I am awake but all is still sleep.
Last night. I don't remember much about last night. I know that Dree fell asleep on the couch. I know I had left Nan's house in a bad mood. There was a lot of wine. I must have looked a fool, sulking at the dinner table, pouring myself fuller and fuller glasses of wine, until there was none left in the bottle. No one said anything. Devon ate quickly and left. Nan ate as she always did, slowly and deliberately, cutting her food into neat, small pieces. I didn't eat much.
I helped Nan clear the table, load the dishwasher. We didn't say a word to each other. She stood at the sink, scrubbing the cast iron pot while wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves that reached past her elbow. I leaned in to kiss her neck, but she didn't respond.
"Thank you for having me for dinner. It was delicious."
Then I closed the door.
I remember now the voicemail message from Dree: "Hi. I just smoked half a pack of cigarettes. Can I come and sleep in your apartment tonight? Jason won't return my phone calls." Her voice sounded tinny, like the yelping of a caged cat.
There was more wine. No, it was beer, then a few hours later, gin. Andrew was there, going on and on about some big bankruptcy case at work. He was trying to be as good of a friend as he could, by distracting me from my problems with legalese and alcohol. Debtor in possession. Creditors committees. Another round of beers. Plan confirmation. Schemes and rules to keep a company's dissolution orderly. Similar rules exist for taking apart people.
"Love is a creepy hunter," I said to Andrew after two more pints of Guinness. The bar was full of people by then. It is always the same crowd: guys wearing plaid shirts and the girls who think that's sexy. Andrew ignored me and kept talking. The center of main interests. Intangible assets. Andrew doesn't get tired of talking about the law. He runs on it. His passion makes me jealous. I want to have something to dive into, dedicate my life to its study, to love and cherish; I want to find a cause worthy of my time and devotion. Instead all I have are people.
"What if this means I love her?" It wasn't a question for anyone to answer.
That was when the phone rang. It was Dree. I let it go to voicemail. Then another text message: I am downstairs.
"No matter what, don't have sex with her." Andrew waved me off when I tried to put down some money for the beers. He wasn't ready to leave yet. His nights only began after a shot of Jack. His mind wasn't built with an "off" button, so he manufactures one every night with Jack and Smirnoff.
Dree looked impossibly cute in a short yellow sundress and a cardigan. She walked in front of me up the narrow stair case to my apartment. The hemline of her dress grazed her thigh each time she took a step. My nose was only inches away.
"I hope you have gin. I need a drink," she said.
T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.
I never read these but every time I see the title I think about how I'm a young person living in new york who never gets laid
I always read them. And then I think about how I'm a young person not living in new york or ever getting laid.
I never get laid, and I think my title is "Not a young person in New York".
Did I miss the gender? If not, how long until we get it over with and find out?
I kind of love that we don't know the gender. I want it to stay this way.
I think the title of this series is too long and too punctuated. Call it "The Space Between a Glove and a Sundress" or something like that. Or just call it "Love is a Creepy Hunter." I don't know if that is a good choice, given that it recalls "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," and not in the most flattering of ways, but the current title is sort of shallowly facetious and too big.
This series isn't badly written; there are parts of it that I like. But I find all of the characters enormously unlikeable. Dree is the kind of narcissistic drama queen that you avoid in real life, even to the point of blocking her Facebook updates because they're inevitably thinly veiled cries for help or attention. She doesn't work for me as a fetish object. The narrator seems primarily defined by his or her hesitancy, which is not really an appealing quality; it would be nice to get some character motivations here besides vague longings toward women in yellow. Don't like the characterization of Arthur so far because it should be him claiming that "his brain doesn't have an off switch," not the narrator. BTW, that is a classic addict's claim (that they need chemicals to induce ordinary behaviors, such as sleep or calm moods)--is it your intention to portray the character as an addict? The older lover is sort of a faceless mother figure; I don't know if I buy that relationship either.
Maybe this is just how young people are all the time, though? Maybe I just loathe these specific personality types?
wait, are we in an apartment or a bar? or an apartment with a bar? or is this a NY thing, where there can be apartments over bars? or maybe narrator is just so confused his brain is swirling the locations around?
that i even asked that last question is a sign that you pulled this off, though.
also, you have good similes & metaphors. even the bankruptcy law metaphor, for which i not only forgive but in fact applaud your law-school references. ♥