Boléro

Amaris

            One of the things I hate more than any other is when I'm trying to unlock something in the dark, and I can't see the fucking keyhole. What makes it worse is when you've come home from a so-so date, and all you want to do is sleep. This somehow makes the lock problem more urgent, and right now, if it wasn't so late, I'd be kicking and screaming at the damn thing. I suppose I should count my blessings, though. At least I don't have to pee. That is the only good thing about the situation; I'm cold and tired, and this is pissing me off.

            I could be one of those fortunate people that have an apartment with an indoor entrance, but I'm not one of those fortunate people. There's this God-awful halogen light that's next to my door, but I can't manage to position myself in a way that keeps the shadow off the deadbolt. In other words, I'm screwed.

            Sighing, I look over the railing to see if my date's car is still in the parking lot. Perhaps he's still sitting out there, making sure I get in all right. Perhaps he's a gallant gentleman who deserves a second date. Nope, long gone. Asshole. For a moment, I consider knocking, but it's past two, and I don't want to wake up my roommate.

            I should be patting myself on the back for finally going on another date. It took my friends a long time to get me off the couch, and even longer for me to believe that not all men are complete assholes that will say they love you and fuck you even if they hate you. I never knew how slutty I could feel until I found out about the hate part and then went along with it for the comfort and stability of good sex on a nightly basis. Whatever…I went on a date, and the guy was boring and has left me in the cold. I can go back to the couch and reruns of "NYPD Blue."

            Finally, God takes pity on me and I'm somehow able to unlock the door. This is good; the key problem is upsetting me unnecessarily. As I go inside, I'm surprised to see the lights are still on. Annie, my roommate isn't exactly an early to bed, early to rise type, but it is pretty late.

            "Annie?" I call out.

            "She's asleep," a male voice says from the kitchen.

            Curious, I wander in and find a guy leaning against the counter in his boxers, smoking a cigarette. He seems a bit uneasy, which I guess I can understand considering he's half naked.

            So, Annie brought a guy home tonight. Interesting. She didn't say anything about a date, so I'm assuming she picked him up or something.

            "Do you work with Annie at the bookstore?" I ask.

            He nods, "Uh huh."

            Uh huh, Annie totally picked up this guy somewhere; she doesn't work at a bookstore. I'm guessing this guy's pretty dumb. Either that or he's trying to defend Annie's honor. Maybe he's one of those chivalrous guys that my mom told me I'd find someday. Maybe he's just like all the other guys I've met since high school.

            "You Jill?"

            "Yeah. Who are you?"

            He smiles at me, "I'm Steve."

            "What are you doing up, Steve?" I ask, "Aren't you supposed to pass out, and then slink out tomorrow morning before she wakes up?"

            Charmingly, he puts out his cigarette in the sink, "Actually I was thinking about slinking out now."

            "What difference does it make?"

            "I'm afraid she'll wake up," he said, "That's the pushiest girl I've ever met."

            "What, did she make you call her 'mommy' or something?" I ask, a bit incredulous.

            Steve the Stud raises an eyebrow at me, "No, I just mean she's very controlling. Must be a real frolic to live with."

            Maybe, but I didn't sleep with her, dumb shit, "I just know how to keep from pissing her off. As long as I don't fuck up the apartment, she's cool. She's pretty much given up on my room. It's give and take."

            "I don't know," he says with a shrug, "I guess she just reminds me of my ex-girlfriend. It kinda freaks me out."

            I hop up onto the counter, suddenly glad that Annie's asleep. She flips when I do it, "So basically, you're one of those guys that gets into the same bad relationship over and over."

            "Maybe everyone unconsciously does that."

            Yes, I like being unhappy, "Maybe you want to be controlled."

            "I don't like being controlled," he said, looking peeved.

            Lord, I'm talking to a Mama's boy at…I glance over at the microwave…almost two thirty in the morning.

            I think he feels bad for snapping at me because he's about to change the subject. I can tell by the way he's blinking, "So what do you do, Jill?"

            "I'm a photographer."

            "That's cool. You get to go a lot of interesting places and stuff?"

            "Yeah, it's cool," I say with a shrug, "I wish my hands wouldn't always stink from the chemicals, but it's all right."

            "You could wear gloves."

            "It doesn't help."

            "How about those Bath and Body Works—"

            "It doesn't help," I say a bit more firmly. I'm not really annoyed with him; everyone says that. There are few stenches more enduring than photochemical stink.

            "Other than the stink do you like it?"

            "I guess. You start to see everything's potential to be beautiful." Ugh, Jill, go to bed, you're getting philosophical.

            He starts to say something but then stops and wrinkles his nose at me, "What?"

            "Nothing, I'm just tired."

            "Good, because I was thinking that you're one of the most negative people I've ever met. You exude hatred."

            "Fuck you, creep," I can feel my eyebrows knit together, and I know it doesn't look good, "I come home at the crack of dawn and find some random douchebag in my apartment. How would you be?"

            He backs off, "You just said you find the potential for things to be beautiful is all."

            "That's why I didn't just go to bed," God, is my voice always this snappy?

            He shrugs.

            "Don't you need to be slinking off?"

            "But you turned out to be so fun."

            Yeah, fun like a punch in the nuts, asswipe. It's a good thing I'm not one of those chicks that carries mace.

            Steve lights another cigarette, "How do you find beauty in horrible things like death and poverty and crap?"

            "I don't really don't cover stuff like that. I mostly take picture of little kids." Jesus, I've got to stop saying that, "I work for a magazine, a parenting magazine that isn't porn."

            "I'm glad you cleared that up," he says, laughing, "And parents let you near their kids?"

            "The kids are mostly models with tutors and stuff. I don't deal with the parents much. The kids don't go to school, so they get me for reality."

            I look down at my shoes, "I don't know if they're lucky or if that's just incredibly depressing. I mean, they're too young to care about anything yet, and here I am preserving their childhood on film."

            Looking up, I discover he's studying his cigarette. Probably thinks I'm high or something. Guess I can't blame him, I certainly sound stoned.

            "So what do you do?" I ask after way too much time has passed.

            He takes another drag, "I'm a waiter."

            Okay, Steve the Stud is now officially Steve the Stupid. Not that I'm surprised; I'm not sure I could keep up a lie this late or early whatever. I'm actually starting to feel kind of sorry for him.

            "The pay sucks, but I working on my masters right now."

            "In what?"

            "Studio Art."

            Idealistic idiot.

I wonder if he considers photography art. I've talked to people who seem to think it's all family portraits and shit like that. It's not; there's an aesthetic aspect there, and you have to be able to anticipate its coming. For some reason I hope that as an artist, he'll understand.

            I test the waters, "That's cool. Sometimes I do a little side work on my own. I just catch people unaware. I've done some abstract stuff too."

            "That's cool."

            My teeth shift in my head. That was a comment of "Whatever, I don't care" as opposed to "Whatever, that's stupid," but it's annoying nonetheless.

            He sighs, and when he speaks again, there's a definite edge to his voice, "I didn't really want to go back, but my parents insisted since I chose such a non-lucrative major. I tried to tell them that schooling doesn't matter; that it's the talent that's important. I mean, Christ, you can't teach people to have talent or to think abstractly. They're both fucking management types, though; I don't think they got it…but that's cool, it's okay," he pauses, "They didn't listen, but, you know, sometimes you do stuff you don't want to do because your parents tell you to. It's all cool. They just didn't get it."

            I look down and fumble with the kitchen drawers. I don't say anything. He's talking about things that I really, really don't want to talk about. My father killed himself about two years ago, and I wasn't that upset. My father is an asshole. He didn't "get it" either.

            "Honestly," he says, "I guess I don't understand them any more than they understand me. How happy can you be doing paperwork all day? Conflict of interest, I guess."

            Oh God, please shut up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me. My focus is still in the drawers.

            "Well, yeah," he says, giving the response I wouldn't.

He must have sensed that I was upset because all of a sudden he puts out his cigarette (in the sink again…jerk) and wanders into the living room. I just keep sitting there on the counter. When he comes back in he's fully dressed; I guess he and Annie must have been in a rush or something.

            "I think I'm going to take off," he says.

            I hear rather than see him leave. I'm shaky now, probably because of the hour, and I feel like I'm either going to cry or puke or something. Going to bed is out of the question though; I would only lay awake and worry. No, not worry—think, I'd think, and then I'd just want to put a gun to my head and fire so I wouldn't have to remember and face people tomorrow.

            Finally I slide off the counter and open the refrigerator. Since Annie's asleep, I can drink the Evian from the bottle. I do so until I get a brain freeze. The predictability is comforting.

            Wandering out of the kitchen, Evian in tow, I notice Annie's clothes strewn about the living room. For some reason this both delights and pisses me off. I glad that she had a good night, but this is somewhat hypocritical of her. Too restless for sleep, I decide to give her a hard time about it.

            "So," I call to her as I open her bedroom door, "Looks like somebody had some fun tonight."

            She doesn't respond. Maybe Steve wore her out or something. I turn on the light and drop the bottle. From the angle of her neck and the look in her eyes, I don't need to touch her to make sure she's dead. That's good. Oh God…did he fuck and then kill her or did her kill her and then fuck her?

What's wrong with me?

            I should be doing something; calling the police, running after that asshole, screaming…something. But I can't. I can't even move. Static finally overcomes me and I slump to all fours. The floor feels really cold from the Evian.