Alpine

Gambit 2 - Origin (2/2)

When I reached my apartment, I dropped my messenger bag on the floor and stumbled into the kitchen. I downed a glass and a half of water. The rest of the second glass went down with two aspirin. My next stop was the bathroom. Taking a shower while I waited for the painkillers to kick in sounded like a good idea. I spun the faucet to just below scalding and stripped out of my work clothes. Step in, kneel, lower myself onto my side, and curl up into the fetal position.

Rivulets of water meandered over my body, leaching the salt and sweat from my skin. A little puddle of water pooled in my hand. Occasionally, it overflowed in sudden bursts. As I watched it, I wondered if the water could take all of me. That, if I laid there long enough, it would peel me back layer by layer into nothing as surely as it could dissolve mountains. An exquisite, gentle lapse into nonexistence.

I climbed out of the shower when I got tired of snorting out the water that inevitably found a path right into my nose. After I toweled off, I tried to smooth down my hair in the mirror. My messy crew cut was not long enough to justify owning a brush or comb. This was the first time I regretted that.

I knew that matching his meticulous styling was unobtainable, but I still wanted to look halfway decent. This could not turn into a repeat of the dissonance between us when I had met him elevator. It was then I remembered my massive pile of dirty clothes and cringed. I looked down. My work clothes were in a crumpled mass on the floor, spotted with wayward drops of water. I did not own an iron to smooth them back out.

With a huff, I picked through the clothes pile to find my watch. It was already five minutes past the half hour he had given me to "freshen up." At any second, he might knock, demanding to know what was taking me so long. Insisting on coming in. How was I supposed to make myself look presentable when I was barely functioning as a human being? I stared at the ticking second hand, crippled by indecision.

One sickly, forgotten neuron started firing. Why are you catering to him? What would it matter if you showed up in a clown suit, complete with the red nose and rainbow wig? Who cares if that psycho likes you or not?

The problem was someone did care. I cared. I wanted that fake, scheming, charming, popular imposter to like me. I hated myself for that. It was like being some loser in middle school courting the attention of the cool kids. Being forced to jump the hoops and dance the dance because self-confidence was in short supply and cliques were everything. Only those brats were not half the operator he was. Then again, nor was I some gullible kid anymore.

Shaking my head quickly, I let my hair tousle the way it was naturally supposed to. I went to my bedroom nook, grabbed a cleaner pair of jeans and a dark blue tee from the dirty pile. They passed the smell test, so I judged them "good enough" and put them on.

When all was said and done, I stood in the middle of my apartment staring at empty space. This was "me." Sure, I felt nothing like myself on the inside, but at least I looked the part. That was more than half the battle. I grabbed my running shoes and headed out the door.

Initially, I went to the far end of the hall where the staircase was. My usual route. I got as far as wrapping my hand around the door handle to the stairwell before I turned back around. Taking the stairs down to his apartment would associate them with him. Contaminate them. I called the elevator and rode it to the third floor in a daze. I exited. I walked to unit 303. My knock was a single, whispered tap.

The door opened on his smug smile, dressed in a pristine formal-casual outfit. As he briefly looked me up and down, I thought he would say "about time." Instead, he asked, "Did the shower help?"

"A bit, I guess."

"Good. Come in." He stepped aside and waved for me to enter.

Through that threshold, I walked out of Blossom and into some ritzy, upscale complex. In violation of the lease agreement, he had painted the back wall of the apartment, the baseboards, switch plates, and window frames sleek black. It made the yellows in his upholstery shine. His one cream couch had become two, joined in an L shape with a side table. They were positioned to view his huge TV with stereo speakers on either side.