother. She sits up in bed, feeling her body start to slowly wake up. “C’mon,” he says, his voice raising as he continues with, “you’re bein’ unreasonable.” She can hear him pacing on the wooden floor. It’s a few minutes before he says “Cass -” and then the click of the phone.
.
Jal disentangles herself from the twisted sheets and Chris’ limbs. She sits on the bed, fiddling with his discarded shirt before slipping it on. She pulls at the end of it, tugging it down as far as it will go, which isn’t far at all. Standing up, she moves around the apartment, feeling the end of the shirt brush against her thighs. His kitchen is clean, minus a bit of spliff on the counter by the sink, as is his lounge-room. It’s so unlike Chris she takes a moment to soak it all in.
She finds the bathroom, opening the door to find another one that connects his room. She refrains from slapping herself on the forehead.
“She’s not here ... anymore,” he says from the doorway. He leans against it awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know where he should be. Jal knows immediately who he’s talking about. Everyone knows about Chris and Angie. What they don’t know is how it all came to a grinding halt.
Jal settles her gaze back onto the shelves inside the mirror. “Fancy bathroom you have here,” she murmurs, closing the little door of the secret mirror shelves. She looks at herself in the little mirror.
Chris sneaks up behind her, snaking his warm arms around her waist. He settles his chin on her shoulder. “You’re cold,” he says, his fingers lightly drawing circles on her stomach.
“Mm,” she hums. “I’m warm-hearted.”
“What are you tryin’ to say, hm?” he says into the skin of her neck. “I’m cold-hearted ‘cause I’m warm?”
She smiles. “If the shoe fits,” she places her hands over his.
“Well, then,” Chris says, moving his hands quickly. He gathers her up, carrying her in the bridal style, back to his room. “We should investigate that.”
He drops her onto the bed, both of them laughing.
*
Chris untangles himself from the sheets and slides into his shorts.
He looks inside the wardrobe. On the bottom floor, beneath fallen jackets and discarded clothes, he finds a line of men’s shoes. Some of the soles are torn to shreds, some are falling apart from the front, sides or back, and some are crisp, like a new book without the indent of bent pages, all new and shiny.
There is movement behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees Jal, in one of his shirts, standing behind him. “What’s this? Got some bloke on the side?” he says, trying to laugh.
Jal almost rolls her eyes. “No,” she says, although her tone doesn’t suggest the answer is a definite end of the discussion. She shrugs, looking over to the window as she mumbles, “Your shoes are the only part of you that stands still.”
Chris looks down at them. He feels Jal’s gaze heating the length of his back. He doesn’t ask about his clothes. Every item of clothing is feminine in the wardrobe. He looks back at her, in one of his business shirts, and sees the inconsistency there. Years ago he’d be wearing t-shirts of rock bands and random sayings he liked the humour of, and now, as Angie once said, he’s grown up.
*
seven: 2012
(2012) chris is 22, jal is 22
Jal barely forms a fist to knock against his apartment door when Chris opens it wide. He’s smiling like he’s the cat that’s caught the mouse.
“Look,” he says, holding a ticket. Jal tries to read the printed words but he’s moving it too quickly out of her sight. He grabs her hand and tugs her inside his apartment. She takes off her jacket as Chris skips to the television. He turns the volume up.
“What are you doing, Chris?” Jal says, frowning. She approaches him slowly, making her way to sit down on the lounge. Her feet ache from her day of walking.
“Giving us a life.”
“By watching television?” she says, looking at him over her shoulder.
Chris frowns. “No,” he holds the ticket in her face again. “I’m makin’ us some money, babe.”
She rolls her eyes. “No one we know ever wins these things,” she mutters.
The lotto draw beings. Chris murmurs, “Thank you, Jodie. Ever so lovely seeing you again,” and grins at the television. Jal refrains from laughing. “Thirty-three,” Chris says, bouncing on his heels. The woman hosting the show, she’s guessing her name is Jodie, looks at the ball and repeats, “Thirty-three.”
“Twenty-seven,” Chris winks at her, still bouncing on his heels.
Jal turns her attention to the television. Jodie grins widely, repeating Chris, “Twenty-seven.”
Jal looks at Chris. “Chris -”
“Shh,” he says, “forty-eight is coming up.”
“Forty-eight,” Jodie murmurs in the background.
Jal looks down at the ticket, hearing Chris murmur the numbers “Thirty-two”, “seventeen” and “twelve” just before Jodie announces them in her dull voice. “No,” she says, her eyes wide. “No, Chris. No.” She pushes the ticket back at him, trying to press it firmly into his hands, but he’s having none of it. He laughs, moving away from her attempts. “Chris --”
“Jal,” he says through his laughter. “Let me spoil you for once, yeah?”
She whispers it, as though his neighbours can hear them. “This is cheating, Chris.”
He shrugs. “What’s the sodding point in havin’ this genetic thing if I can’t use it.”
“I - I don’t know. Why - why can’t you use it for ... for good?”
Chris laughs. “Yeah, I’m like the motherpuckin’ Spiderman.” He sits down next to her, invading her space. He presses his legs against hers, taking her hands in his. “Jal,” he says. “Nobody knows. Nobody needs to know. All we have to say is we had good luck.”
“Chris ...”
“Let me do this for you,” he says, placing the ticket in her hands. He curls her fingers around it. “This is your good luck.”
Jal looks down at their joined hands, the ticket scrunching at the corners from the sheer force of his grip.
She acknowledges it three days later, identifying herself at the newsagency.
-
On the first day, God created a small one-storey house. Inside, it had nice wooden floors, a large kitchen, and a big chimney. Chris found the garage distasteful.
On the second day, God created a nice brick house, situated on a large block of land. It was camouflaged by thick oak trees; a small, brick letterbox signalled a house was hidden somewhere between the leaves. The ceilings were high, the closets large, and a large tub with jets situated in a pure white tiled bathroom. Chris found the lack of an island in the kitchen to be distasteful.
On the third day, God created a two-story house, located on a main road, outlined with a delicate, picket white fence. They didn’t manage to pass the gate when Chris found the fence distasteful.
On the fourth day, God created a high, brick fence. It reminded Chris of royalty. Behind the high, brick fence was a large house with two-storeys. The chimney was large, the ceilings high, the kitchen with a nice, big island, and shiny wooden floorboards. It had a large bedroom, with a big closet that had enough floor space for Jal’s shoe collection, and a big study with a large window. Outside was a willowy tree with frangipanis growing on it. Chris found the large garden, with the barbeque and potential for a pool, to be very, very good.
*
eight: 2013
(2001) chris is 23, chris is 12
Chris materialises at the graveyard. Instinctively, he walks to Peter’s grave. He doesn’t know how long he sits there until he appears.
He remembers his fear, and how disoriented he felt. He remembers the guilt weighing down heavily on his small, weak shoulders. He remembers the few seconds he spent in this graveyard, feeling alone and scared.
Chris watches on helplessly as he disappears.
He stands by Peter’s grave. “You watch out for him, you here?” Placing his hand on the gravestone, Chris vanishes.
*
nine: 2014
jal is 24, michelle is 24
Michelle’s birthday party is a “fun and sophisticated event”, just as the invitation had said in cursive font. There was no food on the walls and no sleeping half naked on the lounges. Everyone acted decently ... that was, until the strip poker was introduced.
After the party, Jal follows Michelle into her kitchen. She has a few empty glasses in one hand, a half-drunken bottle of wine in the other.
“I’m old,” Michelle laughs, putting the plates beside the sink. “I can’t believe this day has come.”
“What, your birthday?” Chris walks in, placing another few plates next to Michelle’s pile. He’s got his eyebrow raised. He exits the room before finding out an answer.
“Ignore him,” Jal says, opening the wine. She grabs two glasses from the cupboard and pours the wine in them. She hands a glass to Michelle. “It’s your birthday, ‘Chelle.” She takes a sip of her wine. “And no cake was thrown. I think that that’s a pretty good sign.”
“I know,” Michelle says, taking a long sip. She almost drains the glass. “I just miss being young.”
Jal frowns. “You are young.”
Michelle waves her hand. “You get what I mean.” Jal takes a sip of her wine. “It wasn’t the same. Cassie wasn’t here.”
Jal shrugs. “Her prerogative.”
“I know,” Michelle says. “I know she’s busy in Scotland and getting her shit sorted out.” She takes a sip of her wine, emptying her glass. Michelle points her finger in Jal’s direction, her voice raising as she says, “She better get her shit sorted out,” she says, placing her empty glass on the counter. She grabs the bottle and fills the glass to the brim. “If she hurts my Sid again -”
“All hell will break loose. We know, ‘Chelle. None of us are standing for it, either.”
Michelle takes a long sip. “I know. I just - I miss it, sometimes. The ridiculousness of our lives.”
Jal frowns. “I don’t follow. You have Tony, ‘Chelle. You’ve always wanted Tony.”
“I know,” she says, almost wistfully. “But now, there’s so much more that I want.” She takes a sip. She looks down at her counter, running her fingers along the wood. “I guess, with getting older, you start wanting new things.”
Jal waits for Michelle to continue. She takes a sip of her wine, draining the glass. She figures some things never change, like how Michelle needs someone to encourage her that they are, in fact, listening and do, in fact, care, contrary to what they’re really feeling. Jal clears her throat. “What kind of things?”
Michelle shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t know,” she says, twisting away from her. Jal wonders if she’s embarrassed at all. She doesn’t think so. Michelle leans into her, whispering, “I’ve been thinking about kids.”
Jal doesn’t see how this is such a secret. “Oh,” she says. She wonders if there is something wrong with her, when she hasn’t thought about having kids herself. She knows Sid’s new bird, the one he’s been dating for over a year, wants some little Sidneys with beanies and glasses running around. “Have you told Tony?”
“I’m planning on it. I just need to see if he’s there.”
“There,” Jal repeats.
Michelle nods. “In the same place.” She looks at Jal expectantly with her eyebrows slightly raised. “You know,” she laughs, it sounds fake to Jal, “the same place. Like ... moving in.”
Jal nods. “Sure,” she says, though she frowns. “Chris and I are in the same place,” she says. She doesn’t really know where the hell she and Chris are. All she does know is that he is with her, right now, and that’s all she wants.
*
(2014) chris is 24, jal is 24
“Did you ever ...” she leaves it there, letting it descend to the twirls of sheets.
Chris shuffles, pushing the sheets up his back. “Did I ever what?”
Jal bites her lip. Chris sits up in the bed, resting his back against the headboard and his soft pillow. He frowns as he watches her hesitate. His foot begins to fall asleep. “Did you ever try to save Tony?” she asks in a quiet voice. She looks at him from the corner of her eye.
Chris looks down at the sheets, tugging at random spots. He moves, his foot prickling with pins and needles. He places it against Jal’s calf, pressing it hard. Slowly, the pins and needles recede. “Yes,” he says, before coughing into his closed fist. “I did. Once. I was ... too late.”
Jal nods, pushing her leg into his. The pins and needles recede into a faint hum. “You don’t go back to that moment.”
“No,” Chris says, shaking his head. “I try to. I want to -”
Jal moves her foot to rest under his. Her toes are cold when they press against his ankle. “It just doesn’t work that way.”
The pins and needles are gone. Chris reaches for the remote on the side drawer. He hits a button a few times, the television not sparking to life. Jal takes the remote off of him, pressing a button once before the television hums, the sound incredibly loud. She lowers the volume as he pouts, saying, “Nothin’ ever works the way I want it to.”
Jal smiles, placing the remote in his lap, and leans down to press her cheek against his arm. “You’re hopeless,” she murmurs before placing a kiss on his shoulder.
Chris shrugs his other shoulder.
*
ten: 2015
(2015) jal is 25, tony is 26
This was all Chris’ idea.
Five days ago, he wanted a party, and here it is. Jal doesn’t like hosting parties. She doesn’t like the mess that comes with her friends. Or used to. They haven’t hung out like this in a few years. Meeting up at the cinemas and little cafes and accidental bump-ins at the grocery store don’t count. Not everyone has been present for those meet-ups.
But Chris has been gone and she knows he needs to find some ground. Without it, he’s dizzy and disoriented and, even though she shouldn’t think this, she hates that she has to deal with it and be responsible for grounding him. She feels dizzy and disoriented every time he comes home after days of being gone. Jal’s become so used to living by herself that she has to readjust living with another person. She feels like she’s twenty-one again.
They sit outside. Apparently, this is what “sophisticated adults do”, as according to Michelle. Her backyard hasn’t seen this much activity since they moved in.
“Tony and I are trying for a baby,” Michelle smiles, trying to contain her excitement. “I hope to avoid having a summer baby, but -”
Jal’s feet itch to move. She excuses herself from the outside table, taking three empty glasses inside and to the kitchen. She finds Tony in the kitchen. “What are you doing in here?” she says, her hands on her hips. She smiles as Tony jumps.
Tony laughs. “I needed a breather.”
“We do have a backyard for that,” she moves towards him, placing a glass in the sink and washing it out. “If this is your idea of a breather, then you’ve been cooped up too long.”
Tony rests his lower back on the kitchen island. He shrugs, though she misses it. “I didn’t want to be rude and stand off to the side, admiring your orchids.”
Jal shakes her head. She places the glass in the drying rack and turns around. “Tony,” she says, still smiling. “You can admire my orchids. I didn’t grow them for nothing.”
Tony inhales loudly, nodding.
Jal looks down at her feet. “Michelle’s talking about your adventure in baby land.”
Tony groans, rolling his eyes. “I wanted to keep it quiet, but you know ‘Chelle.”
“So you are trying?”
He nods. “We’ve finally got our shit together. I love ‘Chelle,” he says, shrugging. Tony doesn’t make eye contact with her, his cheeks a faint pink.
Jal smiles. Before she can open her mouth to say anything, Tony says, “Did you know he used to visit me? After my accident?”
Jal crosses her arms over her chest. She looks at him, her eyebrow kinked slightly.
“He did. Your Chris,” he says, to clarify. Jal’s frown deepens. He knows she’s trying to place it. It has become a custom for them to place the Chris’ in their lives. “At the pool,” he says, with a shrug, “When no one else came.”
“Oh.”
“He was crazy about you. Your Chris. And old Chris, who was quite young. It was written all over his face.” He looks at her. “You’re not following, are you?”
She gives him a laugh, although it is hollow. “No, not at all.”
Tony shrugs. “Well,” he says, moving towards her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “at least I had a go. In my opinion, you’re all hopeless until you get hit by a bus.”
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony 18
Tony finds Chris outside by the other pool. His black pant legs are pulled up as high as they can go, which is somewhere pathetically below his knee. Tony sits beside him, placing his bare legs into the pool. He tries to flatten out his shorts underneath him to protect the back of his thighs from the hot pavement.
“I always thought you were scared of pools,” Tony says.
“Yeah, man.” Chris says, swinging his legs. Water touches the edge of his folded pants. “Although -“ he stops. “I don’t know, it’s just - by having this thing, I’ve discovered some things about myself.”
Tony pauses, putting his hand in the pool. “Like what?”
“Peter taught me how to conquer my fear.” He looks up at Tony, before placing his finger in the water and turning his attention to his side, away from him. He starts writing things on the drive pavement with the water, like he used to when he was younger. No one had a pool, but they’d always find a bucket to fill up and throw water on each other. “He taught me how to swim when I was, like, five. I never really remembered it.”
Tony licks his dry lips. “You learn something new every day,” he says, kicking his legs and splashing Chris.
-
(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25
Jal walks into the kitchen. She stops. “You’re back,” she says, although it doesn’t generate the reaction he was hoping for.
“Yeah,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better. Jal continues to stand outside the doorway, looking at him.
“Did you visit him?” she asks.
Chris blinks. “Visit who?”
“Tony,” she says, voice thick. He opens his mouth to speak but she continues. “When they came over for the party, he said some things about you,” she nods to him, as if indicating him, this Chris, not his past self, “visited him at the pool during his physical therapy.”
“When he was learning to swim,” Chris says to himself. His arm goes around the back of his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just ... ended up there.”
“How long have you been going?”
“Not long,” he says. He’s only gone twice so far, although it’s only March.
Jal sits down next to him. “Do you ...”
“Do I what?”
“Do you ever try to change ... what happened?” He thinks back to how last year he went back to Angie. “To Tony,” she says, as an afterthought.
“Of course I puckin’ do,” he says. “It weighs on me every day, having this thing. What use am i if i can’t change that one thing?”
“Maybe it’s fate?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just sheer bad luck.” He exits the kitchen with sagged shoulders.
*
(2019); chris is 25
Chris materialises in a room he barely recognises anymore. It's his old house. The walls are the familiar pale of unkemptness. Graffiti pants the walls. He reads a few of the obscenities before his feet follow a familiar pattern and move to his room. His pills packets no longer stick to the wall. Chris fumbles through a broken dresser to find some clothes that pull tight across his middle and the pants end just before his ankle. He feels uncomfortable; out of his realm. There isn’t a mirror in the room but he knows he looks more ridiculous than his usual brightly coloured contrasting clothes and short three-quarter pants. He hopes this visit ends soon.
He walks out of the room and down the flight of groaning stairs. He doesn't check to see if anyone is home. Is this a home? Was it ever a home? He shuts the door silently, as though to not awaken the world to his presence; to not let it know that he’s here, and he doesn’t belong.
His feet follow a familiar path to the park. The walk is quicker than he remembers, although, he must admit, he hasn’t been to the park since he was twelve. He sees a newspaper in the bin pushed haphazardly into it and grabs it, folding it over and over as he walks quickly to a bench. He sits, looking around quickly at people who barely notice his presence, his silly ankles exposed. He folds the newspaper open.
He hums. "2019. Pucking fantastic.” He opens it up to see a headline blasting some politician he can’t recall from home. “I hate March." He shakes his head and skims over the recent events, flicking through the newspaper and creasing it.
The newspaper has fed him all the information he needs, which isn’t much. He knows the date, the prime minister, and that there is nothing about Jal and her music career he had predicted happening years ago. He scrunches up the newspaper the best he can and places it on the ground near his feet. A girl playing on the play set catches his attention. She’s small, with tanned skin, and her mother is standing on the opposite side of the park, her face a blur because of the distance. He can hear the girl’s laughter and calls out to her mother.
Chris doesn’t know how long he sits there, feeling content and a pang of something he won’t be able to identify for a long time, before he vanishes.
*
(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18
Tony is adamant about moving their meeting place to somewhere more desirable. Chris protests, of course. They’re walking outside the pool, on the path. Tony wants ice-cream. Chris wants to hide.
“What do we do in the future?” Tony asks, running a hand through his slow drying hair. On the path, he makes sure Chris is walking on the side closest to the road. Chris doesn’t know if this is intentional, but he’s happy to oblige. It’s the least he could do. “You and I. Do we golf? Do we smoke cigars?”
“Nah, mate. None of that fancy shit.” He taps his fingers against a pole as they come to the end of the path. He watches the cars as they pass, waiting for an opening to cross. “We play cards.”
They cross the road. Tony’s pace is a little quicker than Chris’. He tries to keep up with him without trying to make it obvious. He’s not sure if it works. Tony is frowning with a smile, trying to picture them playing an assortment of card games. Chris laughs at his expression. “Cards? As in ‘Go Fish’ and that one where you smack your hand on the table?”
“Yeah. I kick your ass in every game we play.”
“So ...” Tony says, watching his feet and stepping over the big cracks in the pavement. “We’re good friends, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Chris says, stepping on a crack, “plenty good.”
*
(2015) jal is 25, michelle is 25
“Tony and I have just been very busy,” Michelle says, sipping her milkshake. “He knows how much I want a baby. It’s just ...”
“Timing,” Jal says, picking at her donut.
Michelle nods. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t even have the problem -” Michelle’s voice stops abruptly like she’s hit an audio wall. She looks down, her face flushing. “I’m sorry.”
Jal waves her hand. “What? No. Don’t be. I chose to get into this, damn the repercussions of my decision.” She rubs her hands together, trying to get rid of the cinnamon clinging to her skin. “I love Chris,” she says, quietly. Jal looks down at her plate, with her picked-at donut. “I would rather have Chris than not have him at all.”
Michelle nods, leaning forward on the table. Her voice is quiet when she says, “Do you want ... kids?”
Jal shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, avoiding Michelle’s eyes. She doesn’t want to look at her and her soft expression. “I don’t want to be like my mother.”
“You won’t be. You’re nothing like her,” Michelle says quickly. She grabs Jal’s hand and places it between both of hers. Michelle’s hands are warm. “You’ve stuck with Chris during all of this. You haven’t left. You’re not her.”
Jal places her other hand in her lap. “Give it time -”
“That’s all we have,” Michelle says, pressing her hands tighter around Jal’s. “You’re giving Chris - and yourself - time. That’s more than what your mother has ever done for you.” Jal avoids Michelle’s gaze. “Now, eat your donut. We’re going shoe shopping.”
Jal rolls her eyes.
*
(2019); chris is 25
He walks over to the park. A little girl is sitting on his regular bench. She looks faintly familiar. But he changes his route, anyway. The one thing he carries with him during his travels is Jal’s advice to stay away from strangers and anyone who has seen you more than once. Although he doubts this girl has ever seen him. But this is shot to hell when she says, “Checker pants.”
He slowly approaches her. He stops with a good distance between the bench and himself. A leaf from the tree he stands under hits him on the shoulder. “Hi, there,” he says.
She’s grinning so big. “Hi,” she says, almost shyly.
“Er, how are you?” Chris says, placing his hands in his back pockets.
“Good,” she says.
“Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she says. She swings her legs slightly. “Are you having a nice walk?”
Chris blinks. “Sure. Are you having fun ... sitting?”
She nods, humming an affirmative. Conversation seems to disperse itself after that.
*
(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25
“Hey,” Chris says, closing the back door behind him. Jal’s sitting at the outside table, a paperback novel in her hands. He gestures to the door when he says, “Where’s my clock?”
Jal pauses, frowning. “What?”
“My clock,” he says. “The cat one. You know? The Chinese cat with the bags and the kids toys made of it? I say hello to it every morning. It was here yesterday ...”
“Oh,” Jal says, closing her book. “It’s in a box in the garage.”
“What’s it doin’ in there?”
Jal frowns. “I put it in there.” She pauses. Chris waits. “You’ve been gone a lot this year.”
“I know. I can’t help it -”
“I know. I’m just ... I’m just tired of sitting here, staring at the clock. Sometimes you’re gone for a good two weeks and here I am, sitting and staring at that hideous clock.”
Chris moves to sit next to her. “Hey. Jalander,” he says, trying to make her laugh. Her mouth doesn’t budge from its firm straight line. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to spend weeks waiting for me -”
“I don’t like spending weeks waiting for you. When you are gone, it’s like time stands still. I wait for you and wait for you and when I finally have you, you’re gone again. I just cannot do this sometimes.”
Chris seems to sober up. He pulls back from her slightly, frowning. “What are you saying? You don’t want to do this anymore?”
“No!” Jal turns to look at him. “I just want more things of my life. I can’t live my life while I wait for you. And I can’t live my life without you.” She looks down at the table, picking at the edge of her paperback. She says, quietly, “I haven’t pursued music. Not once.”
Chris finally gains his voice. “Jal -”
“I’m going inside for an ice-cream. Do you want one?” She pushes herself up from the table, the chair scraping against the cement.
Chris looks up at her. “No, thanks.”
Jal nods, sliding the backdoor and moving inside. It slams shut. Chris picks at her paperback novel with the sun baking his back.
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18
Chris is sitting at the regular table with his back to him, reading a newspaper.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Tony laughs. Chris turns around and smiles as Tony approaches. “You’re still looking old for wear.”
“Thanks mate, you don’t look too bad yourself,” Chris says as Tony sits down. He doesn’t. He looks more vibrant and alive - like the Tony he knows.
“So, what’s on the agenda today? Tuna sandwich?”
Chris shakes his head. “Travelling on a full stomach always ends up with me and my head in a toilet bowl. It’s not a pretty sight - not when I have plans with my lady friend,” he grins.
Tony grins. “Anyone I know?”
“Gentlemen never kiss and tell.”
“Well, Chris, you’re no gentleman.”
“People change.”
*
(2019) chris is 25
“Where are you coming from?”
Chris blinks. “Pardon?”
“What year are you coming from? Mum says from the past but the last time I met you here you were from the future. I think you got your dates a bit muddled.”
Chris continues to blink. “Er, I think you’re ... mistaken. Hugely, mistaken. See, I’ve got no clue -”
“You said you were a chicken without a head when you were younger,” she laughs. Chris frowns. He’s only met this girl a few times, and during those times, he’s steered clear from anything about himself. He curses one of his past or future selves; he’s not sure which one, who has divulged this information. He wonders, briefly, when he became so sloppy.
“I ... don’t think you understand what that means entirely,” he says. “I have my head and it’s screwed on ... tightly.”
She laughs.
“I’m fu - I’m very serious, missy. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She’s still laughing, though the air around them sobers. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Mummy gets very upset.” She frowns at the expression on his face, which he feels tingling. The tingling spreads across his body, taking hold of all his limbs. “You’re going,” the girl says, her voice sad.
This is the first time he disappears in broad daylight.
-
(2015) chris is 25 and jal is 25
When he comes back, Jal is in the kitchen. He can smell fresh chicken from the hallway.
“Hey,” he says, moving past the doorframe on unsteady legs. He stops to gain his bearings. His gaze is directed to what she’s ripping on the table. “We havin’ chicken tonight?” A warm chicken sits on a chopping board already missing a wing.
“Yeah,” Jal says without looking up. She grabs the knife sitting by the board, the blade already glistening with bits of chicken, and cuts into it. “Where did you go?”
Chris swallows, his hand immediately meeting the back of his neck. He palms it, feeling the heat of his palm against the chilled skin of his neck. He almost hisses. “Er,” he says, and then stops.
Jal looks up. He hasn’t seen her at all today. She looks tired. “What’s the problem?”
Chris laughs. “Well,” he says his hand dropping to his sides as he approaches. “We definitely do end up together in the end.”
She cocks her eyebrow.
“I met ...” his hip meets the edge of the counter. “I met ...” he tries again. Jal stops ripping the chicken, her hands pasted with wetness which seem to glow under the kitchen lights. “What do you say about us having kids?”
Jal blinks. “What?” She goes to cross her arms over her chest but thinks better, looking at her greasy hands and leans for the washing up cloth. “What are you saying?”
Chris shrugs and grabs a piece of chicken. He says around the chicken with his eyes downcast, “I’m saying that ... I met ... our kid today.” He feels as though the air is escaping from his chest, his pulse quickening in his throat. He places his hand on the back of his neck and lets his palm slide down his shoulder, trying to calm the storm brewing within him.
Jal’s eyebrow is cocked. He watches her face as she is still for a few seconds until she continues to wipe her hands, toss the cloth to the side and remains silent. Her face doesn’t move an inch. Chris’ eyebrows are pinched until he sees her mouth twitch; her fingers lose their grip on the stilled knife for only a moment. “Kid, Chris?” She resumes tearing at the chicken.
“Yeah,” he says, hand reaching for another piece of chicken. She slaps the back of his hand. “Ow, Jal.” He licks his lip. “We have a -”
“No,” she says, waving her hand to stop him. She glances at him, but speaks with her gaze directed to the chicken pieces. “I don’t want to know.”
Chris’ first instinct is to ask ‘Why not?’ but he bites his tongue. He watches Jal as she finishes ripping the chicken, wiping her hands on the cloth and carrying the chopping board to the bin. Jal doesn’t meet his eyes. She seems tired, all of a sudden. “Alright,” he says, although it is perhaps a little too late.
She picks up a piece of the chicken she’s torn from the carcass and hands it to him. It looks like a peace offering. “Would you be able to set the table?” she says, and he nods as he eats the piece of chicken.
“Sure,” he says, opening drawers to gather the cutlery.
They move to the table. Jal pulls at the tablecloth, straightening it out. Chris starts picking at his chicken.
“So,” Jal says, cutting into her potatoes. “What did our ... kid say?”
Chris tries to swallow his chicken whole. He’s about to say ‘she’ but withholds. “Er, good things.” He nods, swallowing. He takes his glass and almost empties it. “Says you’re a good Mum,” he smiles at this. Jal looks down, her mouth a line. “Says that ... I don’t travel anymore.”
Jal looks up, setting her knife and fork down. Her eyebrows are drawn together. “What do you mean?”
Chris shrugs. “I ... don’t travel anymore - from the future to that future ... that present.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Jal says. She’s fighting tears.
“Maybe that I’m not in that future, Jal.”
part three
masterpost | i | ii | iii
the middle
Beginnings are usually scary and endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts. You have to remember this when you find yourself at the beginning.
- Sandra Bullock
*
six: 2011
chris is 21
‘Shit’ with Angie starts to sour. Chris counts the ways on his fingers:
one: She has really short showers.
two: They spend less time in bed and more time with their clothes on.
three: Apparently her job is ‘very important’ to her, as according to Angie.
four: They fight like a married couple.
five: Sometimes, he has to sleep on the lounge. Angie’s lounge is as hard as a rock.
six: Chris gets a job. He has more fun at the job, flirting with this tall, leggy redhead named Charlotte.
seven: Chris saves the money he’s earned from his job. He doesn’t spend them on flowers or chocolates or DVDs that are on the list, pinned to her fridge.
eight: When he wakes up in the morning, he makes his side of the bed.
nine: There are no more tumbles in the sheets.
ten: Jal was right. Getting into a relationship with Angie would end with him in a pile of shit.
-
The pile of shit, so to speak, doesn’t blow up until after he’s shown Angie his new flat. And they’ve christened it at least twice. The third time they christen it is with their arguing ... and their impending break-up.
She sort of ends it. But she ends it in a ‘we’re going on hiatus, let me go fuck someone else for a while’ sort of way which leaves Chris’ skin crawling. Chris doesn’t really understand where it comes from at first. But it’s Merve. It has Merve written all over it.
“You know he’s a bit ... funny, right?”
“Chris!” Angie says, her eyes wide. It’s like he’s telling her Santa isn’t necessarily real. He feels like he’s breaking a kid’s spirit. “I told you -”
“Yeah, I know what you told me. And you told me a lot of things. Like how you loved me -”
“Merve came first, Chris. He asked me to marry him.”
“Ages ago.”
She looks like she’s going to smack her foot on the ground. She’s looking at his floor, seeming to retreat into herself. “Still. “
Chris nods, more to himself than to her. “I see,” he says, quietly. “Well, I guess I just mean nothin’, yeah? Jus’ somethin’ to play with while you wait for your little funny guy.”
“Chris,” she draws out his name. She looks at him. He looks away. “It isn’t like that.”
He nods, humming. “Yeah, but it is like that. Isn’t it?”
Angie doesn’t pick up what little she’s left in his apartment.
-
They’re at the bus stop. He’s smoking; Jal gives him her shoulder to cry on, if he needs it.
“You know, I can’t fuckin’ believe her,” he says, exhaling the smoke. “She loves me, yeah, and then, all of a sudden, this funny little thing walks along and she doesn’t anymore.”
“She’s a bitch,” Jal says, swinging her legs slightly. She’s sitting further up the bench chair, curling her legs around it as she waits this out. “You shouldn’t worry about it, Chris.”
“But I love her,” he says.
She pats him on the shoulder. “Dry your eyes princess,” she says. “If you want, we can board a bus today.”
“Really?”
She nods. “It’s on me.”
-
They meet at the bus stop every day. He brings her an umbrella when it rains.
-
It’s his idea to meet up in the early hours of the morning.
Chris is there before her. He’s sitting at the bus stop, watching as a few cars drive by.
She sits beside him. “It’s fuckin’ early,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She tries to stifle a yawn.
Chris nods. “I know,” he says, glancing at her. “Have a nice beauty sleep?”
“Fuck off,” she mumbles, yawning.
“I stand corrected. Did you have a nice nice sleep?”
Jal curls her hand into a fist and punches him in the shoulder. She looks out at the street, mumbling, “Fuck off.”
“You’re awfully weak in the mornings,” Chris says, flicking her ear. “Weak in patience, I mean.” He laughs.
She glares at him. “If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’m going home and sleeping.” Jal makes a move to get off the seat, but Chris catches her wrist, pulling her down.
“I wanted you to sit out here with me. While it’s still quiet.”
He doesn’t let go of her hand.
-
“Y’know, Jal,” he says, approaching her at the bus stop. “We must stop meeting like this.” Chris sits.
Jal rolls her eyes. “You need to watch new movies,” she mumbles.
Chris sighs, feeling the sun start to cook his back. “I’m so glad I wore red today.”
She turns to look at him. “Why?”
“It’s not black. Black absorbs heat, Jal.” He looks at her shirt. It’s an old shirt she bought a few years ago at some concert he can’t remember. The image is fading, having been washed one too many times.
“Sorry, Mr Genius. I left my pure white dress at home.”
Chris shakes his head. He mutters, “Angry-Boots.”
She punches him in the shoulder. He can officially conclude that she is much stronger when she’s more awake.
-
He doesn’t really know how it happens, but he kisses her at the bus stop, early in the morning.
He leans over; she turns, probably having seen him advancing in her peripheral, and gives her a quick peck. When he pulls away, Jal is frowning.
He’s about to say something when she rolls her eyes. “You’re paying for the bus fare.”
“If I had known that was all it took -”
She places her hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Chris. Don’t ruin it.”
*
“Your idea of a date is the bus stop?”
Chris shrugs, pulling out his shirt from his pants. He’s wearing a light blue business shirt with a pale criss-crossed pattern with a pair of his cleanest three-quarter pants. Angie had advised him to buy a couple of shirts for his gig at the real estate to appear more ‘professional’ and ‘in their league’. Chris did so because he liked the cuffs and the sleeves. She hated the colour and the print, but he liked it. “Fuck it. I’m -”
“I’ve heard this one before,” she says, laughing. Chris smiles, happy to see the frown slide off her face. She’s wearing the dress they bought years ago. The v-neck doesn’t dip as low as Michelle would’ve liked, but it ends above the knee, which everyone, including Maxxie, was once appreciative of. Jal likes nice legs when she lets them out of their cage. She likes to pretend the dress is green while he likes to appreciate how the black compliments Jal’s dark hair and draws his eyes to her nice legs. His gaze lingers there for a moment. He thinks he’d like her in any colour, really, but he doesn’t tell her so. Her head is big enough already.
“You look nice,” he says, sitting next to her. He makes sure that his leg is brushing against hers and that the space between them is minimal.
Jal grins. “Well, I had some help pickin’ out this thing.”
He grins. “I always told you black was a nice colour.”
“It’s a shade.”
Chris leans down and picks up the paper bag he’s stashed underneath his legs. He places it on his lap and pulls out a burger. “Thought you’d like some McDonalds,” he says, passing her the burger. “Got you a Big Mac.” He pulls out a cardboard box from the bag.
Jal starts laughing. “A Happy Meal?”
“Well, yeah. I’m hungry and I’m happy.”
Jal smiles. “You’re happy?”
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to smile. “Though, I’d be happier if you bought me a falafel.”
She hits his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.” Chris grins, opening his mouth to speak. She rolls her eyes. “Shut it.”
He opens the box and pulls out his own burger. He takes a bite, saying with his mouth full, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They eat in silence, watching the cars go by. She steals a few of his chips until he gives her the packet, taking a handful out and placing them on his lap. He picks one at a time to eat.
He asks one more time for a falafel. She declines.
They end up back at his apartment. He opens the door for her, bowing and gesturing wildly for her to enter. It’s clean; last time she was here, the clothes were strewn over the lounge and the floor, his bed was unmade and the kitchen had dishes drying in the rack. This evening sees none of this, except for a few garments shoved underneath a pillow on the lounge.
He shuts the door, kicking off his sneakers, and stands beside her. He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “You still owe me a falafel.”
She rolls her eyes and snakes her arms around his neck. He murmurs, “I like your dress.”
“It’s green.”
“Well, then,” he says, wrapping his own arms around her waist. “You still owe me a falafel then.”
“Since when?”
“Since ... you broke the agreement.” Before she can ask ‘what agreement?’, he pulls her a little closer and starts to sway. “You said you wouldn’t say ‘no’. Well, you’re sayin’ ‘no’ right now when I tell you that your black dress is nice.”
Jal rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll get you a falafel if you shut up.”
Chris smiles. “I think I can do one better.” Then, he kisses her. He gives her mouth a few playful pecks before she catches him in an open-mouthed kiss.
Chris starts to lead them towards his bedroom, turning them so he’s backing her into the room. She tugs at his tie, pulling it apart and drops it to the floor. She kicks off her leopard print flats and he stumbles over them, smiling into her mouth.
His hands go up into her hair, running through it and tugging it at the same time. Jal likes the sensation, running her own hands through his short hair, gripping it when he moves his mouth to her neck.
The back of her legs hit the end of the bed. Chris stops moving, his legs standing still as he continues to kiss her neck. Jal’s fingers undo the buttons holding his business shirt together, trying hurriedly to get it off. Chris is too busy moving from her neck to her shoulder. She tries not to get distracted with his hands pressing firmly into her back, gripping the dress at random intervals.
Somehow, Jal finds herself leaning back, with Chris pressing into her front. Jal breaks away from him, moving to kneel on the middle of the bed. Chris follows her, grinning like he’s a cat that’s caught the mouse. When he’s in front of her, he’s kissing the corner of her mouth before running his lips over the skin of her neck. Jal palms his shoulders, her hands sliding down his back and coming back up along the trail of his spine.
Chris’ fingers flutter across the skin of her back to her shoulders where he plays with the strap of her black dress. She pulls his face to hers and opens her mouth under his. He pulls the strap down only to pull it back up again. He finds the side zipper of the dress and pulls it down, his palm then travels back up the exposed skin to move back down again. Jal squirms a little, smiling into his mouth. She feels Chris’ move to form a grin. He murmurs against her mouth, “I forgot you were ticklish.”
Jal frowns, though he comes to press his lips against her forehead. She thinks about saying something before he presses his mouth to hers, his hands pulling down the straps of her dress. His fingers skim over the skin of her arms. He intertwines the fingers of his right hand with hers for a few seconds before pulling away with the strap of her dress. Her dress sits at her waist with his hands bunched in it, trying to somehow get it over her bent legs. She smiles.
His fingers glide over her back, skimming over her strapless black bra. Jal’s fingers hook around the waistband of Chris’ pants, pulling them down to the bend of his knees. Chris pushes her backwards until she’s lying flat on the bed, her head barely reaching the pillows. Chris grins, pulling his pants off and kicking them off the bed. His fingers grip the soft fabric of her dress and she lifts her hips so he can pull it off her body.
Chris kisses her stomach, smiling against her skin. He mumbles, “Y’know, wearin’ black means you were expecting somethin’.” He looks up at her, his hair mussed and pointing in all directions, “I don’t like the insinuation that I’m easy.”
Jal cocks her eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s green.”
Chris grins, moving so his mouth is hovering above hers. “Even better,” he says, before pressing his mouth to hers. She feels his hand on her breast, following the feel of her strapless bra until his hands are trapped behind her back. She lifts herself up, pressing her front against his, and he undoes the clasp of her bra. He tosses it to the side, a comment of being a gentleman crosses her mind but Chris attacks her mouth, his hands gliding across every plane of her body. He finds the ticklish spots of her sides and skims his fingers over them lightly.
She feels him hard against her leg through his Tom & Jerry boxers. Jal’s laughter is muffled by his mouth pressing hard against hers. She feels his smile as he kisses his way across her cheek towards the corner of her eye. He’s leaning across her, trying to not move his body at all if he can help it, to reach inside the drawer beside the bed. His stomach hovers near her as he reaches in to grab one of the many condoms she knows he keeps in there and she presses kisses along his hot skin before he places his face at the crook of her neck.
She thinks she must have said something, or made some sort of noise, because she can feel Chris grinning against her neck and he’s pulling away, taking his warmth with him as he shimmies out of his boxers. He rips the packet in his hands open and slips the condom on. Pressing his lips to her ankle, he travels up her legs, leaving patches of kisses in his wake, until he meets her inner thigh. He lingers there. She can feel a tiny grin on his face.
She nudges him somewhere near his shoulder with her foot. He takes the hint, she thinks, because he’s got his fingers hooked in the waistband of her underwear and is pulling them down. He manages to slip them off her feet and makes his way back up to her mouth, leaving kisses along her skin.
He presses his lips hard against her own, opening underneath her as he takes her leg, where it bends at the knee, in his hand and pulls it up. He’s hard against her thigh. Jal wraps her legs tightly around his waist, feeling his mouth pressing hard against hers. Her hands run through his hair, gripping at it, and she pulls him harder, if possible, against her mouth.
When he enters her, he moves slowly, so frustratingly slow, and she runs her hands through his hair before gripping it. She gives it a little tug before her hands escape to the planes of his back, her blunt nails leaving little red lines across it. He picks up the rhythm, thrusting harder and faster, and she meets him, pushing her hips into his.
She comes before him, wrapping her legs tight around his waist. He murmurs a breathy “Fuck” against her mouth and breaks away, moving his mouth to her neck as he moves inside her. He soon follows, merging “Fuck” and “Jal” with a groan.
Jal loosens her hold on him, feeling him slacken against her slightly. He moves his mouth to her shoulder where it lingers hot and wet over the skin.
She doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Eventually, he moves, coming to lie beside her. She turns onto her side and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He kisses the back of her neck. She never really imagined him to be a cuddler.
.
Jal wakes up two times in the night. The first, she finds a thin sheet wrapped around her and odd coolness at her back. She can see another light in the apartment on, barely touching the walls of his room. It’s the kitchen.
The second time, she can hear his voice murmuring from somewhere in the apartment. It is dark. “Look, just come home,” he says, and for a moment, her heart lurches, thinking of his mother. She sits up in bed, feeling her body start to slowly wake up. “C’mon,” he says, his voice raising as he continues with, “you’re bein’ unreasonable.” She can hear him pacing on the wooden floor. It’s a few minutes before he says “Cass -” and then the click of the phone.
.
Jal disentangles herself from the twisted sheets and Chris’ limbs. She sits on the bed, fiddling with his discarded shirt before slipping it on. She pulls at the end of it, tugging it down as far as it will go, which isn’t far at all. Standing up, she moves around the apartment, feeling the end of the shirt brush against her thighs. His kitchen is clean, minus a bit of spliff on the counter by the sink, as is his lounge-room. It’s so unlike Chris she takes a moment to soak it all in.
She finds the bathroom, opening the door to find another one that connects his room. She refrains from slapping herself on the forehead.
“She’s not here ... anymore,” he says from the doorway. He leans against it awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know where he should be. Jal knows immediately who he’s talking about. Everyone knows about Chris and Angie. What they don’t know is how it all came to a grinding halt.
Jal settles her gaze back onto the shelves inside the mirror. “Fancy bathroom you have here,” she murmurs, closing the little door of the secret mirror shelves. She looks at herself in the little mirror.
Chris sneaks up behind her, snaking his warm arms around her waist. He settles his chin on her shoulder. “You’re cold,” he says, his fingers lightly drawing circles on her stomach.
“Mm,” she hums. “I’m warm-hearted.”
“What are you tryin’ to say, hm?” he says into the skin of her neck. “I’m cold-hearted ‘cause I’m warm?”
She smiles. “If the shoe fits,” she places her hands over his.
“Well, then,” Chris says, moving his hands quickly. He gathers her up, carrying her in the bridal style, back to his room. “We should investigate that.”
He drops her onto the bed, both of them laughing.
*
Chris untangles himself from the sheets and slides into his shorts.
He looks inside the wardrobe. On the bottom floor, beneath fallen jackets and discarded clothes, he finds a line of men’s shoes. Some of the soles are torn to shreds, some are falling apart from the front, sides or back, and some are crisp, like a new book without the indent of bent pages, all new and shiny.
There is movement behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees Jal, in one of his shirts, standing behind him. “What’s this? Got some bloke on the side?” he says, trying to laugh.
Jal almost rolls her eyes. “No,” she says, although her tone doesn’t suggest the answer is a definite end of the discussion. She shrugs, looking over to the window as she mumbles, “Your shoes are the only part of you that stands still.”
Chris looks down at them. He feels Jal’s gaze heating the length of his back. He doesn’t ask about his clothes. Every item of clothing is feminine in the wardrobe. He looks back at her, in one of his business shirts, and sees the inconsistency there. Years ago he’d be wearing t-shirts of rock bands and random sayings he liked the humour of, and now, as Angie once said, he’s grown up.
*
seven: 2012
(2012) chris is 22, jal is 22
Jal barely forms a fist to knock against his apartment door when Chris opens it wide. He’s smiling like he’s the cat that’s caught the mouse.
“Look,” he says, holding a ticket. Jal tries to read the printed words but he’s moving it too quickly out of her sight. He grabs her hand and tugs her inside his apartment. She takes off her jacket as Chris skips to the television. He turns the volume up.
“What are you doing, Chris?” Jal says, frowning. She approaches him slowly, making her way to sit down on the lounge. Her feet ache from her day of walking.
“Giving us a life.”
“By watching television?” she says, looking at him over her shoulder.
Chris frowns. “No,” he holds the ticket in her face again. “I’m makin’ us some money, babe.”
She rolls her eyes. “No one we know ever wins these things,” she mutters.
The lotto draw beings. Chris murmurs, “Thank you, Jodie. Ever so lovely seeing you again,” and grins at the television. Jal refrains from laughing. “Thirty-three,” Chris says, bouncing on his heels. The woman hosting the show, she’s guessing her name is Jodie, looks at the ball and repeats, “Thirty-three.”
“Twenty-seven,” Chris winks at her, still bouncing on his heels.
Jal turns her attention to the television. Jodie grins widely, repeating Chris, “Twenty-seven.”
Jal looks at Chris. “Chris -”
“Shh,” he says, “forty-eight is coming up.”
“Forty-eight,” Jodie murmurs in the background.
Jal looks down at the ticket, hearing Chris murmur the numbers “Thirty-two”, “seventeen” and “twelve” just before Jodie announces them in her dull voice. “No,” she says, her eyes wide. “No, Chris. No.” She pushes the ticket back at him, trying to press it firmly into his hands, but he’s having none of it. He laughs, moving away from her attempts. “Chris --”
“Jal,” he says through his laughter. “Let me spoil you for once, yeah?”
She whispers it, as though his neighbours can hear them. “This is cheating, Chris.”
He shrugs. “What’s the sodding point in havin’ this genetic thing if I can’t use it.”
“I - I don’t know. Why - why can’t you use it for ... for good?”
Chris laughs. “Yeah, I’m like the motherpuckin’ Spiderman.” He sits down next to her, invading her space. He presses his legs against hers, taking her hands in his. “Jal,” he says. “Nobody knows. Nobody needs to know. All we have to say is we had good luck.”
“Chris ...”
“Let me do this for you,” he says, placing the ticket in her hands. He curls her fingers around it. “This is your good luck.”
Jal looks down at their joined hands, the ticket scrunching at the corners from the sheer force of his grip.
She acknowledges it three days later, identifying herself at the newsagency.
-
On the first day, God created a small one-storey house. Inside, it had nice wooden floors, a large kitchen, and a big chimney. Chris found the garage distasteful.
On the second day, God created a nice brick house, situated on a large block of land. It was camouflaged by thick oak trees; a small, brick letterbox signalled a house was hidden somewhere between the leaves. The ceilings were high, the closets large, and a large tub with jets situated in a pure white tiled bathroom. Chris found the lack of an island in the kitchen to be distasteful.
On the third day, God created a two-story house, located on a main road, outlined with a delicate, picket white fence. They didn’t manage to pass the gate when Chris found the fence distasteful.
On the fourth day, God created a high, brick fence. It reminded Chris of royalty. Behind the high, brick fence was a large house with two-storeys. The chimney was large, the ceilings high, the kitchen with a nice, big island, and shiny wooden floorboards. It had a large bedroom, with a big closet that had enough floor space for Jal’s shoe collection, and a big study with a large window. Outside was a willowy tree with frangipanis growing on it. Chris found the large garden, with the barbeque and potential for a pool, to be very, very good.
*
eight: 2013
(2001) chris is 23, chris is 12
Chris materialises at the graveyard. Instinctively, he walks to Peter’s grave. He doesn’t know how long he sits there until he appears.
He remembers his fear, and how disoriented he felt. He remembers the guilt weighing down heavily on his small, weak shoulders. He remembers the few seconds he spent in this graveyard, feeling alone and scared.
Chris watches on helplessly as he disappears.
He stands by Peter’s grave. “You watch out for him, you here?” Placing his hand on the gravestone, Chris vanishes.
*
nine: 2014
jal is 24, michelle is 24
Michelle’s birthday party is a “fun and sophisticated event”, just as the invitation had said in cursive font. There was no food on the walls and no sleeping half naked on the lounges. Everyone acted decently ... that was, until the strip poker was introduced.
After the party, Jal follows Michelle into her kitchen. She has a few empty glasses in one hand, a half-drunken bottle of wine in the other.
“I’m old,” Michelle laughs, putting the plates beside the sink. “I can’t believe this day has come.”
“What, your birthday?” Chris walks in, placing another few plates next to Michelle’s pile. He’s got his eyebrow raised. He exits the room before finding out an answer.
“Ignore him,” Jal says, opening the wine. She grabs two glasses from the cupboard and pours the wine in them. She hands a glass to Michelle. “It’s your birthday, ‘Chelle.” She takes a sip of her wine. “And no cake was thrown. I think that that’s a pretty good sign.”
“I know,” Michelle says, taking a long sip. She almost drains the glass. “I just miss being young.”
Jal frowns. “You are young.”
Michelle waves her hand. “You get what I mean.” Jal takes a sip of her wine. “It wasn’t the same. Cassie wasn’t here.”
Jal shrugs. “Her prerogative.”
“I know,” Michelle says. “I know she’s busy in Scotland and getting her shit sorted out.” She takes a sip of her wine, emptying her glass. Michelle points her finger in Jal’s direction, her voice raising as she says, “She better get her shit sorted out,” she says, placing her empty glass on the counter. She grabs the bottle and fills the glass to the brim. “If she hurts my Sid again -”
“All hell will break loose. We know, ‘Chelle. None of us are standing for it, either.”
Michelle takes a long sip. “I know. I just - I miss it, sometimes. The ridiculousness of our lives.”
Jal frowns. “I don’t follow. You have Tony, ‘Chelle. You’ve always wanted Tony.”
“I know,” she says, almost wistfully. “But now, there’s so much more that I want.” She takes a sip. She looks down at her counter, running her fingers along the wood. “I guess, with getting older, you start wanting new things.”
Jal waits for Michelle to continue. She takes a sip of her wine, draining the glass. She figures some things never change, like how Michelle needs someone to encourage her that they are, in fact, listening and do, in fact, care, contrary to what they’re really feeling. Jal clears her throat. “What kind of things?”
Michelle shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t know,” she says, twisting away from her. Jal wonders if she’s embarrassed at all. She doesn’t think so. Michelle leans into her, whispering, “I’ve been thinking about kids.”
Jal doesn’t see how this is such a secret. “Oh,” she says. She wonders if there is something wrong with her, when she hasn’t thought about having kids herself. She knows Sid’s new bird, the one he’s been dating for over a year, wants some little Sidneys with beanies and glasses running around. “Have you told Tony?”
“I’m planning on it. I just need to see if he’s there.”
“There,” Jal repeats.
Michelle nods. “In the same place.” She looks at Jal expectantly with her eyebrows slightly raised. “You know,” she laughs, it sounds fake to Jal, “the same place. Like ... moving in.”
Jal nods. “Sure,” she says, though she frowns. “Chris and I are in the same place,” she says. She doesn’t really know where the hell she and Chris are. All she does know is that he is with her, right now, and that’s all she wants.
*
(2014) chris is 24, jal is 24
“Did you ever ...” she leaves it there, letting it descend to the twirls of sheets.
Chris shuffles, pushing the sheets up his back. “Did I ever what?”
Jal bites her lip. Chris sits up in the bed, resting his back against the headboard and his soft pillow. He frowns as he watches her hesitate. His foot begins to fall asleep. “Did you ever try to save Tony?” she asks in a quiet voice. She looks at him from the corner of her eye.
Chris looks down at the sheets, tugging at random spots. He moves, his foot prickling with pins and needles. He places it against Jal’s calf, pressing it hard. Slowly, the pins and needles recede. “Yes,” he says, before coughing into his closed fist. “I did. Once. I was ... too late.”
Jal nods, pushing her leg into his. The pins and needles recede into a faint hum. “You don’t go back to that moment.”
“No,” Chris says, shaking his head. “I try to. I want to -”
Jal moves her foot to rest under his. Her toes are cold when they press against his ankle. “It just doesn’t work that way.”
The pins and needles are gone. Chris reaches for the remote on the side drawer. He hits a button a few times, the television not sparking to life. Jal takes the remote off of him, pressing a button once before the television hums, the sound incredibly loud. She lowers the volume as he pouts, saying, “Nothin’ ever works the way I want it to.”
Jal smiles, placing the remote in his lap, and leans down to press her cheek against his arm. “You’re hopeless,” she murmurs before placing a kiss on his shoulder.
Chris shrugs his other shoulder.
*
ten: 2015
(2015) jal is 25, tony is 26
This was all Chris’ idea.
Five days ago, he wanted a party, and here it is. Jal doesn’t like hosting parties. She doesn’t like the mess that comes with her friends. Or used to. They haven’t hung out like this in a few years. Meeting up at the cinemas and little cafes and accidental bump-ins at the grocery store don’t count. Not everyone has been present for those meet-ups.
But Chris has been gone and she knows he needs to find some ground. Without it, he’s dizzy and disoriented and, even though she shouldn’t think this, she hates that she has to deal with it and be responsible for grounding him. She feels dizzy and disoriented every time he comes home after days of being gone. Jal’s become so used to living by herself that she has to readjust living with another person. She feels like she’s twenty-one again.
They sit outside. Apparently, this is what “sophisticated adults do”, as according to Michelle. Her backyard hasn’t seen this much activity since they moved in.
“Tony and I are trying for a baby,” Michelle smiles, trying to contain her excitement. “I hope to avoid having a summer baby, but -”
Jal’s feet itch to move. She excuses herself from the outside table, taking three empty glasses inside and to the kitchen. She finds Tony in the kitchen. “What are you doing in here?” she says, her hands on her hips. She smiles as Tony jumps.
Tony laughs. “I needed a breather.”
“We do have a backyard for that,” she moves towards him, placing a glass in the sink and washing it out. “If this is your idea of a breather, then you’ve been cooped up too long.”
Tony rests his lower back on the kitchen island. He shrugs, though she misses it. “I didn’t want to be rude and stand off to the side, admiring your orchids.”
Jal shakes her head. She places the glass in the drying rack and turns around. “Tony,” she says, still smiling. “You can admire my orchids. I didn’t grow them for nothing.”
Tony inhales loudly, nodding.
Jal looks down at her feet. “Michelle’s talking about your adventure in baby land.”
Tony groans, rolling his eyes. “I wanted to keep it quiet, but you know ‘Chelle.”
“So you are trying?”
He nods. “We’ve finally got our shit together. I love ‘Chelle,” he says, shrugging. Tony doesn’t make eye contact with her, his cheeks a faint pink.
Jal smiles. Before she can open her mouth to say anything, Tony says, “Did you know he used to visit me? After my accident?”
Jal crosses her arms over her chest. She looks at him, her eyebrow kinked slightly.
“He did. Your Chris,” he says, to clarify. Jal’s frown deepens. He knows she’s trying to place it. It has become a custom for them to place the Chris’ in their lives. “At the pool,” he says, with a shrug, “When no one else came.”
“Oh.”
“He was crazy about you. Your Chris. And old Chris, who was quite young. It was written all over his face.” He looks at her. “You’re not following, are you?”
She gives him a laugh, although it is hollow. “No, not at all.”
Tony shrugs. “Well,” he says, moving towards her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “at least I had a go. In my opinion, you’re all hopeless until you get hit by a bus.”
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony 18
Tony finds Chris outside by the other pool. His black pant legs are pulled up as high as they can go, which is somewhere pathetically below his knee. Tony sits beside him, placing his bare legs into the pool. He tries to flatten out his shorts underneath him to protect the back of his thighs from the hot pavement.
“I always thought you were scared of pools,” Tony says.
“Yeah, man.” Chris says, swinging his legs. Water touches the edge of his folded pants. “Although -“ he stops. “I don’t know, it’s just - by having this thing, I’ve discovered some things about myself.”
Tony pauses, putting his hand in the pool. “Like what?”
“Peter taught me how to conquer my fear.” He looks up at Tony, before placing his finger in the water and turning his attention to his side, away from him. He starts writing things on the drive pavement with the water, like he used to when he was younger. No one had a pool, but they’d always find a bucket to fill up and throw water on each other. “He taught me how to swim when I was, like, five. I never really remembered it.”
Tony licks his dry lips. “You learn something new every day,” he says, kicking his legs and splashing Chris.
-
(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25
Jal walks into the kitchen. She stops. “You’re back,” she says, although it doesn’t generate the reaction he was hoping for.
“Yeah,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better. Jal continues to stand outside the doorway, looking at him.
“Did you visit him?” she asks.
Chris blinks. “Visit who?”
“Tony,” she says, voice thick. He opens his mouth to speak but she continues. “When they came over for the party, he said some things about you,” she nods to him, as if indicating him, this Chris, not his past self, “visited him at the pool during his physical therapy.”
“When he was learning to swim,” Chris says to himself. His arm goes around the back of his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just ... ended up there.”
“How long have you been going?”
“Not long,” he says. He’s only gone twice so far, although it’s only March.
Jal sits down next to him. “Do you ...”
“Do I what?”
“Do you ever try to change ... what happened?” He thinks back to how last year he went back to Angie. “To Tony,” she says, as an afterthought.
“Of course I puckin’ do,” he says. “It weighs on me every day, having this thing. What use am i if i can’t change that one thing?”
“Maybe it’s fate?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just sheer bad luck.” He exits the kitchen with sagged shoulders.
*
(2019); chris is 25
Chris materialises in a room he barely recognises anymore. It's his old house. The walls are the familiar pale of unkemptness. Graffiti pants the walls. He reads a few of the obscenities before his feet follow a familiar pattern and move to his room. His pills packets no longer stick to the wall. Chris fumbles through a broken dresser to find some clothes that pull tight across his middle and the pants end just before his ankle. He feels uncomfortable; out of his realm. There isn’t a mirror in the room but he knows he looks more ridiculous than his usual brightly coloured contrasting clothes and short three-quarter pants. He hopes this visit ends soon.
He walks out of the room and down the flight of groaning stairs. He doesn't check to see if anyone is home. Is this a home? Was it ever a home? He shuts the door silently, as though to not awaken the world to his presence; to not let it know that he’s here, and he doesn’t belong.
His feet follow a familiar path to the park. The walk is quicker than he remembers, although, he must admit, he hasn’t been to the park since he was twelve. He sees a newspaper in the bin pushed haphazardly into it and grabs it, folding it over and over as he walks quickly to a bench. He sits, looking around quickly at people who barely notice his presence, his silly ankles exposed. He folds the newspaper open.
He hums. "2019. Pucking fantastic.” He opens it up to see a headline blasting some politician he can’t recall from home. “I hate March." He shakes his head and skims over the recent events, flicking through the newspaper and creasing it.
The newspaper has fed him all the information he needs, which isn’t much. He knows the date, the prime minister, and that there is nothing about Jal and her music career he had predicted happening years ago. He scrunches up the newspaper the best he can and places it on the ground near his feet. A girl playing on the play set catches his attention. She’s small, with tanned skin, and her mother is standing on the opposite side of the park, her face a blur because of the distance. He can hear the girl’s laughter and calls out to her mother.
Chris doesn’t know how long he sits there, feeling content and a pang of something he won’t be able to identify for a long time, before he vanishes.
*
(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18
Tony is adamant about moving their meeting place to somewhere more desirable. Chris protests, of course. They’re walking outside the pool, on the path. Tony wants ice-cream. Chris wants to hide.
“What do we do in the future?” Tony asks, running a hand through his slow drying hair. On the path, he makes sure Chris is walking on the side closest to the road. Chris doesn’t know if this is intentional, but he’s happy to oblige. It’s the least he could do. “You and I. Do we golf? Do we smoke cigars?”
“Nah, mate. None of that fancy shit.” He taps his fingers against a pole as they come to the end of the path. He watches the cars as they pass, waiting for an opening to cross. “We play cards.”
They cross the road. Tony’s pace is a little quicker than Chris’. He tries to keep up with him without trying to make it obvious. He’s not sure if it works. Tony is frowning with a smile, trying to picture them playing an assortment of card games. Chris laughs at his expression. “Cards? As in ‘Go Fish’ and that one where you smack your hand on the table?”
“Yeah. I kick your ass in every game we play.”
“So ...” Tony says, watching his feet and stepping over the big cracks in the pavement. “We’re good friends, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Chris says, stepping on a crack, “plenty good.”
*
(2015) jal is 25, michelle is 25
“Tony and I have just been very busy,” Michelle says, sipping her milkshake. “He knows how much I want a baby. It’s just ...”
“Timing,” Jal says, picking at her donut.
Michelle nods. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t even have the problem -” Michelle’s voice stops abruptly like she’s hit an audio wall. She looks down, her face flushing. “I’m sorry.”
Jal waves her hand. “What? No. Don’t be. I chose to get into this, damn the repercussions of my decision.” She rubs her hands together, trying to get rid of the cinnamon clinging to her skin. “I love Chris,” she says, quietly. Jal looks down at her plate, with her picked-at donut. “I would rather have Chris than not have him at all.”
Michelle nods, leaning forward on the table. Her voice is quiet when she says, “Do you want ... kids?”
Jal shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, avoiding Michelle’s eyes. She doesn’t want to look at her and her soft expression. “I don’t want to be like my mother.”
“You won’t be. You’re nothing like her,” Michelle says quickly. She grabs Jal’s hand and places it between both of hers. Michelle’s hands are warm. “You’ve stuck with Chris during all of this. You haven’t left. You’re not her.”
Jal places her other hand in her lap. “Give it time -”
“That’s all we have,” Michelle says, pressing her hands tighter around Jal’s. “You’re giving Chris - and yourself - time. That’s more than what your mother has ever done for you.” Jal avoids Michelle’s gaze. “Now, eat your donut. We’re going shoe shopping.”
Jal rolls her eyes.
*
(2019); chris is 25
He walks over to the park. A little girl is sitting on his regular bench. She looks faintly familiar. But he changes his route, anyway. The one thing he carries with him during his travels is Jal’s advice to stay away from strangers and anyone who has seen you more than once. Although he doubts this girl has ever seen him. But this is shot to hell when she says, “Checker pants.”
He slowly approaches her. He stops with a good distance between the bench and himself. A leaf from the tree he stands under hits him on the shoulder. “Hi, there,” he says.
She’s grinning so big. “Hi,” she says, almost shyly.
“Er, how are you?” Chris says, placing his hands in his back pockets.
“Good,” she says.
“Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she says. She swings her legs slightly. “Are you having a nice walk?”
Chris blinks. “Sure. Are you having fun ... sitting?”
She nods, humming an affirmative. Conversation seems to disperse itself after that.
*
(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25
“Hey,” Chris says, closing the back door behind him. Jal’s sitting at the outside table, a paperback novel in her hands. He gestures to the door when he says, “Where’s my clock?”
Jal pauses, frowning. “What?”
“My clock,” he says. “The cat one. You know? The Chinese cat with the bags and the kids toys made of it? I say hello to it every morning. It was here yesterday ...”
“Oh,” Jal says, closing her book. “It’s in a box in the garage.”
“What’s it doin’ in there?”
Jal frowns. “I put it in there.” She pauses. Chris waits. “You’ve been gone a lot this year.”
“I know. I can’t help it -”
“I know. I’m just ... I’m just tired of sitting here, staring at the clock. Sometimes you’re gone for a good two weeks and here I am, sitting and staring at that hideous clock.”
Chris moves to sit next to her. “Hey. Jalander,” he says, trying to make her laugh. Her mouth doesn’t budge from its firm straight line. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to spend weeks waiting for me -”
“I don’t like spending weeks waiting for you. When you are gone, it’s like time stands still. I wait for you and wait for you and when I finally have you, you’re gone again. I just cannot do this sometimes.”
Chris seems to sober up. He pulls back from her slightly, frowning. “What are you saying? You don’t want to do this anymore?”
“No!” Jal turns to look at him. “I just want more things of my life. I can’t live my life while I wait for you. And I can’t live my life without you.” She looks down at the table, picking at the edge of her paperback. She says, quietly, “I haven’t pursued music. Not once.”
Chris finally gains his voice. “Jal -”
“I’m going inside for an ice-cream. Do you want one?” She pushes herself up from the table, the chair scraping against the cement.
Chris looks up at her. “No, thanks.”
Jal nods, sliding the backdoor and moving inside. It slams shut. Chris picks at her paperback novel with the sun baking his back.
*
(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18
Chris is sitting at the regular table with his back to him, reading a newspaper.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Tony laughs. Chris turns around and smiles as Tony approaches. “You’re still looking old for wear.”
“Thanks mate, you don’t look too bad yourself,” Chris says as Tony sits down. He doesn’t. He looks more vibrant and alive - like the Tony he knows.
“So, what’s on the agenda today? Tuna sandwich?”
Chris shakes his head. “Travelling on a full stomach always ends up with me and my head in a toilet bowl. It’s not a pretty sight - not when I have plans with my lady friend,” he grins.
Tony grins. “Anyone I know?”
“Gentlemen never kiss and tell.”
“Well, Chris, you’re no gentleman.”
“People change.”
*
(2019) chris is 25
“Where are you coming from?”
Chris blinks. “Pardon?”
“What year are you coming from? Mum says from the past but the last time I met you here you were from the future. I think you got your dates a bit muddled.”
Chris continues to blink. “Er, I think you’re ... mistaken. Hugely, mistaken. See, I’ve got no clue -”
“You said you were a chicken without a head when you were younger,” she laughs. Chris frowns. He’s only met this girl a few times, and during those times, he’s steered clear from anything about himself. He curses one of his past or future selves; he’s not sure which one, who has divulged this information. He wonders, briefly, when he became so sloppy.
“I ... don’t think you understand what that means entirely,” he says. “I have my head and it’s screwed on ... tightly.”
She laughs.
“I’m fu - I’m very serious, missy. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She’s still laughing, though the air around them sobers. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Mummy gets very upset.” She frowns at the expression on his face, which he feels tingling. The tingling spreads across his body, taking hold of all his limbs. “You’re going,” the girl says, her voice sad.
This is the first time he disappears in broad daylight.
-
(2015) chris is 25 and jal is 25
When he comes back, Jal is in the kitchen. He can smell fresh chicken from the hallway.
“Hey,” he says, moving past the doorframe on unsteady legs. He stops to gain his bearings. His gaze is directed to what she’s ripping on the table. “We havin’ chicken tonight?” A warm chicken sits on a chopping board already missing a wing.
“Yeah,” Jal says without looking up. She grabs the knife sitting by the board, the blade already glistening with bits of chicken, and cuts into it. “Where did you go?”
Chris swallows, his hand immediately meeting the back of his neck. He palms it, feeling the heat of his palm against the chilled skin of his neck. He almost hisses. “Er,” he says, and then stops.
Jal looks up. He hasn’t seen her at all today. She looks tired. “What’s the problem?”
Chris laughs. “Well,” he says his hand dropping to his sides as he approaches. “We definitely do end up together in the end.”
She cocks her eyebrow.
“I met ...” his hip meets the edge of the counter. “I met ...” he tries again. Jal stops ripping the chicken, her hands pasted with wetness which seem to glow under the kitchen lights. “What do you say about us having kids?”
Jal blinks. “What?” She goes to cross her arms over her chest but thinks better, looking at her greasy hands and leans for the washing up cloth. “What are you saying?”
Chris shrugs and grabs a piece of chicken. He says around the chicken with his eyes downcast, “I’m saying that ... I met ... our kid today.” He feels as though the air is escaping from his chest, his pulse quickening in his throat. He places his hand on the back of his neck and lets his palm slide down his shoulder, trying to calm the storm brewing within him.
Jal’s eyebrow is cocked. He watches her face as she is still for a few seconds until she continues to wipe her hands, toss the cloth to the side and remains silent. Her face doesn’t move an inch. Chris’ eyebrows are pinched until he sees her mouth twitch; her fingers lose their grip on the stilled knife for only a moment. “Kid, Chris?” She resumes tearing at the chicken.
“Yeah,” he says, hand reaching for another piece of chicken. She slaps the back of his hand. “Ow, Jal.” He licks his lip. “We have a -”
“No,” she says, waving her hand to stop him. She glances at him, but speaks with her gaze directed to the chicken pieces. “I don’t want to know.”
Chris’ first instinct is to ask ‘Why not?’ but he bites his tongue. He watches Jal as she finishes ripping the chicken, wiping her hands on the cloth and carrying the chopping board to the bin. Jal doesn’t meet his eyes. She seems tired, all of a sudden. “Alright,” he says, although it is perhaps a little too late.
She picks up a piece of the chicken she’s torn from the carcass and hands it to him. It looks like a peace offering. “Would you be able to set the table?” she says, and he nods as he eats the piece of chicken.
“Sure,” he says, opening drawers to gather the cutlery.
They move to the table. Jal pulls at the tablecloth, straightening it out. Chris starts picking at his chicken.
“So,” Jal says, cutting into her potatoes. “What did our ... kid say?”
Chris tries to swallow his chicken whole. He’s about to say ‘she’ but withholds. “Er, good things.” He nods, swallowing. He takes his glass and almost empties it. “Says you’re a good Mum,” he smiles at this. Jal looks down, her mouth a line. “Says that ... I don’t travel anymore.”
Jal looks up, setting her knife and fork down. Her eyebrows are drawn together. “What do you mean?”
Chris shrugs. “I ... don’t travel anymore - from the future to that future ... that present.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Jal says. She’s fighting tears.
“Maybe that I’m not in that future, Jal.”
part three
masterpost | i | ii | iii