Failing Upward

Chapter 5 (part 3): Strangers in the Night

I woke sore and tired and a little bit guilty for my antics the night before. I vaguely recalled dreaming that I was flying--I wasn't myself. In my dream, I glanced at my hands seeing little brown sparrow wings. I remembered someone telling me I was weightless. Caught helpless in an air current, I heard a clicking in the distance up ahead. I glided, sucked toward the sound, into an old broken-down bell tower. Then I woke.

Shit. Then, I remembered last night. The uneasy impression I usually felt knowing a great dream wasn't real, diminished. I heard the click, click, click from my dream--and it was Sherlock on his laptop in the other room. I also remembered my little revenge--if a screaming, maniacal masturbator could ever be vengeful.

Sherlock was working on a Sunday morning. What a work-a-holic. I never work on Sundays unless Sherlock has me on one of his cases chasing who knows what. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock and groaned--9:22 with a dot.

What was the real purpose of those stupid digital dots anyway? Why can't they make them straight forward and say a..m or p.m. ? There was no universal dot meaning--on one clock the top dot means a.m. , another it's p.m . Probably some type of traveler's conspiracy theory to never know night from day. I imagined the evil clock maker now with his magic wand on the assembly line tapping each clock as each rolled by, "Dot... no dot... dot... no dot..."

I had an urge to pull the covers back over my head and sleep forever. Maybe I could fly out of this mess of a life like a sparrow in my dream. Maybe nothing else would happen if I just stayed in this bed. Although, last night I would have preferred something did happen other than with my own hand.

Might as well get up and face Sherlock.

I sorted through the clothes Mary gave me. I held up the jeans--relaxed button-fly Levis. The only time I wore skin tight anything was on stage. I only wore them because the other band members razzed me to wear leather or stupid fish net. I hated it.

I sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looked around his room--something I hadn't done before now. All the furniture in the room matched. All colonial antique cherry. Very nice collection. I felt relieved to see dust collecting on the dresser. His housekeeper that wasn't a housekeeper didn't come in here.

He had novels stacked on the floor next to the bed and some spilling underneath. I checked the titles and authors. An eclectic taste--sci-fi, classics, detective novels--I noticed a few of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut and Tolkien, but mostly science journals. Franz Kafka novel, half hidden under the bed. A book of poetry by e.e. cummings on his night stand.

I always have the urge to open closets. I know it was nosy just like looking in people's medicine cabinet (or secretly reading customers' cards), but I couldn't resist. Besides, Sherlock was far worse snoop than I could ever pretend to be. He just didn't care if you knew he was looking. Just a regular closet. More organized than my dad's, messier than Mary's, and much neater than mine. With a lot more clothes. Nice clothes. He really liked clothes.

Sherlock knocked on the bedroom door.

"Yes?" I said, snapping the closet door shut.

"Just checking to see if you're up. I need to get dressed. I forgot to get some out last night." Ahh, yes, last night.

"You can come in." His red silk bathrobe was open. No shirt and underwear only underneath.

"Nice boxers," I said. Silk Looney Tunes with emerald green background.

"One of those Christmas presents you can't take back," he said, bending over. I wouldn't take them back either. "There's cereal in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Help yourself," he said.