Thanks for everyone's patience! It's been a really bad two weeks for me, but somehow, I turned 20 yesterday and felt better.
Chapter 43: Can't See It
I spent the day inside my flat, basking in the summer sun through the large windows, and letting natural light illuminate the pages of my book. I also did laundry, attempted to get a tan, took a cold bath to relieve my sunburn (dark ancestry be darned! It doesn’t matter when you’re the color of nooboo formula), and nearly pulled my hat over my face as I discretely got myself a sandwich at the diner. I watched the sunset over the water, and the golden reflection on the surface was more exciting than a re-read.
And I’ll be honest, I need a break from reading this.
I can’t claim a good relationship with Annette. Maybe when I was young, as a toddler dressed in a red tunic and bloomers, with my hair tied up in two red bows, or as a child when I did all of my reading for school a week early and read at a high school level by the time I got long division. Maybe then, grandma Annette and I were on good terms. I always ate her cooking, and thanked her twice when she made my favorite potato and truffle torte for dinner. She read my books, and only after we started mutually hating each other did she realize that her favorite villain in my own
Tears of Steel spoke a lot like her, and had a taste for plum jam and renoit grape cobbler.
All I should say is that while she supported Franco through his difficult romantic life, her response to me being trapped in a loveless relationship was pretty close to “suck it up.”
It’s a different time and place now, I guess. In Roaring Heights, I guess I can find a nice woman, unlike what I coped with in Twinbrook. Hopefully, one with a love for flings, as opposed to love, and one who sees my fangs as a way to spice up an ordinary kiss. I won’t find her if I stay in the flat and refuse to talk to anyone but a waiter, when I need a pot of unsweetened chamomile tea. And the one person who will talk to me? It’s a man with a business card.
I keep Arthur’s card on the dresser, within reach if I notice a stain anywhere. It’s designed in simple black and white, much like his blazer.
A & A Cleaners and Industrial Laundry. You stain, we gain! While the pesto panini I had for dinner the night before didn’t drip and ruin my clothes with pesky olive oil, he might have something else. I know he does. Why else would he write on the back, in his own handwriting, “Plasma? Motor oil? Ask about our deep clean!”
I don’t need a deep clean either. Just something loose and social. And in the one place with a prohibition on juice, illegal too.
In the morning, after the sun rises, Arthur is probably cleaning clothes, or at least cleaning up the shop. If he’s a smart criminal handyman, he probably saves his other cleaning for the night.
After following the address, I learn that Arthur has a pretty nice taste in business locations.
And that he is indeed a dry-cleaner.
Business is slow this morning, and Arthur sits at the counter with the day’s newspaper, instead of helping a customer. He reads the Local Events section, and without a pen at the counter, I doubt the daily sudoku is his thing.
“Geez, the pollen around here,” I mutter, after a sneeze, “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“No problem. We offer dry-cleaning, wet-cleaning, spot removal, and whatever you can think of. Well, I offer it today. The other half is gone on an errand.”
“You know darn well that my clothes are spotless.”
“We have to go into the back for other things,” he says. He leads me through one of the rooms of clothes, past racks of clean shirts waiting to be claimed and the smell of detergent that floods the area. Arthur opens the door to a place with calming aqua walls and counters with mostly empty tops, and watcher-knows-what inside.
“Isn’t it great?” he says, cheering, “Every criminal likes this place. We’re clean and no one suspects a thing. I think you’ll like my services...Jo, am I right?”
He’s not letting the criminal suspicions go, is he? At this point, I shouldn’t care. I had a clean police record back in Twinbrook, and an even cleaner one in this time. Anything beyond a cursory investigations should tell everybody that I’m an innocent citizen, who just happens to be the color of toothpaste and is able to land someone in the hospital if I bite down hard enough.
“This has to stop,” I tell Arthur, “I know it sounds suspicious to keep saying that I’m not a criminal, but I’m not here for that.”
“I’ll try to take it, but why are you here? Your clothes look clean. And I’ll admit, you don’t look like the plasma and gore type.”
“I’m begging you, give me something to do tonight,” I say, knees bent as I plead for a party recommendation so I can get a glass of that sweet, prohibited juice, “You don’t know what it’s like being stuck in the flat all day.”
“No problem. I’m a big fan of Dandy’s parties myself. Big, lavish, everyone’s there. And it’s illegal, but the police don’t dare bring those parties down. The juice is always the best,” Arthur says.
“What, a big, popular, touristy thing?” I ask, “Listen, I’m not here for that. Anywhere nice and small?”
“I mean, those are everywhere, but…”
“...You’re risking a bit, you know?” he says, “I mean, the whole town thinks you’re one of us. And the police are all over small parties on a slow night. One drink and you're suspect. You’re going to land your rear in jail going to one of those.”
“I need to dip my toes into the scene somewhere. Just give me an address?”
Arthur stands there in thought, stroking the three-day stubble he maintains.
“Anywhere but 52 Sunburst Street. Cassat. She’s a madwoman, I tell you. She almost busted me while getting my services to clean up. But I think that’s the only party tonight.”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“Good luck, then. How about I give you a hand? You can’t change your color. But you can get out of that miniskirt.” He shoves a pile of red clothes into my hands. “Your pick, Jo.”
I think about it.
I take his advice.
While I check my fangs, he thumbs through a book. The pages rustle in a distinctive manner, due to the thinness of the pages. I glance behind my back to see him reading from a green book. My green book.
“Hey, get your hands off that!” I nearly swat the volume from his hands, “What chapter did you read, anyways?”
“I dunno. Some parts with you and a cute red-haired guy. And the parts where you did the dirty with that fairy,” he smirks, “You bagged a hot one.”
“Who? Kath?” I ask, referring to an old lover of mine.
“No, she doesn’t do it for me. I mean the red-haired one! He was a hottie.”
“Oh god!” I exclaim, “How the hell can you think that?”
“I know you can’t see it. But you grabbed a hot one” he says. I then look at the picture above his desk.
He's right, I don't see it. I also don't want to be reminded of him, my husband, but I won't burden Arthur with that story just yet.
Arthur poses with another woman, four times. She scares him, or they slyly look at each other. Each pose is as platonic as possible. Of course, I’d just spend the entire time marveling at his lady-friend if I was in the photobooth with her instead. Her tilted, blue eyes and the bow of her upper lip are certainly easy to appreciate.
“Is that you wife?” I ask, pointing to the picture.
“That’s her. My Eileen. Did you marry your best friend? That’s exactly what it feels like.”
“Marrying someone you’re friends with but not attracted to in the slightest?” I ask.
“Exactly.” He shoves the book back towards my chest, “It’s a sensitive issue. I care about Eileen like no one else. But it’s pretty obvious that I’m having my way with other men on the side.”
“Never thought I’d sympathize with you that way,” I say, “But I think you bagged a stunner yourself.”
“I know I can’t see it.”
I spend the rest of the day at my flat, ironing my nice dress for the night. It no longer smells like our closet back in Twinbrook, nor like me (it shouldn’t; I wore it once), though the silk is very wrinkled. Thankfully, if my dad taught me anything, it was how to iron silk.
As I told Arthur, I took the challenge to go to Cassat’s party. Ms. Cassat acts friendly when I first meet her, shaking my hand and looking quite ignorant to, erm, the elephant in the
tummy room.
We talk for a bit, and for one moment, I think that Arthur got her all wrong.
But should I trust the look she gives me from behind the bar, blending drinks for her thirsty guests?
After one glass of juice, I can’t form an answer.
Sucks that I couldn’t.
Word Count for this chapter:
1,576Word Count so far:
62,774
