Failed NaNo2003. [15 Dec 2003|05:40pm] And Thursday was fast approaching. The Christmas cookie tin she hoarded her tips in was still closing far too easily for her liking. Sighing and dropping the tin, she realized she wasn't worried. It always came together and if this November was the exception, she could always pawn the Les Paul she'd purchased on a whim. She was finding it easier to let go of such things these days. She chalked it down to maturing and becoming a more centered person. Privately, he chalked it down to an inexplicable false guilt complex she harbored, an excuse to grab glory in the least suspicious way. It irked him but of course he admired it. It was why they were partners. She thought the term amusing. How did his friends react when he mentioned a partner with whom he was in constant contact and tended to slip away with on weekends? The looks on their faces when their eyes settled on her tits never ceased to amuse. That was when she'd laugh, "Ah, but he still loves the cock, darlings. We're just good friends." He was gay, but gay wasn't him. Occasionally, after a drink or a joint too many, he would camp it up. She suspected that these accidentally-on-purpose moments were attempts to test his own borders, using intoxication as an excuse to explore what his sexuality meant to him. During the unforgivingly sober light of day, he seemed almost afraid to accept and admit his sexuality, though he'd known it his whole life. It made her angrier than it did him that he couldn't feel free to be himself from the beginning. Then again, everything made her angrier. This was quietly accepted in the beginning as one of the differences that held the two together as such a perfect whole. She rejected any terms to describe their situation outright because, like Christmas and postcards, the concept was too hollow. Words didn’t serve and were almost always false. Partner - that was his, and she couldn’t lecture him all the time. Precise in all things, she would say, and he would sigh. She was sitting on the edge of her bed holding the tin and staring into the shadow dusk had given her room when he knocked on her half-open door. She looked away from the shadow but not at him and let out a questioning, "Hmmm...?" "I got back early. Thought I'd come by here and see if you wanted to get dinner. Sushi? I've been in the mood for miso lately." "Miso? Ugh, you really make me wonder sometimes." She was smiling. He kicked the door lightly. "Come on, you want to get there before happy hour ends, don't you?" An Achille's Heel it may be, but it worked. She had grabbed her wallet and jammed her feet into brown sneakers in moments. He led the way down the dim hallway and out to the landing of her floor in the bland studio apartment block. --- "I don't know what it is. Brit television and books, not to mention music, just seem so much more enjoyable overall." She tapped her cigarette ash against the chair arm and hoped he didn't notice. He was far too worried about plastic porch chairs. "You just wish you were there. It's not any better. They obsess over us, and want to absorb our culture, because their's is so stale and boring." His eyes were drawn to the spot on the chair arm and he debated saying something. She'd just dismiss him, but it was the point of the thing. "Yeah... I'm infatuated with a dead culture because I'm so disgusted with my own." "I thought you were a true Brit." He loved trying to catch her out. Bastard. "Well, yes, but I mean, it's not like I was born there. I just... my body was built for colder and grayer climes, my darling." "God, I know. What is it with this place? Why do people keep coming here?" "We've got some good clubs and shit, for people who like that. And I guess it makes sense for old people and families." She couldn't think of anything worth saying that hadn't been said. The thing about friendships is that, in the beginning, you're so enamored of the originality of the person, but you can't still be freshly original a year later. You're you, and when they know you, you're old hat. --- I depressed the button that would open the gas hatch and started to reach for my cigarettes. My finger was poised to roll the rough silver and light the flame when a smacking sound caused me to jump. His hand was flat against the window. "Don't light that, you idiot!" he laughed. I felt my face grow warm and I dropped the items, turning away from the window so he wouldn't see. I just forget things like that sometimes. For the longest time I was terrified about pouring my own gas. No one had ever shown me how and no one seemed to even think it was something you had to show. Painting. I didn't understand. Did you paint in layers? Did you paint seperately? Did you 'draw' with the brush, or rely on blobs of color leaving thin spaces to create images? I asked in so many different ways and was always answered with a blank stare and slight pity. I didn't find that fair. When people asked me about sketching or cartooning, I explained as best I could. I've always said that there isn't a person who can't draw, simply a person who hasn't practiced enough. I taught myself to draw but I can't teach myself to paint. It is like the day in high school when you realize with a cold wash of shame that doors have already started closing to you. It's too late to be a ballerina. It's too late to be a gymnast. And no matter what you do, you'll never be a guy. He opened the door and I jumped again. I'm hard to scare, since I rely heavily on my peripheral vision. He says it is because I'm suspicious. "Gotta love Alabama. The gas is cheap, the guys are hot, and those hot boiled peanuts..." "Since when do you like boiled peanuts?" I feign annoyance, but I'm literally tickled pink that some of my Southernisms have found their way into his character. We're so much more believable as Southern Gothic writers if we eat hot boiled peanuts from roadside stands and drink warm whiskey out of Mason jars. He doesn't seem to have caught on to the Mason jars yet.