Kitchen Table Conversations
This is a short story I wrote recently. It was supposed to be a random piece of prose, but it developed into a short. Elements of the story might shock some people. I intend no offence, I just thought I'd let you know before you read it.
I hope you enjoy...
***
I blinked, slowly. I opened my eyes; it was like being caught in a still from a B-movie. The smoke from Willy’s joint seemed suspended in its ceaseless upward journey towards the ceiling. Willy stared on blankly, through the silvery mushroom he sat in the midst of. It felt like I could have walked around the room and posed each of the figures scattered over the various sofas and armchairs in the darkened living room. The only light came from the cherry of a joint and the television, lighting the faces of each numb creature staring into the glowing corner. They were captivated. Or maybe they were stoned. I couldn’t tell anymore. I was intensely aware of my right knee jerking up and down. I could feel the vibrations each time my heel hit the floor; the frantic motion pierced the stillness. I had to get out, get some fresh air. I wanted to feel the cold bite of smoke and fresh winter night air clearing the fug that had built up in my throat. I got up; nobody moved. “F*** it,” I announced to the floor. Nothing. I walked out.
The harsh rattling of my phone vibrating on the low table by my bed woke me. I rolled over, sliding my left arm out from under the pillow. It was two thirty seven in the morning. Who the hell was ringing me? The number was withheld; I stared at the phone for a moment, my eyes bleary with sleep. After what seemed like a long time I answered the call. I had been willing the person on the other end of the line to give up; if anything, the ringing had become more shill in the early morning silence. “Who is this?” I barked. I got nothing but heavy breathing for several seconds until I heard a weak cough. Who ever it was, they had clearly been crying. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Sorry… James, it’s Cassie. I didn’t know who else to call,” a voice suddenly spluttered.
“Cassie… What the hell has happened? It’s like quarter to three,”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry to call this late, but I didn’t know what else to do…” she trailed off.
“Cassie, don’t worry about the time, just tell me what’s happened.” I was sitting up in bed now, tense.
“It’s Mark; we had a fight. He’s thrown me out of the house. What should I do James?”
“****…” I could see where this was going. “Well, I guess you better head to mine. Get a cab, don’t bother with the night bus.”
“No James, I don’t want to pile this all on you, it’s my problem. I just needed to call someone,” Cassie said, hesitantly, sniffing a little.
“Don’t be stupid Cassie. Get a cab to mine as soon as you find one. I’ll pay. Just get over here and we’ll talk. Then you can rest up here for a while.”
“Are you sure James? You’re a life saver, really. You’ve done so much for me.”
“Just come over. Text me if anything goes wrong. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Okay… I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I hung up, flipped my phone to the foot of the bed in tired frustration and scrabbled about on the bedside table for my cigarettes. I lit one, still sitting up in bed, my bare back pressed against the cold wall behind me. I exhaled, watching the smoke catch the orange light filtering in from the street. This was the last thing I had wanted; but simultaneously I was curious. “F***ing typical,” I growled as I stumbled out of bed towards the kitchen.
Once I had started to make coffee I figured I should find some clothes. I knew Cassie would be a while, and wouldn’t care what I was wearing, if anything at all. Still, as open as Cassie and I had been in the past, tonight seemed sombre enough to merit at least some jeans. I wondered what had happened; I knew that Mark and Cassie had a turbulent relationship, but figured that she must have done something big. Slept with someone from his office, I figured. A pang of anger coursed through me. I felt my fist clench as I heard the water boiling. I decided that I would give her the benefit of the doubt, for now at least.
After pulling on some faded Levis and pouring my coffee I sat down at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Aside from five or six empty beer cans, an ashtray with one solitary cigarette butt in and a heap of junk mail, the table was empty. The jacket I had been wearing earlier that night was on the back of the chair. I reached dazedly downwards to the left pocket, pulling out another half empty pack of Camel. I looked at the pack, wondering whether I wanted to smoke one. I wanted to do something, but lighting a smoke that would leave my mouth feeling like sandpaper seemed pointless. It was trivial, but the decision proved a mental stumbling block. I must have sat there in the white light of my kitchen for at least thirty minutes, staring at the small box in my hands. I only awoke from this strange stupor when I heard the buzzer shrieking down the hall. It was clearly Cassie. I finally took a cigarette and lit it before going to the door. I pushed the button to let her into the building and opened my door a fraction. Then I went back to my seat. I felt like I should have greeted her properly, but I was tired and pissed off. She’d put me through too much recently. “Hey, James… Where are you?” she called. I heard lots of shuffling; she obviously had luggage. My mood was getting worse with every second; I had already taken Mark’s side. She was probably pissed up one night and jumped on his boss or something. “I’m in the kitchen,” I said, more quietly than I needed too. She walked in. The remarkably negative vibes I had been feeling seemed to melt slightly. She smiled, weakly, but warmly nevertheless. Her eyes were still wet with tears, her face red. Still, the soft definition of her features caught my eye. I didn’t want that to happen, but I wasn’t going to deny that I still found her incredibly beautiful. I took a slow sip from my coffee cup and a nonchalant drag on the Camel, surveying her. I was trying to play it cool, but I knew I’d lost my composure. She knew it too. We stared at each other for a long moment, until both our faces cracked into smiles. I stood up and stepped across the slate floor to embrace her. The raindrops that had settled on her long dark coat made my chest wet, I could smell the fresh air and dampness on her hair and neck. I took a deep breath, as Cassie released one slowly. She shook a little as she exhaled, then gripped me firmly, whimpering softly. I ran my hand over her blonde hair, cradling her whole head almost. “You’re alright,” I whispered to her, “You’re with me now.”
By about five thirty in the morning she had cried all she could. I had been wrong about her infidelity. She and Mark had arrived back from Amsterdam the previous morning. Apparently he returned to their hotel at seven, after spending a long night out in the dive bars and sordid clubs. Cassie wouldn’t have had a problem with that (after all, she’s done it enough times herself), but it turned out that Mark was stupid enough to turn up in the hotel lobby not only drunk and coked up, but with some stick thin Eastern European girl on his arm. Cassie told me about the ‘conflict’ they had had in the hotel before she stormed out and headed for the airport. By ‘conflict’ I assumed she meant shouting match, but it turns out that this time it came to blows. “Did he hit you?” I asked quickly when she told me this.
“No… I hit him. He pushed me away. Then the c*** spat at me. He f***ing spat at me!”
“Hmm… So long as he didn’t actually hit you,” I replied, relieved. I realised my finger tips were mashed into the smouldering remains of the cigarette I had stubbed out with angry enthusiasm a moment before. I wiped them on my jeans, and let her continue the tale. I missed some of the narrative; I was shocked by what I had just heard. I had known Mark for a long time and Cassie for far longer. I had seen them have lovers’ quarrels, intense political arguments and very public disagreements. I was used to both of their fiery temperaments; so much so that their displays had become an in joke amongst a certain group of old friends. They pushed the boundaries of volume, but never physical boundaries. I guessed she must have really lost it. There must have been something more to the situation. I mused for a brief time then zoned back into her speech as she finished explaining that her cab driver on the way to the airport had rudely told her to calm down. I could see that she was still angry about it. Jesus, I thought, that cabbie must have been suicidal. She went on to explain how Mark had caught up with her in the airport bar, less drunk but more coked up, furious and embarrassed. There had been more shouting, apparently he had to be detained. She had made her way back to their flat, his flat, in Hampstead, shaken and confused. She told me that she had tried to regain herself, had figured he wouldn’t get through Dutch customs for a day or so. She told me that she drank a bottle and a half of his most expensive vintage red just to spite him. That was at six in the evening. He burst through the door at half seven, sober and raging. When he saw the bottles he shouted and then stormed into the bathroom, locking himself in there while she sat outside crying. She even told me she apologised to him; “I was drunk and I was scared of him. What else was I going to do?” she asked, exasperated by the quizzical look I shot her when she mentioned this. I simply gestured for her to carry on. By nine they were throwing things across the living room. He had shoved another few grams up his nose and was spiralling into some “depraved, depressed, self indulgent rant” about how hard she was to live with, in her own words. The whole story threw me. I asked when he threw her out, still unsure how she’d ended up back on my doorstep. I found out soon, as she described every last detail of their argument. He had left, slamming doors and knocking over potted plants as he went, at around midnight. She drank more wine and passed out on the sofa, understandably exhausted. At two Mark had burst back into the flat and moved her still packed suitcase into the stairwell. He then forcibly roused her into consciousness and dragged her out of his wrecked abode. It had been standing outside on the pavement, panicking, chain smoking Dutch Marlboro Lights, that she had called me.
“Jesus girl, you do know how to live out the soap operas, don’t you?” I said when she finished the emotionally draining explanation of her arrival at my place.
“I guess so,” she murmured, her head in her hands on the table, “I know its how things are, but I can’t take much more of this.”
“I know Cassie, I can see that. We’re all getting older now…” I said softly, reaching across the table and squeezing her shoulder. We were both silent for a long time. My mind was reeling. I’d known Cassie since we were students at York, when we’d first gotten together. Back then she was just as fiery, just as passionate. Sure, we’d argued. But she never lashed out at me. I wondered whether Mark had been taking too much coke recently, but then remembered that he always took too much coke. I guessed his aggression was rubbing off on her. I reflected that perhaps the tumultuous passion that made for amazing conversation and sex early in a relationship was not sustainable. I felt as drained as she looked, as she glanced up at me and asked gingerly, “Have you got anything to drink?” She was drinking too much these days, but it seemed like the wrong time to lecture her about it. I just shrugged and pointed to the freezer. “Bottle of vodka. Top draw. Get two glasses.”
The next night I wandered aimlessly back over to Willy’s place. When I walked into the living room everything seemed the same as it had twenty four hour earlier. Willy was still staring blankly at the television. “You hear about Cassie and Mark?” I asked, falling into an armchair. There was a long, heavy pause. Willy stirred. “What man?”
“Forget it,” I sighed. There was a brief rustling while I rolled a joint of my own, a click and hiss as I lit it, and then silence again. I felt myself sinking into the armchair, my head spinning. I blinked, slowly.
