Role: Writer, Cover Design
Short story by me in the Spring of 2016.
He sat at his desk, unable to focus. For as long as he could remember, this had been his favorite space. Sitting on his ergonomic chair in a room lit only by a small lamp on his nightstand and the light from his computer screen, everything seemed to be in its place.
He had never done anything to change or improve this setting; the rest of his room was messy and cluttered, with books and clothes scattered over every piece of furniture, gifts that he had received from women he had briefly dated, a poster he had meant to frame that was now crumpled up, a guitar and a yoga mat leaning on each other against the wall, and a few scraps of paper scotch-taped to the wall. As far as he was concerned, the rest of the setting didn’t matter. He had his desk for writing and his bed for sleeping or fucking and at this point in his life, that was all he needed.
But tonight, something was off.
He logged on YouTube and scrolled through the playlists that he had put together. He was a big music enthusiast and had compiled several playlists, one for every mood, event, or activity. His “Workout” playlist was made mainly of rap songs — Biggie, Tupac, NWA, with the occasional rock song that always got his blood pumping. The “Chill Workout” playlist was for when he had to do his scoliosis exercises, a routine he hated doing, so he had filled it with feel-good songs that distracted him from the pain. His “Road” playlist was a compilation of his favorite songs from his favorite artists — Hendrix, The Doors, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin, Crosby Stills, and Nash, amongst others –, which he would only listen to on his annual birthday road trip around Beirut. His “Bae” playlist — a name that he had chosen ironically — was a mixture of the former playlists mentioned, put together half-mindedly, to use as a sound muffle for when he had girls over and didn’t want his brother or father to hear what was going on in his room.
The most important playlist, however, was called “Jessica”, after his mother. It was filled with songs that reminded him of her, songs she had loved, songs they had listened to together before her passing. He only listened to it on her birthday with the rest of his ritual: drive up to his parent’s house on the beach, sit in the garden against the big oak tree that took up half the space, put on the playlist and read her favorite book of poetry. That had been his ritual for the past three years and no one was allowed to share it with him.
His phone rang. He closed the computer screen and answered. It was Rebecca, one of his closest friends; she had just finished a long week at work and wanted to blow off some steam with a late-night drink.
The proposition was tempting; he hadn’t gone out for a drink in almost three months. He had gone a bit too overboard over the Christmas holidays with the drugs and the alcohol and the women, so he had been on a cleanse from it all. No more booze, no more drugs (not even the natural stuff) and definitely no more women. After a streak of six months sleeping with a different girl almost every week, he had decided to take a break from it all to concentrate on getting better, getting more in shape but most importantly just being okay and at peace with himself.
Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure if he was still acting up from his breakup with his ex. They had been together for four years and had broken up over two years ago, but there was still something unfinished about them that made him unable to fully move on. And so his life had been this, a myriad of women that he would bring back to his place and have sex with, to the beat of his “Bae” playlist.
Rebecca was begging him to go out. It was Good Friday so the streets of Mar Michael would be empty she said, they wouldn’t run into anyone they didn’t want to see. He argued for a bit, saying that he had a lot of work to get done, but soon realized that he wouldn’t be able to focus tonight, so he agreed to meet her at Crowbar, their usual hanging spot.
He grabbed his car keys and went down to the street. He stood at his building entrance for a few seconds, trying to remember where he parked his car.
He always had trouble remembering where he parked, a funny quirk about him that would usually get resolved when the building janitor would remind him where his car was, to which he would always respond “That’s why I love you Ali”. Ali wasn’t around tonight, so he walked around a few blocks before stumbling on it.
When he got to Crowbar, he found Rebecca drunkenly flirting with some random guy and thought it best not to interrupt her. He went inside to order his usual, gin on the rocks with a splash of diet seven up and stood outside, leaning against a parked car, sipping on his drink.
He glanced at Rebecca to see how she was doing and saw her looking back at him, smiling. As soon as their eyes met, she mouthed out “I’m sorry” to which he responded with a wink. Whether or not they would get the chance to hang out, he was glad she had gotten him out of the house. Something had been off and he hadn’t been able to concentrate. Maybe some fresh air would do him some good.
He went back inside to order another drink. Another gin on the rocks with a splash of diet seven up.
When he got back outside, someone had taken his place leaning on the parked car. A girl he had met once before, a couple of years ago. He stared at her for a few seconds, trying to remember her name.
She was wearing black jeans torn at the knees, a white tank top that was a size too large and a pair of white Adidas sneakers.
Stella. Her name was Stella. He had met her one random night two years ago, not far from this very spot. She had been walking around with a friend he knew, and the two of them had started chatting, ending the night sitting on a bench, discussing movies.
He walked up to her.
*
He woke up on the foot of his bed. His back was killing him and his head was throbbing. What the hell had happened last night?
Unready to get up yet, he rolled on his back and kept his eyes closed, trying to recollect the previous night’s events. A moan coming from his bed interrupted his thoughts. Probably a one-night stand he had brought back to his place.
He summoned the strength to stand up and stared at her. Long legs half-hidden under the covers, she was sleeping on her side with her arm under the pillow. All flesh. He couldn’t help but notice the hickeys on her neck. A bite mark on her hip that had bruised and turned blue. Nail scratches on her back and her stomach. All flesh. He opened the door softly to not wake her and made his way to the kitchen.
He wandered around the living room pacing, trying to remember what happened the previous night.
Next to his father’s study was a small space on the balcony where they would store the books and furniture they didn’t have room for any more.
On the floor, under an old PC keyboard, he spotted a box with the label “Old Filmmaking Stuff”. It had been a few weeks since he had gotten any writing done on his project, and the sight of that box made him a bit queasy. Either that or the hangover was acting up. He stared at it blankly, trying to guess what he would find in it. The script for his pilot series that never got picked up, the character study for his college project, scraps of ideas and notes for a feature film he had always dreamed of producing.
He hadn’t written anything in weeks; he couldn’t find the discipline anymore. Somehow, he had fallen back into his old ways. For months, after the Christmas holidays, he had maintained a rigorous diet, an intensive workout plan, he was reading again, catching up with friends, going for runs. He was at peace with himself. So how did he end back in this place?
The one-night stand called out his name and he made his way to the bedroom. She asked him what his plans were for the day, and he hastily replied that he had a meeting and a lunch he should start getting ready for.
He watched her get dressed, looking for the attraction that had made him take her back to his place. Nothing.
She stood up slowly in the bed and started looking around the room to locate her clothes. They had been flung around when he was undressing her last night.
Her top had landed on the desk chair. Her shoes and pants were at the foot of the door; he hadn’t wasted time in taking those off. All she was missing was her underwear. She found them lying next to her pillow. Much earlier that morning, in the midst of him fucking her, he had stuffed them in her mouth, while towering his bare chest over her, pushing her legs behind her head and spitting on her breasts.
He watched her as she slowly moved about the room, picking up and putting on each item of clothing. She was hesitant in her actions as if she couldn’t tell why his behavior had turned so cold overnight. He noticed a small twitch at the side of her mouth as if she was holding something back. An insult, or maybe a few tears. He didn’t really care.
He sat at his desk, scrolling through his Facebook newsfeed on his computer, waiting for her to disappear from his life.
He had always been good at reading people, a trait he considered both a blessing and a curse. Though some people were harder to read than others, he had found Stella to be an open book. Her behavior was genuine and she had a way about her. She would always speak her mind, bluntly so, and he had admired that in her. He had read her like an open book, and her story was too similar to his.
*
Stella excused herself to the bathroom. The weed and the alcohol were getting to her head and the room had become too crowded. She had agreed for a chill night in, a small get-together to catch up with her friends, but the night was quickly turning into a scene from Animal House.
She didn’t handle big parties well, especially when she barely knew the people there. She would always make the excuse that she was introverted, but the truth was she disliked most people she met and had a hard time faking interest in their stories. She splashed some water on her face and made a run for the door. No goodbye or explanations given, she was never any good at those anyway. Carl would understand when he’d get the usual ‘Sorry I left without saying bye, I couldn’t find you’ message the next morning.
Earphones on, iPod on shuffle and hands stuffed deep inside the pockets of her coat, she made her way home. Ever since she had moved to Beirut, she had started walking everywhere. It wasn’t as effective of a workout as she had hoped, but she had found these walks to be therapeutic. And since she lived in a neighborhood crowded with bars, she would always bump into people she knew on her walk home, which sometimes made for interesting nights.
Tyson’s was her usual watering hole; her closest group of friends had made it a habit to always meet there every Friday on R&B night. She would only go to Smoking Barrels with Barry on Margarita Wednesday where he would chew her ear off with the latest regressions in his love life, while she tried to get a word in. And on nights where they weren’t one on one, she and Barry would instead go to LD, a hole in the wall where all the hipsters hung out.
The last bar on her route was called Crowbar, located across from the Bedford Stairs that led to her house. She had always had a soft spot for this bar.
Granted the clientele was very similar to the one at Tyson’s, but there, she would always run into her second-tier group of good friends, the ones she liked spending time with but never made any time for.
That night, Crowbar was rather empty. It was the Friday before Easter, the only day of the year where people were too ashamed to go out and drink. As she walked past, she glanced inside through the glass doors and saw her ex and his usual group of friends. Their eyes met.
They had dated for four years and had broken up a little over two years ago, but they had managed to remain friends. That is until recently when he had started dating someone new and stopped checking up on her. She went inside to say hello. After an uncomfortable small talk, she told him she was tired and was going to head home. As she started walking away, he grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear: ‘Wait for me outside, I’ll drop you home. I need to talk to you’. She didn’t really care for what he had to say, but it was better than climbing the never-ending Bedford Stairs at two in the morning.
She got back outside, leaned on a parked car and lit a cigarette. The whole street was empty except for a couple drunkenly flirting against a wall. She tried eavesdropping on their conversation for a while before realizing she didn’t really care. The door swung open, so she flung her cigarette thinking her ride was finally done with his night. It was Adam, a guy she had met in February two years ago when she was walking in this very street with her best friend Mike. They had ended up the night sitting on a bench next to a hot dog stand. He had just gotten back from studying filmmaking in London and he had spent the night telling her about his senior project. She had run into him by accident a few times after that but had been too shy to go and say hello.
Adam was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but notice. Not because of his looks or his smile, but because of the intensity of his presence.
He had golden hair, slightly wavy and pushed back with a devil-may-care finish. He was taller than the average man, but his height was negated by the lack of strength in his shoulders, which made it seem like he was crouching. He was wearing a grey oversized sweatshirt, with the word LONDON printed on it in black silkscreen, and a pair of overused jeans.
They stared at each other for a second in silence and he walked up to her.
*
She sat up in her bed, her back leaning against a mountain of pillows, her legs laid on the bare back of the guy she had just faked an orgasm with. He had fallen asleep after coming, which she took as an opportunity to continue the latest series she had been binge-watching lately.
She had sworn off the Horror genre in movies and books after reading one-too-many Goosebumps novels when she was younger. But lately, after the discovery of Neil Gaiman’s fantasy/horror stories, she was hooked. This year had been hard on her, but it had also marked the beginning for her insatiable curiosity of every new book, film or series she could get her hand on. Adam had opened up her interest in science fiction, after lending her his favorite book, and he had pushed her into taking up boxing classes. He had also helped her quit smoking, though she had started again recently.
The one-night started snoring. This guy was planning on spending the night, and she hated sharing her bed. She kicked him in the hip and pushed him off the bed. He woke up startled and stared at her, speechless, waiting for an explanation. ‘You should go. I’m tired and you have to drive back to your parents’ place’. She watched his face go from shock to anger. He picked up his clothes and headed for the door. She started rolling herself another joint and continued watching her series.
She was up to the last episode where the storyline met a familiar mysterious twist; where science fiction and reality were disturbingly similar. Or maybe she was reading too much into it. After all, the whole plot was about a creature from the underworld abducting a kid and the search to bring him back to safety. And maybe it was too easy of a comparison, but those ‘familiar mysterious twists’ were what made up life. Her life, at least. The mystery of the familiar.
She paused the series right before the scene where the big cliffhanger would make you wait a whole year for the second season to start and hung on to that thought. For the past year, she had gone through a myriad of the same relationship with different people. She had a knack for finding emotionally unavailable men and women that would abandon her at a moment’s notice, without so much of an apology or an explanation. And that was exactly what had happened with Adam.
She hadn’t noticed that her one-night stand was on his way out until she heard him slam the front door. Another one bites the dust.
Helene Abi Assi 