Bodies Are Disgusting (5 page)

You snort. "Yeah, me either."

He cocks his head to one side. "
Street
Fighter
?"

"Oh god, is that your answer to all of my
problems?" you groan, throwing off your covers and rolling your
eyes. You went to sleep wearing a plain gray a-shirt and a pair of
elephant-print boxers. Most of your bruises are covered, though you
know there's still a fair amount of yellow-green blotching around
your neck and shoulder. It's been a while since you bothered
shaving your legs; you haven't dressed in a particularly feminine
fashion for over a month, and you don't see the point to it
otherwise.

Simon favors you with an expression somewhere
between laughing and kicked-puppy. "
Marvel vs. Capcom
?" You
throw your pillow at him, which he deflects back into your lap.
"All right! Jesus, Dougie, no need to get violent."

"I hope the irony of the fact that you're
saying this while suggesting the names of fighting games we can
play is not lost on you," you grumble. "How about we kick it old
school and I set up my laptop in your room so we can run through
Diablo II
."

He sticks out his tongue in an exaggerated
expression of disgust, but he still laughs. "Whatever. I don't
care, as long as I'm killing some pixels somehow."

It doesn't take long to get things set up:
Simon sprawls out in his ridiculously expensive desk chair and
keyboard pulled into his lap, and you stretch out on his bed with
your laptop on one of his pillows. In what seems like an instant,
you've both slain thousands of hell-spawn, and sunlight is
beginning to filter through the blinds.

After glancing at his plastic cat clock (one
of the ones with a swishing tail to count the seconds), Simon
scrubs at his face with one hand. "You going back to work tonight,
Dougie?"

You park your avatar in town and quit the
game. "Nah. Still have one more visit with the neurologist before I
get cleared to operate heavy machinery again, and JD isn't going to
have me sitting around on the clock if I can't do my job." You shut
down your laptop and start coiling up its power cord. "What about
you?"

Simon stretches, his spine popping as he
twists around. "Yeah. The shop's doing a drink-and-draw this
evening, so I'm on the cafe. You should keep me company, dude. It's
boring with everyone fawning over the models."

"Dude, don't even try to pull that one over on
me," you say, rolling your eyes. "You ogle the models as much as
the next guy."

Simon seems to have enough dignity left to
look incensed. "Do not. That's why I'm the favorite on d'n'd
nights. They know I'm not going to try to cop a feel, give out free
shit, or try to snag a scantily-clad woman's number."

Ah. The truth comes out. Crossing your arms
over your chest, you glare at him from his bed. "Oh my god. You're
hoping someone hits on me, aren't you." It's less a question than
an aggravated statement of fact. "You have to be kidding. I told
you, I'm not ready to date again yet." It's a battle you and your
roommate have been fighting since almost the second Amanda broke it
off with you. The fact that he'd let things slide since the wreck
had caused you to let your guard down.

To your surprise, he only shrugs, though a
strange expression crosses his face. "Nah, not this time. I just
worry about you, Dougie. You've been kind of off since I brought
you home. I don't think it's good to leave you alone. You might
fall and hit your head on something."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude," you
grumble as you scowl. "You're not making me want to keep you
company this evening."

"What if I bought you lunch? Can I bribe you
with food? Please don't leave me alone with the wannabe art
students." Despite the mock-desperation of his words, he's grinning
at you. You sigh; living with him for so long has gotten him well
acquainted with your weak points.

"Fine, sure, you asshole. Taking advantage of
the fact that I can't turn down food I don't have to pay for." You
continue to scowl at him, but you're pretty sure the effect is
ruined by the smile you're trying to hide.

* * *

Food that you don't have to pay for ends up
being sushi. Simon, despite his retail job, possesses a
not-inconsiderable amount of money, mostly from the trust fund his
parents left him when they passed eight years ago (well before you
met him). His favorite sushi joint is only a mile from your house,
but it's chilly so you both pile into his car so he can crank up
the heat.

For the first time in days, you aren't too
tender to wiggle into your binder. It's a nice feeling to finally
be wearing it again. You pull on your favorite pair of jeans and
layer a thermal shirt and a t-shirt over your binder, and then meet
Simon back downstairs. He's chosen to skip dealing with his
contacts for the day and instead wears his stereotypically hipster
black plastic-framed glasses. Combined with his skinny jeans, his
Chuck Taylor's, and his plaid shirt, it does little to keep him
from looking like an entitled prick.

You punch him lightly in the arm. "God, you're
really
trying
to look like a complete d-bag, aren't
you?"

He just laughs. "Don't be jealous of my swag,
Dougie. It's not my fault you can't look this phenomenal in
plaid."

The sushi joint is a little pricey, but as
soon as you're served you realize it's worth it. Simon steals a few
pieces from your plate, which prompts you to order nothing but
shrimp nigiri and crab rolls. Perhaps it's a little underhanded to
prey on his allergies to keep your food safe (especially when he's
paying for it), but he makes such a hilariously disgusted face that
you can't feel that guilty.

During lunch, you needle him between bites,
“So, I’m not the only inhabitant of Casa de Glyndon whose dance
card is conspicuously empty.” It’s only fair, you think,
considering all the grief he’s given you for being
unattached.

He scowls, poking at a piece of egg sushi on
his plate with one chopstick. “You are not my wayward,
stereotypically Jewish mother,” he said, words low and sullen. You
roll your eyes and snort.

“
Your own medicine doesn’t taste
that great, does it?”

“
Oh, fuck you. I’m just waiting
for the right moment.” He stabs the piece of sushi with one
chopstick and pops it in his mouth.

You can feel your eyebrow creeping up almost
of its own volition as you eye Simon across the table. “That makes
it sound like you’ve got your eyes on some poor schmuck, since I’m
pretending to be your stereotypically Jewish mother.”

His scowl deepens and his black-framed glasses
slip down his nose. He shoves them back into place with his middle
finger. “You know what? No. I am not having this conversation with
you. This isn't any of your business.” The cadence of his words
brooks no argument; trying to push the matter will only result in
him shutting down completely.

"Okay," you say. The sushi on your plate
becomes your sole focus. "Consider the conversation not being had."
He grunts a syllable of subdued annoyance, but he doesn't see fit
to flip you the bird when he adjusts his glasses again.

The awkwardness of the conversation bleeds
away once the meal has been paid for and you're both standing next
to his car. Fumbling for the keys, Simon heaves the sort of sigh
you normally associate with the chests of teenaged lovers. "All
right, man, I'll play it straight with you
only
because you
weren't a complete tool back there and I value your
input."

If his stare were a physical thing, you're
certain it would have bored a hole straight through your skull.
Feeling as though you should make some sort of acknowledgement, you
nod. Simon unlocks his door, slides behind the wheel, leans over to
let you in. Once you pull your door closed, he starts speaking:
"So, there's this guy, right? He's pretty hot, seems pretty nice,
only hangs around work when I'm on shift. Seems a little
interested."

While your initial assessment of his reasoning
wasn't quite on the mark, the reason for his invitation to the
drink-and-draw becomes clear. You fight down the smirk that tries
to rise to your lips, knowing instinctively that Simon would only
be offended by your amusement and probably clam up again. "Need
some back-up? Want me to test the waters, maybe get his number?
Proper wing-man style? Is he why you changed up your piercings and
started wearing that necklace?"

"Ugh, I
knew
it was a mistake telling
you," says Simon with a groan as he starts the car and throws it
into reverse.

"No, no, no! I'm totally on board with this,"
you protest. "I'll hang out for the drink-and-draw and see what
this guy's like. Won't say a word about you, won't mention you
think he's cute. Not a peep."

Silence stretches out between you, Simon's
expression refusing to soften.

Finally, you offer, "You're my best pal, you
should know I'm not out to make your life miserable."

He nods. "I know, man."

It only takes a few minutes before you're back
at the house, killing the remaining time until Simon's shift begins
by playing more
Diablo
.

* * *

The bookstore where Simon works is what you
consider a nearly impossible place tucked away on a shady
side-street deep in the heart of downtown. From the outside, it
seems like it would be no more than a tiny hole-in-the-wall
establishment of no note, the only thing distinguishing its
storefront from the others nearby being the gaudy neon sign. Its
hours are displayed in lurid pink: open daily from 10:00am -
4:00am.

The interior is warmly lit by primarily
incandescent lighting. The door opens to a narrow foyer that leads
to the landing of two sets of stairs. One set descends six steps to
the cafe, while the other ascends ten steps into the bookstore
proper. From the outside, it seems like the whole shop would be no
larger than a modest town home, but the interior blooms as soon as
you make it past the entrance. It becomes clear that the owner has
lain claim to most of the rear half of the block and has lined it
all in shelf upon ponderous shelf of used books.

Your favorite aspect of Simon's job is the
smell that permeates the whole place: a pleasant mingling of worn
paper and dark-roasted coffee beans. It's so rare for you to find
yourself in the bookstore that the scent always catches you
off-guard, and you find yourself standing on the landing for a few
moments with your eyes closed to soak it in. Simon brushes past
you, on his way to the cafe, leaving you to fend for
yourself.

The strap of your laptop bag digs
uncomfortably into your shoulder, so you adjust it and make your
way up the stairs into the bookstore. While the cafe offers free
wireless internet access, you'd rather spend your time picking
through the shelves, at least for now. It has been far too long
since you've just wandered through a bookstore with no goal in
mind.

The store sees a surprising amount of traffic
for a location so well-hidden, or so Simon once told you, but it's
almost eerily empty on this particular afternoon. You can tell that
the shelves haven't been organized in a while based on the stacks
of paperbacks pushed somewhat haphazardly against them, waiting to
be replaced (or perhaps placed for the first time, in the case of
new trade-ins). Their labeling system is fairly intuitive, however,
and it's easy to locate the historical fiction and fantasy novels
that typically catch your eye.

It's easy to lose the few hours before the
drink-and-draw to browsing books, so you do. It's almost as if
you've got the entire book shop all to yourself: everything is
quiet, and you don't see a single soul as you browse. It comes as a
shock when, after three hours of solitude, you turn a corner and
nearly run into a youth of about your height and build.

"Whoops, sorry," you mutter, eyes firmly fixed
on the other person's shoes. They are leather boots, black and
scuffed from hard wear, though you can't tell how tall they are
once they disappear into the person's stone-washed jeans. Your eyes
follow the line of the person's legs up, taking note of the ripped
out knees, the chain ostensibly attached to a wallet, the spiked
leather jacket, and then their face.

There is a moment in which your heart stutters
as you meet the person's eyes. His face (it is certainly a young
man) is almost the mirror of yours with only a few concessions made
to his masculinity. It's what you'd imagined you'd look like when
you were younger, stupider, and more prone to fantasizing about
what you might be if you'd been assigned a different sex at birth.
The young man's hair is artfully swept over one eye, and he wears
it in the shaggy sort of undercut you'd never been brave enough to
try, dyed a shiny black. You surmise that his ears must be pierced
multiple times based on the amount of jingling you hear when he
turns to look at you, but he has none of your facial piercings.
Instead, he has a single ring in his septum. Several of the
earrings on his exposed ear have feathers dangling from
them.

He stands, frozen, as you examine him, muscles
only twitching to arrange his face into a subtle sneer once you've
had a moment to stare. Something that might be amusement (or
possibly disgust) flickers across his features as he returns your
regard. Finally, he says, "I'd been wondering if we'd have cause to
meet. Of course, I had my suspicions, but..." He laughs, though it
sounds more like the cackling of a bird than anything human. "Well,
I suppose now I know."