Around the Corner (Discontinued)

Chapter 29

Good things come in threes, Hope said. Three musketeers. Three blind mice. Three lines in a haiku, the three primary colors, and three pigs hiding behind the walls of three different houses.

And now, us. Vincent, Hope, and I.

We don't have a name. We are nothing, except a few kids lounging outside a cottage straight from a fairytale. What name can we give ourselves, to a menagerie like us? Hope has insisted on just that; a menagerie.

"The lens is slightly damaged, so I'm going to replace that too," Vincent comments. My neck turns. He's sitting with his legs crossed, oblivious to my lazy stare. Pieces and casings cover his lap and the ground surrounding him. Not messily, however. Each part is arranged in a precise and symmetrical manner, and empty spots are adjusted. I lay by his leg, my hand picking at the soles of his shoe. It's black like his sweater, his glasses, and his sweatpants.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask. He opens up the main portion of his camera, examining mandatory parts and essential workings I can't distinguish. Perhaps he explained it to me a few minutes before. My attention drifts too easily to the sound of his low voice and I loose track of the words he says.

"I like yellow. Like yellow." He picks up a glass piece resting on his lap and gingerly fixes it onto another part. It makes a satisfying click and pops into place.

"Yellow?" I smile bitterly. "Yellow."

His eyes dart to me, and he peers over the ridge of his glasses. "I'm the one who repeats things around here."

"No, I think it's funny," I say amusedly as I claw at sole of his shoe. My fingers dig into the rubber, pulling away the loose pieces.

"Funny?" He glances down at the camera in his hands, pressing his thin lips.

"She means boring," Hope inserts. On the other side of Vincent, she lays on an ragged pillow. Vincent's body obscures her face from view, but from my proximity, I can make out her feet shifting restlessly. Vincent's sweater does a poor job of providing comfort, but it's an improvement to having nothing between my skull and the ground.

"No," I reply, "I mean funny. Yellow is very plain."

"Plain?"

"That's the nice kind of boring." She hasn't mentioned June, and I'm thankful. Their silence allows me to forget, exactly I need to do right now, while it's a happening moment and not a distant memory. Forget.

"Then I adore boringness."

"You'd be the first," Hope responds. I tear away a large piece of rubber off his shoe. He urges Hope to do the same on his other shoe, in the same area and way I had done it.

"What's your favorite color?" Vincent inquires as he picks up one of his tools, an overly complicated tweezer, and pokes the insides of the camera. He knows exactly what he's doing, leading me clueless as to why why he asked for my presence in the first place. I fidget uncomfortably, at the thought of him viewing me as mistake he wrongfully invited.

"Purple!" Hope chirps.

"Do you like purple, Laila?"

"My parents wanted me to," I shrug.
Vincent picks up another part, a shiny metallic piece resting near my face.

"How so?" Hope questions.

"My middle name is Violet."

Vincent's eyes, a messy collection of viridescent hues and shade of cerulean, find me. "Laila Violet Ochoa." I blush.

"I'm with Vinny. Suits you well," she compliments.

My eyes close while my cheek presses against the cotton sweater. Every breath brings in faint scents of laundry detergent and Vincent, an indescribable mingling of soap and him. Sleep beckons, and I reach for it.