OUT OF (TOUCH) ... eddie munson

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SHE WANTED SOMETHING TO HAPPEN--

something. anything: she did not know what.

avenues passed by, and she felt complete and utter boredom gnawing at her innards and soaking her soul, skull to ankles. she observed the little markets and the antique shops and the dental firms from the back seat of steve's burgundy bmw. he and robin had been bickering, like they did every morning on their way to work.

it was october. only a few things had really occurred since the adrenaline rush that was independence day week. mayor kline was ousted from his position, and they had to appoint a new chief of police what with the sudden death of jim hopper. the cutting edge released an investigative report advertisement covering all of the oddities in hawkins, discussing the disappearances of many, most notably barbara holland. eleven began to live with the byers after hopper had passed, and lucille was there for her and max, as much as she could be, but they seemed to be holding it together quite well under the circumstances. other than that, the only new development in lucille's life was that steve and robin began working alongside her at family video, with jonah and the black sheep that was keith.

she knew she was meant to, naturally, feel a stir of content and even gratification by the idea that these lovely people she would regard and remember and associate with fondness were to be working by her every day. yet she showed up to work alongside them and punched in alongside them with a great and allusive sense of melancholy. there was no indicator or clarity as to why she felt this way, but she knew it was there.

she sat at the register, centered amidst thousands of vhs tapes. it was only her and steve working at the time, and robin and jonah were meant to clock in at darker hours of the day. robin would tag along, having nothing to do during the october month other than work and do her homework. she was sat somewhere in the back reading moby dick as steve was checking the tapes. lucille had her book opened on the countertop, lying neglected and unread.

lucille's temple was stretched by the bony skin of her wrist. her gaze was stuck on the door, but she did not watch it. she closed her eyes, and, in the soft orange light of her lids, she felt she could safely scrounge the corners of her brain for her discontent.

she remembered october, she would think to herself. she knew the autumn. she knew of hawkins' amber-coloured memoir, and of its great many forlorn ghosts.

perhaps she'd known autumn too long. she knew what it was like to be the fall far too many times than she was comfortable with. she could look at the colour of it. everything was fire behind her eyes, and smoky-mauve. her fire would flicker for a moment, a thought too stubborn to ignore-- it felt undeniable that she'd been an april lily fallen in autumn-- soon, she would be of frost and death. she'd been a lily-of-the-valley, of beams and of youth and of purity. she felt now, that she was only a spider lily, of finality and goodbye and death. there was an inkling of her which knew when her flower changed, but she couldn't confront it now.

there was a bell which tolled outside of her eyes. in the stillness of her clouded peach-coloured thoughts, there were rhythmic, hasty footsteps approaching the counter. her eyes squeezed themselves into opening, taking a few conscious blinks.

she recognized the body before her. his skin was dressed unapologetically-- with frayed denim and wild brunette coils. she, while gloomy, explored the kindness in his dark eyes, and something inside of her stirred.

her lips were modestly parted. lucille's jaw had gone slack during introspection, and only deepened into an almost agape state with the arrival of this familiar, waggishly bizarre fellow. she watched him approach the counter, and she watched his deep eyes and his dilating pupils. his eyes bore into hers briefly, a fleeting moment of intimacy with a stranger she felt she'd known before. she tore away first.