*****
Henry squeezed his way through the crowd, following the back of Seth’s jacket painted with a glow-in-the-dark design that resembled graffiti. In the darkness, everyone looked the same; a woman brushed against him, her sequined jacket vaguely familiar. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing two or three shapes disappear towards the door.
Seth reached a table lit by a pink paper lantern where a young woman was seated with an open book. She offered him a pleasant smile of white teeth that glowed in the dimness, even from Henry’s distance. As he approached, she redirected her smile to include him and held out a row of polished red nails.
“Henry, this is Gwenique,” Seth shouted over the roar of conversational crowds. “She’s the one I was telling you about.”
“Right,” Henry nodded. “Nice to meet you.” Despite his raised voice, he could tell Gwenique hadn’t understood the words. He sat down in the chair beside Seth’s and glanced over the drinks menu. A line of cocktails and mixed drinks that rotated as house special. He nudged Seth to ask his advice on which one to order, but his question was lost in the noise; Seth was leaning forward, exchanging whispers with Gwen.
The sound of air blowing into a microphone made customers facing the other way turn towards the noise. A skinny figure in a Jazz and Jive t-shirt hovered behind in the spotlight, the glint of metal from his multiple piercings like starbursts from his skin.
“Hey, guys, tonight’s main act is about to take the stage. The one you’ve all been waiting for is a band we here at Jazz and Jive are proud to present–the Techorati!” An enthusiastic round of applause followed as the figure moved away from the mike, drawing attention to three guys positioned with electric guitars and a keyboard. Serious faces, spiked hair, and an all-black-clothes ensemble highlighted with electric bold colors in random patches. Henry noticed one of the guitarists wore a single blue sneaker in place of the matching black one.
A profound silence followed the applause, save a few coughs or whispered voices. The whine of an amplifier was audible as the band made a few key adjustments, staring glumly at their audience as they stood before the microphones like posed mannequins.
The guitar screeched to life with a minor chord, followed by a series of random notes played swiftly, as if digital data was dialing through a modem. The keyboard leaped to life with a similar effect, almost burying the monotone lead vocalist with his slightly clipped English accent.
Seth’s head bobbed along with the sound, as if he were already a fan. The music seemed scrambled in Henry’s brain, a message waiting to be decoded by a secondary device. He tapped his fingers on the table and offered Gwenique a smile. She was already buried in her book again, making notes in the margin with a pencil.
The song ended with another burst of applause. The band’s facial expressions remained the same as before as they struck up the notes of a second, slower number.
Seth leaned closer, his breath hot against Henry’s ear. “I’m going to talk to their manager,” he whispered. “See if they’re interested in an interview for the site.” He slipped quietly from his seat, weaving his way in the darkness towards a table near the performance.
Henry adjusted the pink shade over the light, its glow casting strange shapes on the table through the designs cut in the paper. Across from him, Gwenique tucked her book aside as the waiter appeared with a round of drinks.
Taking a sip from his glass, Henry decided to attempt quiet conversation, now that the roar of the crowd was subdued. Asking her about her name seemed inappropriate– although, who named their child ‘Gwenique’? Workplace anecdotes were always a safer choice.
“So, Seth tells me you’re a relationship expert,” he said, clearing his throat.
Seth’s girlfriends ran the gauntlet of career diversity. Fortune tellers and clowns, even Renaissance fair performers. A relationship expert by comparison seemed normal, almost as commonplace as the librarian from the previous month. Whose workplace, however, was later revealed to be a row of bookshelves and computer tables in a room at a nudist resort.
“Seth and I met at a therapy party for one of his former girlfriends,” Gwenique explained, with another toothy smile.
“A therapy party?” he repeated.
“They’re quite popular now. An event in which one “exorcises’ the hard feelings from previous relationships by celebrating one’s current state of happiness. You invite friends, exes, coworkers–anyone who participated in a shared life experience, in order to show them your thriving state of being.”
Henry masked his incredulous expression with a polite smile. “That’s quite a connection to forge,” he answered. “Were you there as a therapist?”
“As a friend,” she answered. “Not in official capacity.” She lifted a paper umbrella from her drink and gently closed it, setting it aside on her napkin.
Gwenique was slightly different from Seth’s usual taste in women, with fewer book readers than bar maids. To Henry’s recollection, this was the longest conversation he had with one of his friend’s conquests in months. Perhaps Seth’s tastes were finally maturing towards substance instead of mere looks.
“Seth talks quite a bit about you,” she said. “He told me that you recently broke off a close connection with a woman in your life.”
Henry smiled faintly. “You mean Lois,” he answered. Seth, you snake– exploiting your friends for romantic gains. “It’s been several months, so I really don’t think about her as often as rumors claim.”
Gwenique tilted her head, giving him a sideways glance. “I realize that you may be uncomfortable discussing it with me,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “But you really should talk with someone, Henry. When Seth talked about you, my first thought was of clinical codependence syndrome. Where one partner in a relationship bears the greater burden of pain and guilt in comparison to the other.”
“Thanks, but–” He trailed off as she tucked her book inside her purse and reached for his hand. “Let me study your love line for a moment,” she said.
Love line? The picture of a perfectly ordinary therapist disappeared from Henry’s mind, relegated to the long line of tarot card readers and nudist librarians. Gwenique turned his hand palm-up, studying the lines running across his skin. “You have an intersection at the fourth chamber, meaning you are experiencing a crisis of love. Or a crossroads, depending upon the karma’s placement.”
“So what do I do?” he asked. “See a karma therapist? Take up a new hobby?” He envisioned this encounter concluding with her business card in his pocket and recommendations for setting up an appointment with her secretary.
“You don’t do anything,” she answered, closing his hand and releasing it. “Except work on expelling negative energy from your life. Including the previous cosmic connection you shared with another.”
Henry nodded. “Such as throwing out her sweater,” he said, feeling fairly certain that Seth painted his loveless state in bold and descriptive colors.
She shrugged. “What’s in a sweater?” she asked. “Nothing, now that the person who wore it has entered a new dimension in your life. The nerve connections of your relationship are what’s important. Unless you take definite steps towards release, you will find yourself in tragic pain for months to come.”
Drawing her napkin from beneath her glass, she scribbled something on it using a pen from her bag. “I can recommend some herbal therapies that can help the release process,” she said. “Plus, a Zodiac reader who can help you align your house for future romantic encounters.” Gwenique slid the napkin across the table to Henry.
“Thank you,” he answered, politely tucking it in his pocket. Behind him, the band’s techno number reached its crescendo, a wailing volume that forced him to raise his voice with these words. Seth had still not materialized–no doubt waylaid by a friend somewhere.
He formed his lips into a smile, realizing he should express gratitude for her suggestions. Her face was filled with a gentle pity as she touched his arm. �
�Do this for yourself and your friends,” she said. “Believe me, Seth is very concerned about your cosmic health.”
“I’m sure he is,” Henry answered, his tone growing slightly moody at this mention of his friend’s name. “Something for me to keep in mind in the future.”
He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder as Seth plopped down in the chair beside him. “The interview’s all set,” he said. “Tonight, right after the show at this buzzing little studio open all night.” He glanced from Gwenique’s placidity to Henry’s forced smile. “So what did you guys chat about while I was gone?”
“Oh, lots of things,” Henry answered, returning Seth’s shoulder squeeze with more strength than necessary. “What a shame you missed out.” Seth took a sip from Gwenique’s glass, flashing a relaxed grin in Henry’s direction. As Henry’s eyes narrowed, picturing a future revenge involving Seth’s collection of guitar picks and a pair of thick kitchen shears.
*****
David Copperfield improves slightly, the longer one reads. This is my opinion, after mustering a little interest in the story. Dickens has a scandal brewing for the characters– that much I know for certain–but I wish he wasted a little less time in reaching it. As for Melville’s Moby Dick ... well, it might be better if I saved those thoughts for later.
Henry paused, staring at the message on his screen. He had taken to blogging later and later at night, probably due to the afternoons and evenings spent wading through books. Still a chore, he decided; especially with so many manuscript galleys awaiting him each morning at work. Someone should give people like him a permanent excuse note on the subject of literature knowledge. A release card they could flash at parties and in trivia games, to prove they hadn’t deliberately skipped out on these subjects, they just ran out of time to absorb them.
He propped his cold bare feet on the leather ottoman, beside Ron the cat’s warm presence. Ron raised his head and gave him an indignant stare for a moment before returning to sleep. Henry snapped his laptop shut and slid it onto the coffee table.
Maybe Gwenique had a point about his love life. Maybe the memories of Lois– and how much he loved her–were poisoning his life. Keeping him from a future with anyone else.
Pulling open the drawer, he reached beneath a stack of folded shirts and pulled her sweater from the bottom. The scent of her shampoo drifted into the air, mingled with the lavender sachet and cedar lining from the dresser’s interior.
Holding it in his hand, he tried not to picture her dark hair, the way her eyebrows quirked or the way her laugh formed her mouth into a perfect curve. He tried not to picture her at all; instead, to imagine the sweater in his hand was simply a pile of wool with buttons sewn to the front.
Padding to the closet, he opened the door and drew a box of destined charity things from its depths, its interior piled with jogging shoes that didn’t quite fit, complimentary novels that Henry never read, an extra overcoat in a shade that didn’t suit his complexion. He lifted the flap and dropped the sweater inside, watching it disappear into the square of darkness that exuded the smell of cardboard and cheap paper.
The flap shut behind it, the box slid across the wood floor and into the closet without resistance. He kept his mind as blank as possible on the subject as he padded off to bed, without glancing back at the closed door of the closet.
Chapter Thirteen
Chop, chop, chop. The rhythm was in Abigail’s head, not in her hands. According to the open cookbook Asian Food Made Easy, she should have a whole plateful of diced mushrooms and onions by now.
Instead, the blade of her knife was indecisive, hesitating to cut through harder substances like root vegetables or soft, leafy greens. A pile of mangled onion strips lay next to uneven heaps of radish with a shredded appearance.
“You’re doing this wrong.” Maureen’s glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose as she squinted at the cookbook. “The book says to cube them, not cut them into such tiny pieces.”
“I know,” Abigail said. “This is the best I can do, trust me. If they wanted to be bigger pieces, then they’d cooperate instead of ending up in these lifeless piles.” Her knife skittered off the side of an eggplant, wedging itself in the wood of the cutting board.
“Watch it,” said Maureen, scolding her. “You’re going to lose a finger in a few minutes.” She pulled the knife away from Abigail’s hand. “Let me try it. At home, I do all the slicing–Richard turns into Niagara Falls if he so much as whiffs a raw onion.”
Maureen’s hands were more deft at cutting; in a few minutes, a pile of diced radishes occupied the plate where she had originally planned to slice mushrooms. Abigail was now crushing those beneath the blade of a second knife. They came apart in small pieces instead of slices like the pizza commercials on television suggested.
Abigail blew her bangs out of her face, examining the results with frustration. “Maureen...” she began. Beside her, Maureen raised a sweaty face from a pile of chunked carrot.
“Do you smell something burning?” she asked. Abigail froze at the sound of these words.
“The pasta,” she began, dropping the knife. On the stove behind them, a dark smoke rose from a pot now overboiling onto its surface. Abby reached for the lid, then yanked her hand back, yelping with pain. Maureen grabbed a dishcloth from the counter and lifted it off.
“Where’s your oven mitt?” she asked. Abby pulled open a series of drawers, digging around until she produced one printed with sock puppet features. Shoving her hand inside, she lifted the handle and hurried towards the sink, dancing out of the path of hot water cascading from the sides. Her shrieks were echoed by Maureen, who was spinning the knob for the cold water. The frigid spray and heat collided in a cloud of steam; mushy white noodles poured into the drain catcher, along with charred bits of pasta. A blackened crust along the bottom of the pan where the unstirred pasta had burned in place.
Maureen groaned. “Didn’t you add any oil to this pot?” she asked. She dropped the lid into the water bath, where it submerged alongside the ruined pasta.
“The recipe just said to add a pinch of salt and boil,” said Abby. “How was I to know there was any other way? I’m not exactly a cook, as you know.” She yanked off the oven mitt and tossed it onto the counter. It made contact with a radish and sent it tumbling to the floor.
“Do you have any more boxes of pasta?” asked Maureen. “Anything, even spaghetti.” She scraped the chopped radish and carrot into a bowl, then pulled open the kitchen drawers and rifled through the utensils. “Where are your measuring cups?”
“Measuring cups?” Abby repeated. She was rummaging through the cabinets, in search of pasta boxes behind granola bars and puffed rice.
“Yes, those things you use to measure food amounts. How were we supposed to know when we’ve chopped enough vegetables? The recipe books says two cups of diced carrots, three cups of onions–”
“I only bought one onion, “ Abby called over her shoulder. Her hand made contact with a burned-out candle, a crusty can opener, a box of matches shoved behind rows of canned soup and fruit cocktail. Not even a twig of spaghetti, much less an unopened box of flat noodles.
She heard Maureen release a long sigh. Her friend’s shoulders were slumped as she rested against the counter before the piles of ruined vegetables. Her body began trembling after a moment, vibrating the pile of red-dyed hair pinned messily on her head.
“Maureen,” Abby climbed down from the kitchen stool. As she reached for her shoulder, she saw the laugh lines gathered around Maureen’s eyes and mouth, her lips pinched shut to quiet the sounds now escaping from her nose.
“We can’t–” she gasped, “–we can’t make this work.” A loud snort of laughter emerged, an infectious sound that forced Abigail to bite her lip and restrain the giggle forming in her chest.
“We could make a salad,” she suggested, before her own laughter escaped. Picturing a plate piled high with chopped radish and shredded mushrooms.
“No dressing,” a
nswered Maureen, between laugh-snorts. Abigail’s knees collapsed, dropping her into a heap against the kitchen counters. Burying her face in her arms, she allowed it to break loose altogether. Maureen joined her, slumping so quickly she knocked the plate of diced vegetables from the counter, showering them with pieces of root vegetable. Abby shrieked aloud, raising her arms to fend off the pieces.
“There goes dinner,” she choked. Maureen’s humor was subsiding into silent shakes again.
“We have to give up on your Asian recipe,” she answered, scrambling to her feet. “Unless we want to starve tonight, that is.” Wiping her hands on a dishrag, she pulled open the cabinet and rummaged around until she found a box of unopened cookies. Abby didn’t bother to hide her guilty look at the sight of one of her weaknesses–a package of biscotti, one of the many dietary vices Maureen had scolded her for in the past.
Popping open the cellophane, Maureen pulled out a cookie and snapped it in half.
“Dinner or cleanup first?” she asked, holding one piece out to Abby.
“Dinner,” answered Abby, snatching the cookie as if it were a lifesaver.
*****
“Richard would kill me if he knew how many glasses of this I had.” Maureen inspected the label on the bottle of red wine from Abigail’s fridge. Abby tilted the last swallow from her glass into her mouth, then slouched on the sofa beside her. The package of cookies was almost gone, along with a can of chocolate icing.
“It’s a girls night out,” Abby answered. “Who cares? Besides, I forgive you, since you helped me break my resolution against prepackaged foods once again.” Waggling the last biscotti cookie in Maureen’s direction before popping it in her mouth.
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