luke
She is not an apparition; not a wish hazily dreamt at two A.M., or a hope to be broken and swept away. People like her, people who become homes to wanderers like me, are promises. Kept and never shared, held close to your heaving ribs, and hope they hold onto you in the same ardour you hold them.
My lips are still tingling with the aftertaste of her, and I find myself touching it now and then, a phantom of a kiss lingering ever so ghostly.
I still have the image of her under me burned through my eyes, my memory, and I feel my cheeks heat up every time I return to it. Hours later, it's still engrained front and centre, the plague for thoughts. I can't blame myself, it was a sight for my longing eyes.
Her morning cold skin still feels fresh against me, bare back against my chest still warming me from the freezing bedroom a/c system. She's still here, her luscious whispers now just an echo of a moan against my ear.
The morning wears her well, I notice this. Though, her hair dishevelled and the slight tendency for her legs to wind the blanket to herself, it didn't matter as much as the sole fact that I laid right beside her; still and observant with how her lashes would momentarily flutter, her eyes underneath glancing left and right, how her unclad chest would rise and fall with each velvety breath.
"I'm heading out to buy something, okay? I'm taking your keys," I whispered to her, hoping she'd have some slight memory of this after waking, or that I'd return and she'd still be asleep.
She, much to no surprise, didn't reply coherently, but rather in small mumbles of French that I didn't recognise.
Waking at the early hour of six wasn't to my choice — it seems that I haven't gotten used to the sudden time zone change — but I got up anyway and trodded to her kitchen, deciding that breakfast would be a great thing to wake up to. The only problem is that I only know how to cook pancakes and anything else that can just be placed on a pan and fried.
Her fridge overwhelmed me with vegetables and an odd amount of broccoli, so I resorted to putting on my clothes as though I was getting out of a one night stand, as quietly as I could, and am now in the grocery searching for the pancake mixes. Why are there so many? How many mixes can a person possibly need? It seems a little abundant.
As expected, the 24/hr grocery kept its timelessness, your sense of time drifting behind as though it doesn't chase after you in the real world. Bright fluorescent lights blink away what's left of my drowsiness as I take two Betty Crocker mixes just in case: one original and a chocolate one since the others just have fancy spice names that I'm not that familiar with either.
I stack them on top of each other on one arm, along with a toothbrush in a carton that seems to be really sold on making my teeth pearly and fresh for the rest of the day! if I use it with its companion toothpaste that will leave your mouth feeling minty and fresh for the next 20 hours!
I head to the counter and place my items on the counter, giving my card for the cashier to scan before walking out, time resuming with every step I take outside the grocery.
Letting the three items sit on the front seat, I drive back to her apartment building, the light starting to come through little by little through the buildings.
I'm reminded by yesterday's drive, feeling her hot gaze on me, and I had to look around to pretend I couldn't notice it.
In truth, whenever she stares at me for so long, I feel somewhat honoured and grateful that she still considers me physically inspiring. She stares at things for long amounts of time when she wants to emulate their figures and shapes down on papers or canvases, or if they've suddenly struck the chord of inspiration up in her mind — and being one of those things brings nothing but the slightest bit of pride from me and a whole lot more of admiration for her.
I pull up in front of her apartment building and take the grocery out, walking in through the lobby and into an empty elevator with a woman donning running shoes, leggings, and a maroon tank top, sweat dripping down her temple as she removes a wireless earphone from one ear, a classical piece playing before she shuts it off with her phone.
She reaches to press the button of her destination, making me pause when she presses the same button I'd been aiming for.
"Same floor?" She asks, a hint of an amused smile wearing her.
I nod, still hearing a hint of the orchestral sounds from her other earphone. "Yeah,"
"You look familiar. Did you just move in?"
I decline the question with a shake of my head. "No... I'm staying with my girlfriend," I answer, the last word coming instinctively and taking me by shock. "She moved in last month,"
Tilting her head, she nods slowly, a seemingly-smug (or knowing?) smirk playing her sharp features. "Ah, okay," She twists her mouth in contemplation, and I'm left to anticipate her oncoming words. "You still look pretty familiar, though. Do you sing?"
I put on a thin-lipped smile and nod as well. "Yeah," Here's to hoping she doesn't recognise me.
For a minute, we stand in silence as the elevator takes us to our destined floor, her classical music playing in muffled sounds.
When we get off, we walk side by side as we head through the same corridor. I look at her in confusion, but her eyes are trained down to her phone as she turns off her music.
It's when we finally separate that I realise she's just a door across Clem's flat, unlocking her door without as much bother as I am. She sends me a courteous nod before entering her flat. "Have a good day, Luke," She says before closing her door and locking out, leaving me to stare at the chipping paint, my mouth slightly agape as I realise Clem must've told her about me. That, or the greyer thought that she'd realised who I am.
Shaking the thought off, I shove the key into the doorknob and twist, entering through and hearing some sounds from the washroom; shower water running and splashing against the floor tiles.
I set down the pancake mix on the counter and scoop Darth up with one arm, carrying him and the vanilla pancake mix to the couch to read. "For a 'ready mix', this looks complicated," I murmur, setting Darth on my lap as I skim through the ingredients list and straight to the instructions.
Darth begins to sniff on one corner of the box, trying to shove his nose onto the space between while I try and read.
"Okay, let's try this," I get up and set Darth onto the counter, gathering a bowl and a pan after a long minute of looking through the kitchen drawers. "Where the fuck are the — it says whisk, I can't find a whisk. Is a whisk essential to this cooking process?" I sort through the drawers once again.
"I don't have a whisk, but you can use a spatula," Clem's voice emerges from her bedroom, making me look up in surprise. "Good morning," She smiles, and I don't breathe, all my attention on her.
She approaches, patting her wet hair dry with a purple towel, donning a familiar beige hoodie with roses printed on the front, its length reaching down a few inches below her hips right before the hems a pair of shorts poke out.
"Is that mine?" I ask, gesturing at it and watching her smile smugly. "I was looking for that a few days ago!"
She shows off my hoodie and strikes a pose. "Too bad, it's mine now. Beat it," She leans over the counter and grabs the pancake mix box. "You didn't have to buy this, you know,"
I take the box from her and pry it open taking the plastic bag filled with flour from inside. "You have a lot of food, but I don't know how the hell to make them into something someone can have for breakfast," I open the top-most drawer and take out a spatula, resting it into the mixing bowl I'd prepared.
Clem gives me an offended gasp. "Excuse me, yes you can. You could have some eggs with some nice spicy carrots, or oats with blueberries. How dare you insult my veggies," She narrows her eyes at me, lips almost pressing to a smile.
"Aha, well, you see. I'm such an expert that I can only make pancakes. Now, where are your measuring cups, Betty Crocker here is telling me to measure some things,"
"Betty Crocker can suck ass, I don't have any measuring cups. Eyeball it," She makes her way to my side and takes the scissors, opening the ready mix pack and pouring some into the bowl. "Can you crack an egg here, let me check if I have vegetable oil,"
She leaves me to my own accord as she helps with creating the mix, her focused eye reminding me of when she'd paint, though less concentrated as she'd sometimes huff out a breath and groan.
We manage to make it work, successfully pouring in a good measure of the pancake mix into a heated and buttered pan, sitting on the floor and waiting as it cooks.
Her legs display out, mine as well, my toes almost reaching the other side of the wall if I slouch far enough. "You have any plans today?" I ask, watching Darth jump down to our level and sit between my legs.
Clem sighs. "Nope. I wanted to paint, though. I have this photo of you and Sunny from before," She leans her head back against one of the drawers. "I also have these mini canvases I found, they're pretty cute, so I wanted to try them out,"
"Well, then you have the whole day to paint," I hide back a smile at the thought of her painting me. "Also, I met your neighbour earlier. I might've accidentally told her you were my girlfriend," I stroke Darth's light fur, soft under my callouses as I bide for Clem's answer. "Is that okay?"
She slides closer towards me and leans her head on my shoulder, linking her arm with mine. "Yeah. That's okay," She replies almost too silently but enough for me to hear. "And fitting, too, I'd think," She adds.
I watch as she walks her pointer and middle finger down my arm, down to my palm, before spreading her hand and intertwining her fingers with mine. "Hm... you like me or something?" I ask, putting on a playful cocky tone.
Laughing, she gives a slight nod. "Yeah. Or something,"
A small smile graces my lips, the smell of the pancake starting to surround us. "Well, I like you too," I respond and eye her hand in mine, smaller and daintier, meant to fit and hold me. "A lot,"
"Is the pancake burning?" She asks, looking up at the stove.
"Oh, shit," I kneel up and peer at the pan to see if the pancake has started bubbling from the top, thankfully not burnt. "You want chocolate chips?"
Standing up, I take the spatula and carefully flip it while Darth circles around my feet, his tail brushing my ankles.
"I shalls gets some choc chips," Clem mumbles, getting up and scouring through her fridge.
"You keep them inside?" I question, watching her pour a handful and lean on elbow on the counter, gently placing a few chips on the cooked side of the pancake.
"Makes them harder," She responds, throwing one into her mouth. "Aight, pick an artist, any artist," She grabs for her phone and sits up on the counter, putting one foot up and leaning her chin on her knee. "I propose One Direction? The Beatles? MCR?"
"Black Parade," I answer, watching the chocolate chips on the pancake melt slowly.
Nodding, she puts it on shuffle, a familiar piano introducing itself for an entrance. "Overrated, but that doesn't make it any less legendary,"
"Over — excuse me?" I give her a gasp as she raises her hands in defence.
"Turnnn ahway," She sings, swaying her shoulders back and forth. "This is not, though. I like this one,"
"You better. This is one of the best tracks on the album," I narrow my eyes at her while trying to scoop up the pancake onto the plate beside the pan.
She hops down and opens a drawer, bringing out two cups. "I beg to differ, but okay,"
She smirks up at me, an act I haven't witnessed since last night, which makes me hold my breath again.
"Alright, fine. What, in your opinion, would be the best track?" I ask, pouring some pancake mix onto the heated pan.
She hums, contemplating as she pours coffee grounds onto a coffee pot. "Teenagers. It's just such an anthem and you can't —"
"Teenagers? Over Cancer?" I ask rather loudly, heart swelling at her laugh.
"And you can't say shit! Teenagers gets me all hyped and energetic. It's the song you burn the government to!"
I put on a disappointed face and shake my head, sighing theatrically. "I can't believe this. Do I really know you, Clementine Ivers? Is that really your name, even? Teenagers? I can't believe this. I can't believe you. Cancer? That's been overdone," I give a playful scoff.
She whips a confused look at me, brows creasing in a way I haven't seen before. "What — you want it to be named Pneumonia, instead, or something?"
I shrug. "Yeah, sure,"
This brings another gracious laugh out of her, one I could hear on forever if only we weren't so mortal and physical.
I watch as she carefully makes our coffee, a process she makes seem longer than it actually is due to her taking her time, no sign of hurry in her movements.
Time slows again, the same way it did in the grocery store aisle and when I woke up this morning, time biding itself and hoping I'm taking note of everything. Everything and nothing, because, simultaneously, both are important. It's the same logic you could apply to living, if you plan to. Because nothing is important, we wither and we decay, then you make most of it, turning it around so that everything is important; you take note of your lover's hands and the way they touch yours, their laugh and how it lifts a burden that's been sitting on your chest, and the way they matter because nothing ever had to that extent.
I sigh, flipping the pancake.
Philosophy is a topic too heavy to be thought on at 7 in the morning.
I place the spatula on the counter and pull Clem beside me by her waist, her squeal igniting a smile on me as I lean her chin up and rest a gentle kiss on her lips. I want to say something more than just those three frightening words, I'm afraid they don't equal to what confessions I've made up in my head, so burying them in kisses is as good as any.
"How many chocolate chips you want in yours?" I ask, parting away and grabbing the bag of chocolate chips.
Clem hums as she pours some coffee in our mugs. "Five,"
I empty five chips into my palm, glancing at her and giving her an odd look. "Why five?"
She leans over the pan and takes a chocolate piece, carefully placing them over the cooking pancake in a seemingly undetermined shape. "My dad used to do this for everyone's pancakes for school before mom decided we shouldn't be having so much sugar in the morning,"
She opens the cupboard beside us and grabs a dark bottle of chocolate syrup, shaking it harshly before hovering it over the pancake. "And so... you trace them..." She whispers, dripping syrup from one chocolate chip to another across it, slowly forming what looks like a star. "Tah-dah!"
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tah-dah!
i quite like this chapter,
esp the first part 😌
also that cover by billie
is so frigm beautiful 🥺