by Amy Hoxton
Giggling nervously, I averted my eyes from his. Those damn emerald pools could read me like an open book under a magnifying glass.
“I’m thankful you didn’t,” I confessed, though I kept the rest of my confessions locked tight. “And for what it’s worth, I think it’s beautiful.”
He bowed his head ever so slightly. “Thank you, Lucy.”
My lips pursed to form a weak smile. Alexander Harris was more than he let on, perhaps even more than he thought himself to be. I turned on my heels and left, my footsteps echoing across the massive open space that was his office.
I leaned against the heavy doors after closing them behind me. Ear flat against the ebony surface, waiting for him to prove he wasn’t just a pretty face with a shitty attitude.
His chair creaked painfully, and a short set of heavy footsteps followed.
I smiled.
The sun began to dip down just as I was heading out of the building.
The bus ride home gave me time to reflect on my thoughts, which essentially meant blacking out and almost missing my stop. It happened more times than I was proud to admit.
It had been an interesting day. Started out slow and boring, as always, but ended on a note I couldn’t have seen coming if I tried. Alexander’s expertly hidden true self, perhaps.
I couldn’t be too sure yet. Alexander was and will forever be an enigma, a beautiful paradox of a man who couldn’t be defined. Quiet and reserved deep within, even though his outward appearance didn’t match. He defied labels with ease. Alexander was running from something, that much was clear — but what?
Every question that appeared in my mind added to the mystery of his character.
I came to my senses just in time to see my stop approaching, and thanked my lucky star I wouldn’t have to walk back home.
All the lights were off in the house, meaning Brianna hadn’t come back yet. I got used to it, and frankly didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact I tended to enjoy those rare moments of peace. I loved Brianna, though sometimes everyone needs some time to recharge their social batteries.
I laid on the couch, staring at my blurry reflection on the black television screen. Boredom was starting to set in at an alarming pace. I forced myself to push through it.
I closed my eyes and flashed back to earlier that day, in Alexander’s office. Only this time things were different, far too different.
His hands were on me. I crumbled under his touch, mirroring a sandcastle hit by a tsunami wave it never saw coming. I was his. Unquestionably, incontrovertibly his.
Alexander pushed me onto his desk rather unceremoniously. I let him, encouraged it even.. I felt his hot breath on my lips, just as a similar warmth began spreading between my legs.
I wanted him just as much as he wanted me. He knew he could have me whenever he damn well pleased. Just as his lips were about to touch my neck, a loud screeching noise pulled me back into my living room. Brianna was home.
She had forgotten her keys. Usually I would chastise her for it, but that day I couldn’t be happier about it. Getting caught doing questionable — yet completely normal — activities on a shared couch was extremely out of character for me, and I intended on keeping it that way.
Alas, the very thought that someone could push me in such a way was unusual at best. Was I falling for him?
I needed to clear my head.
My usual remedy for those situations wouldn’t work, however. The house was spotless, my mental state not so much.
The smell of gasoline clung to the fresh air. It wasn’t the cleanest, though that hardly mattered to me. I just needed to get out of the apartment for a while.
Darkness fell. The beauty of New York — or its worst side, depending on who you ask — lied in the city’s permanent lack of quiet hours. I didn’t mind the noise and I had even grown to like those obnoxious billboards that pestered certain parts of the city. It was a melting pot of every culture on the planet, often merging to create something new.
That was the magic of the city I lived in, the kind of magic that shattered the monotony of the everyday grind. Every corner could lead to something one had never seen or experienced before. It didn’t quite work too well that night. I walked along the sidewalks, lost in the thoughts I was trying to repel. And I found myself staring back at what used to be Shaw’s coffee shop.
I hadn’t been there in little over a month. Inside, construction workers had already begun tearing the place apart. Seeing it like that was comparable to getting kicked right into the heart.
The memories began flooding in as I stared, mindlessly, through the dirty glass panel that was the door. Just a metal frame and a sheet of tempered glass I remember cleaning every single day.
I dug my hands into my pockets and turned around to leave, deciding to leave the past behind me. There was no going back to it, unfortunately.
My fingers hit the cold metal of my keyring. A light bulb went off in my brain. A stupid, stupid light bulb.
Shaw had a copy of the back door made for me, in case I needed to take out the trash. I never gave it back — and I still have it. I giggled like a schoolgirl as I circled back, coming up behind the shop to find the rusty dumpster I threw so many trash bags into. Some even broke as I did so, prompting me to spend way too much time cleaning up. It was empty, perhaps for the first time since it had been placed there.
Right next to it stood the wooden door that could hopefully lead me inside. I didn’t know why I wanted to get back in there, though in retrospect, I just needed some closure.
The lock hadn’t been changed. I walked in, my footsteps as soft as those of a cat. The thought of someone being there did cross my mind once or twice, but it was far too late for me to back out.
Each step made clouds of dust rise from the ground. The floors and even parts of the walls had already been gutted in brutish fashion. That place didn’t bear much significance for many, sadly. It did, for me and Shaw. It hurt to see it in that state, on what essentially was its deathbed.
I walked around a bit, retracing the steps I had taken countless times before. From behind the counter, with the aid of darkness, things didn’t seem all that different. Alas, they were, and deep down I knew it would one day happen.
Sighing, I drew a rudimentary heart on the counter, the dust as my canvas. I hoped Shaw would see it, though I knew he wouldn’t.
I wasn’t sure if that trip down memory lane helped me. It could have possibly made things worse, for all I knew. Shaw’s coffee shop would soon turn into something else. A rebirth of sorts, if you will.
I began heading out, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a rectangular shape resting against the naked frame of the wall. Curiosity got the best of me and I approached it. Even in the darkness I could make out the details. Malcolm McDowell’s face stared at me, sporting a devilish grin born from the good old ultraviolence that Alex, the character he portrayed in A Clockwork Orange, was fond of.
Shaw loved old movies. Out of the many posters that littered the walls of the coffee shop, that one was the sole wounded survivor. I carefully slid the poster out of the shattered frame and headed outside through the same door that let me in.
In the end, my little adventure served its purpose. The ghost of Alexander Harris stopped haunting my thoughts — at least briefly — replaced instead by a cheesy montage of all the memories formed at Shaw’s.
The poster I carried under my arm, rolled up into a tube, would serve as a memento.
It was somewhat ironic still. I went out to escape one Alex and came back home with another one, albeit made out of old, yellowed paper.
Thanks, Shaw.
Chapter Eight
Alexander
I sat in front of my television, waiting for it to magically turn itself on and start showing me something that didn’t piss me off.
I didn’t know why I kept one in the first place, I hardly ever used it. Hell, I was hardly ever there.
My office had become my de facto home, co
nsidering how much time I spent there. I could keep lying to myself and say I didn’t mind, though I was sick of it.
That job came with a host of issues I hated just as much as the seat I had to fill. I found refuge in the limitless supply of scotch the world had to offer, though even that couldn’t do the job anymore.
Painting seemed to work. It used to, at least, back when my life was simple. My art reflected it, in some way. I was the farthest thing from a pretentious asshole, but I took pride in what I did.
The painting Lucy saw was old enough to be able to speak. I remember starting to work on it on the second day, after staring out of that damn window for what must have been an hour, perhaps even more.
A beautiful view, there was no denying that. Still, it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t what I wanted from life, but rather what I had been forced to accept. That reality, my reality, had been placed on top of me like a crown on the head of a reluctant king.
In a fit of terrible predictability I tried to distance myself from it all. I succeeded, to an extent. The result was a gaping chasm, an uncrossable void that stood between me and what I should have been. I had no drive and it showed, ask my investors.
That endless, dark expanse had to be filled with something. That’s usually when most people fall victim to self destructive behaviors, be it drugs or gambling, or God knows what else.
Mine was a mixture of genuine detachment, scotch and hired pussy. It got the job done, but at a price.
The meaningless sex felt good in the moment, sure. Then it got stale. Old. Even with new women there was no improvement. It turned into a recurring monetary loss that gave me no satisfaction whatsoever. I saw no point in continuing.
The alcohol, though, that was a different business altogether. In my defense I did try to quit once or twice, with less than desirable results.
I was at my wit’s end and waiting for an epiphany, something that would drag me out of that hole. Getting out of it would have been way easier if I didn’t always keep a shovel handy to dig it deeper. I couldn’t seem to grasp that concept.
Sleep played hide and seek with me that night. I lost.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped out of it, greeting Lucy on my way to my office. I was well past her desk when I realized it was too early for her to be there.
I spun on my heels and retraced my steps.
“How come you’re this early?” I asked, trying to mask the sleep — or lack thereof — in my voice.
Lucy shrugged. The hint of a weak smile shone briefly on her lips before she spoke. “Got an early start. Hardly slept, actually.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I’d take the day off if I could,” I admitted, rolling my eyes.
She paused for a moment, her gaze shifting on the computer monitor in front of her. A couple clicks later, Lucy’s eyes narrowed as I heard her scroll through what I assumed was my daily planner.
“You could,” She declared. “There’s nothing special for today, just a meeting with the R&D department. I can reschedule it, just say the word,” Lucy nodded, her fingers ready to type an excuse.
“Ah, the nerds,” I chuckled. “It’s alright, don’t worry. Should have hired you sooner, though.” I meant that, genuinely. Her presence made coming to work somewhat better. She actively tried to help me, instead of being a glorified notebook.
It was her turn to roll her eyes at me. “Should have spent more time with my father, then,“ She fired back, without missing a beat.
What once was a sore subject now seemed fine to discuss, and I tried to test the boundaries. “How’s Francis, by the way?” I asked, leaning against her desk.
Lucy sighed. “Dad? He’s… Fine. I guess. Still not happy with…” She paused, waving her finger in a circular motion.“…This. He’ll get over it, eventually.”
Her bitterness bled through, despite her best attempts to hide it. Being torn between family and work is not the easiest of situations to be in. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Sometimes people just need some time to adjust to change, that’s all.”
“I guess you’re right…” She trailed off, her gaze cast off into nothingness.
Giving myself a little push, I turned to face her. “Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Lucy nodded weakly, snapping out of whatever trance she’d slipped into. “I know, I know.”
I nodded my head at her and began to walk away. “Atta girl.”
I marched on towards my office, leaving the doors wide open behind me.
I didn’t know why I did that, to be completely honest. Perhaps I wanted to ward off the relentless loneliness that assaulted me in that damn place, or maybe I just didn’t want to break that singular Ariadne’s thread that led me back to Lucy.
Either way, it was new for me. I used to keep those doors closed at all times, and I rarely even ventured out of there. I naturally felt trapped at first, though the longer I spent there, the more I came to terms with that resignation to solitude.
“Sometimes people need time to adjust to change…” I muttered to myself. I drew a weary breath and slumped down on my chair, closing my eyes for just a moment.
I fundamentally agreed with the sentiment, though not every change moves things towards a positive direction. Some did, thankfully. I had been on both sides of the spectrum — first with the company, then with Lucy. I couldn’t tell in which way my life was headed, yet I knew I would either be complacent or burn everything that stood in my path to get back to what it once was. No gray areas.
That attitude could have been the end of me, or ultimately made me thrive. Perhaps change truly was needed. One of those changes I kept talking so much about despite knowing so little about.
Once more my thoughts bounced back to Lucy. She was my secretary, nothing more and nothing less. Or was she? I couldn’t quite tell amidst all that chaos, the very same chaos she kept so ordered and organized.
I had heaps of questions swirling in my head. One by one they would force themselves under the spotlight, trashing any possible answer formulating in my sleep deprived brain.
I opened my eyes. Two hours had passed.
I rubbed the sleep off of my eyes, or at least tried to, before forcing myself to stand up. Feeling somewhat renewed I sauntered over to the easel I kept near the window, hoping inspiration would finally come to me.
It had been a while since I added anything to that painting. The New York jungle, as I referred to it, was far from being complete. I spent an excessive amount of time just staring at it, waiting for something to happen.
When Lucy barged into my office, tablet in hand, and caught me brush-handed, I almost fainted. In retrospect, there was no need to keep my hobby a secret from anyone, much less from a woman who knew exactly where I was and what I was doing at any given time.
In truth, there were days — weeks even — in which picking up a brush felt like a monumental task. I could almost see the black cloud hanging overhead, sapping my creativity away to benefit a job I never wanted to begin with.
On the rare days in which its influence wasn’t as strong as it normally was, I still couldn’t bring myself to paint. I would stare at the canvas, wait for inspiration to strike me like a lightning bolt and promptly give up hours later, after wasting time doing nothing.
Yet, things did change. In a positive way. I didn’t want to admit it at first, though the facts were undeniable: Lucy had been the catalyst, the only different variable in a world of constants.
I entertained those thoughts for far too long, finding myself about to give in to old habits. Forcing myself to act, rather than wait for a sign from above, would be infinitely better than procrastinating.
I took a step back about three hours later, just to admire the progress I made.
The jungle looked far more vibrant, the emerald greens of the leaves melting into the rich brown tones of the wood itself, against a sky littered with soft white clouds.
I was satisfied with it, happy even. It wasn’t done yet, naturally, though I cou
ldn’t recall the last time I felt like that about any of my paintings. Perhaps before I took over the company, though those times were long gone.
Life is unpredictable, despite one’s best efforts to maintain a stable course.
I set the brush and palette down on my desk and made my way towards the doors. I wanted a second opinion on the progress, mine was far too critical to be taken into consideration.
There as a weird smell in the air, vaguely resembling lemon or, at least, the idea of lemon. Its source was quickly revealed — cleaning products, which Lucy had been using.
“Everything alright there?” I asked, poking my head out of the doorway.
Startled, Lucy turned around in a split second. A look of pure panic on her face, which faded as soon as she realized she wasn’t in danger.
She clutched her chest, breathing heavily, while shooting me a glare that could have killed me. I grinned.
“Yeah, yeah,” She nodded, her face becoming flush. “I just like to keep everything tidy.”
I exited my office and calmly made my way over to her.“Did the cleaners miss your desk or something?”
“No, I…” Lucy trailed off, throwing the wet rag she held in her hands on the nearby desk. “It relaxes me. I know it’s weird, but…”
The corners of my mouth curled into a smile I hoped she didn’t misunderstand. “I see, I see. You should try painting, I hear it helps,” I joked.
Lucy’s eyes lit up when I mentioned painting. “Speaking of which, how’s yours going?” She asked, a hint of badly concealed excitement in her tone.
“I actually wanted some feedback on it,” I confessed. “If you’re not too busy cleaning this perfectly clean desk, that is…”
She chuckled and rolled her eyes, as I noticed she always did whenever I would make a joke. Not in a bad way, though. I found it endearing. “I’d love to help.”