clocks

4

George

"We're done for today," Dream says, putting his pages away in a clear folder. I don't know how long we've been sat here together, the room has been engulfed in full darkness, and Gracie has fallen asleep against Dreams side.

"I can keep going," I urge, trying to ignore the amount of pauses or three minute breaks I've had to take in the last twenty or minutes or so. He ignores me, shaking his head.

"The last thing I want to do is burn you out," he tells me, letting out a long yawn. When I turn stubbornly quiet and he must be able to tell, he calls out to me again. "We have time, George. There's no need to rush this."

We've gotten up to only my third day or so, the day after I decided to punch him in the hallway. We both laugh when the argument comes up, the two of us repeating different versions of it where the other looks like the bad guy.

Some of his questions throw me off, they seem like they have no relevance to the story he's trying to tell, but I don't question him. He knows what he's doing, I know that much.

"You head to bed," he says to me, sitting up a little from the couch as he wakens up Gracie. Her eyes appear lazily from behind a cushion. "I'll lock up, do you want me to bring you up a glass of water?" he asks, stretching his hands out in front of him.

"I can get—" I try to say, but he cuts me clean off before I can even finish.

"You've done enough for tonight," he says to me, standing from the couch. Gracie stands too, like she knows it's her bedtime. "Go to bed," he repeats, "I'll bring you water."

When he makes it clear that it's not just a suggestion, I wrap the same blanket I'd appeared downstairs in around my shoulders and I shuffle down the hall and up the stairs.

Somehow, even after the long nap I'd taken earlier today, I do feel tired. The talking, the digging to remember even the tiniest of details that could be important to him, the roll of questions after questions. It seems to have taken my weight out from under me. I am tired, he was right.

My bags are still packed at the end of my bed. l'll do that tomorrow, I think, as I switch on the small lamp beside my bed and pull back the bedcovers. I don't lay down right away, I sit with my back to the headboard of the bed, waiting to hear his footsteps up the stairs.

- music
stargirl interlude by the weeknd

After a minute, or three, they come. The stairs creak- and for some reason, I'm nervous. I listen to the sounds of his house as he moves closer and closer to the door. Then, he knocks.

"Come in," I call out, still sat up. He nudges open the half-open door, a glass of water in hand. He smiles over at me and leaves the glass of water on the table beside the bed.

Then, he kind of just stands. Like he's gearing up to say something, but he doesn't know how to say it- or- rather he doesn't know if he wants to say it. I sit on the bed, my legs crossed, staring up at him. He just— stands.

I start to wonder what would happen if I were to reach out and touch him. Nothing wild like I'm used to, just a small rub against the side of his arm, or a simple swipe against the palms of his hands.

Would he understand what I meant by it? Do I even understand what I would mean by it? His skin looks warm under the glow of the lamp, it looks like marble, like it isn't real skin. Would he take offense, and nudge me away and tell me he doesn't think its a good idea?

"Can I sit?" he asks, making my eyes rise from the smoothness of his arms to his face. I'd been staring, I realize. Had he noticed?

"You can sit," I repeat, my eyes still boring right back into his. Some of me wants him to lay down, to lay here and not move at all until I can take it no longer and have to move to him. Some of me wants to tell him to get out.