Unholy Habits (currently being edited)

15

I drove to the cafe after I stopped home to see my aunt after school. We didn't get to talk too much because my other aunt, her sister Lisa, was there. And they were jawing off about the house and me and how great I was doing. They whispered on about me though, thinking I couldn't hear, but I did. "How's she doing? Do you think it's time to send her to see one? Has Sam been around?" I stopped listening after those questions and announced that I had a meeting at the cafe and would be back with the car in a few hours. They had waved and smiled but then went back to whispering. I had been fine with that because I wasn't too into the idea of hearing their gossip about me, thinking I couldn't hear while I could the entire time. Aunts are always like that.
But I had come to the cafe, and was shocked to see that Gabe had already been sitting down. He looked mighty angry, and his head was bent down with his hood on and the steam from his cup was billowing into his face. He had one hand on the mug and the other on his leg which was bouncing nervously. There was a single black pen in front of him. And on the other side of the table was another mug with a napkin covering the top of it, resting about its edges.
He looked up when the bell from the door rung. The side of his neck was all dark with purple bruises and so was his jaw. The bone under his left eye was red and slightly swollen-he didn't look too good. I walked over, his bag and my own in my arms. I took a seat across from him in the booth, setting his bag down next to his feet and setting my own bag next to me on the booth, taking it off.
"Hey," was all he said.
"Hello. Here earlier than me, how interesting." He didn't seem amused though, so I stopped poking fun.
"I got you a coffee, hope that's alright." I smiled a small smile and nodded.
"Thank you very much," I said and pulled the mug closer to me. I lifted the napkin off the top and the steam rushed out. I inhaled the savory scent of the bitter coffee and sweet mocha cream. It tasted even better than it smelled. He watched me bring it to my lips and taste it. I sucked in my stomach tight and sat a little straighter, feeling the judgement of his eyes begin. I set the mug down on the napkin after my sip and let out a little sigh.
"Are you ready to begin?!" I asked as enthusiastically as I thought was acceptable. He gripped the pen in between his two fingers like it was a cigarette and offered it up for me eyes.
"I guess so." He muttered. He really was a mess of melancholy words and strands of blue and purple-he wasn't the most pleasant today, not that he ever really was. I reached down and pulled his back pack into my lap. I pulled out his schedule and then his folders.
"So in advanced painting, all of your assignments are in this folder. Since its finals week, there isn't too many assignments, but I guess you have one from Thursday, a new one from Friday, and then a big project for the final. Unfortunately, I know nothing about that, so that's all on you." I explained, shoving the advanced painting notebook back into the backpack. "But I can help you with creative writing!" I explained excitedly. "Are you doing advanced next semester?" I asked. He nodded slowly. "How many compositions have you written so far?" I asked.
"I don't know, like eighty five." My eyebrows crinkled together."
"But you should've written at least one every day for homework plus the in class assigned ones-"
"Not like I'm always paying attention. Besides the fucking teacher always butchers my shit and gives me bad goddamn grades." I raised my eyebrows at his vulgar language and snappiness.
"Well, to get into advanced creative writing you have to write at least fifteen more, though more will look better and make you second semester final a lot easier." He shrugged. "Well, we'll start with a composition now, and setting you up to write another one tomorrow." He grunted and rested his cheek in the palm of his hand. I pushed the notebook to him, opened to a fresh page and then tapped the top of the page.
"Date it. Always always, date it." I demanded. He eyed me for a long while and then put the date in the top right corner.
"I'm not fucking seven," he muttered while he did, though.
"Alright, now-" I looked down at the paper, seeing how far behind he really was. "This composition is from two weeks ago, old old stuff." I muttered to myself. "Okay it's all about metaphors. You know what those are right?" He glared at me. Not saying one word, but glaring at me like he wanted me to drop dead. "Okay, I'm guessing you do." He blinked hard at me with an expression of pure unamused distaste. "Anyways, what would you like to do this composition on?" He shrugged.
"Tits." I felt my mouth open slightly in shock, feeling my cheeks dust over in a scarlet pink from his rudeness. I cleared my throat. He poised his pen over the paper as soon as he saw that I was about to speak. "Tits are mountains. Tits are perky Penguins in the Arctic sea. Tits are my vice in this goddamn filthy world full of creeps and shit. Tits are life." I looked at him in disgust. I mean, at least he understood metaphors.
"Excuse me, but that's pretty offensive. I don't think anyone-"
"Why would it offend you, you're as flat as my ass." He shrugged and went back to the paper and continued writing. I felt my mouth fall open. I snapped it shut, feeling the heat in my cheeks once again. I sat up a little straighter and felt my eyebrows pull down hard. Had I not been trying to exercise kindness, I would've slapped him dead across the face. At least, that's what my girly instincts told me to do.
"That's a horrible composition. Write it if you want, but I guarantee a bad grade. I would butcher your papers ten fold if you wrote things like that. You shouldn't blame the teacher if you're purposely writing stuff that's vulgar and offensive." He just shrugged. He put an X through the paragraph he'd begun.
"I'll write it on asses then." He poised his pen over the paper. I put my hand over his to stop him. He pulled it away quickly.
"Can't you think of anything less vulgar than that?" He shook his head and shrugged, gripping the seat hard with his hands because his arms were flexing hard-it could be seen even through the jacket he was wearing.
"I don't know, sex?" I sighed deeply and pressed the tips of my fingers to my forehead and he just laughed. "This is great, by the end of tonight, you won't want to come back to teach me and I won't have to do this shit anyways." I blinked hard and leaned in a little closer to him.
"Just because you said that, I'm now as dedicated as you are vulgar." He raised an eyebrow.
"Okay okay, quitting the shitting. I'll write about chick's bodies." I shook my head viciously.
"With the way you write that's no better than any of the other ideas you had." He just smirked at me and bent his head down low and began scribbling words down on the piece of paper. I felt very defeated, he was as dirty as could be and there was no way I could mentor that. After fifteen minutes of him scribbling and scratching. And running his pen along the notebook, adding dots and lines, and silently working productively-he sat up straight and dropped his pen on the notebook.
"Vuala," was all he said when he was done. I took the notebook from him and turned it around so that I could read it. The pen dropped into his lap as I did and he just eyed me closely, like he wanted to cut me with his glares-he really almost did. I began reading.

Her body is veiled in materials. Materials as salt and the sea, I think they tasted so. Her legs are veiled in this velvet skirt, and it reaches the floor. I wonder if her legs are long road maps leading to the answer. I wonder if her legs are short lanterns lighting the way to the treasure. Knees, sore and bruised doves. Or, knobby know it all golf balls, digging into my thighs as she climbs aboard my ship.
I wonder about her thighs. Are they thick waves of salt and the sea like the velvet storm of the skirt surrounding her mysteries? Or are they thin, skeletal artifacts of the cave men who understood not the beauty they've been placed under on this planet? I wonder about her hips and waist, the curves she veils beneath materials that I don't want to see anymore.
I wonder about the chest beneath the breasts beneath her sweater. It's probably made of a mechanical structure of pumps and valves and springs, springing out blood throughout her licorice veins. She's a network of bitter licorice and bloody factories working day and night to keep her alive. She's a complication of cancerous cells boxing white blood cells, defeated in their own shame, and yet defeating all good. Eating her like the licorice she is, bitter and tasteless, and yet a force of sweet chords plucking at my own strings connecting to my pebble heart.

I cleared my throat and looked up at Gabe. He was staring out the window, the pen between his teeth, and the hood still pulled over his head. For a moment I felt this deep admiration for this deep niche of talent hidden within him. But as I watched him chewing the cap of the pen and tapping his foot to some unknown beat, I realized that he didn't even know he had this talent. That was the best kind of talent, that kind that the person didn't even know they had.
"What do you think?" He asked, finally. I looked back down at the notebook and then up at him and smiled a great big smile.
"This is wonderful."
"Really?" He seemed so confused. "I purposely tried to make you hate it." I laughed at this and handed him back the notebook.
"Keep writing stuff like that. And with a little bit of my editing help, you'll ace that final, guaranteed."