Chapter 2! GO!
...the lights on the studio, filling the cluttered room with a sad, yellow illumination. I should get more bulbs. White, this time. I ploy my way through clothes, small piles forming from the slacks, dress shirts and ties. Maybe laundry, while I'm out. After leaving the car's radio, the silence seems to have followed me through the halls and right into my room. I flip the radio on, switching around CDs until stumbling upon a forgotten Sinatra. With Frankie covering my trail, I pace the room, pouring a drink in the kitchen, staring down the computer, the usual routine. Finally, the flying toasters win and I take a seat.
I debate between work I'm behind on and the hardly touched, hardly anticipated sequel of my first novel. I open both, perusing each for the definitive inspiration. Timidly, I chicken peck a few words for my personal endeavors. Less than satisfactory. I delete what I add and turn my attention towards the assembly of cribs. Lost in the mindlessness of diagrams and lackluster wording, of cigarettes and jazz, the hours slip by. The autumn sunset burns through the slanted shades, red echoing against the floral couch and loveseat I picked up for cheap from a sweet widow. The glare against my screen becomes too much just as the CD starts to skip If I wait long enough for the sun to set and get up to change the track, it'd be fine. Instead I take the opportunity to escape, slipping out of my chair and clothes. After squirming back into basketball shorts, I let myself pace for a few more minutes before throwing myself against the queen size in the corner.
The day passes over me as I toss and turn, getting caught in the sheets. I should have talked to her. Just said "Hey, how's it going?" Or nodded and smiled before retreating. Fleeing like I did just made me creepier. Of course, that's if she noticed. Noted, I should give her so much credit. Then again, I know nothing about her. She may not even understand the book. She may not like it. Maybe, her boyfriend suggested it. Maybe her girlfriend?
"I've had too much caffeine." The declaration falls empty on the walls.
Fighting against a day of chemicals and regret, my eyes flutter between the realm of bouncing off the walls and dead. I force myself to construct a dream. Old kung-fu movies flash, Lee's and Chan's replaced by quick jerks and fluid strikes form my own limbs. Coffee-shop girl is tied up in the back, a bad, black wig done in in long pig-tails covers her scalp. She screams in a mistimed dub. A solid elbow lies another nameless rival in the courtyard. My body tenses, turning with an extended finger towards her.
"I am coming!" My mouth keeps moving as funky beats jam on.
"Ooooh-hohoho, you have beaten the students...Now...you face the master!" Red and gold arrives in front of me, glided in by very visible wires. "Your kung-fu is strong, but will fail against my Drunken Werewolf, faggot." His accent thick, beard and fu-man-chu long and cigarette still burning between his lips, Jon adjusts his stance, weaving and snarling.
"Dude...uncool. Move." The lip-sync and disco are gone, my fight killed.
"Yeah…Just one thing. You dream of me? Need I say it?"
"Gotcha. Now, step aside."
My sight is lost in a whirlwind of plum blossoms, blown in from stage right. With a gasp, a concoction of awe and the infusion of awareness. I jot up covered in a film of sweat.
Dreaming about her is...strange, to say the least. Dreaming about Jon is just plain upsetting. I check the ancient clock-radio next to the bed, one of the first attempts at a digital anything. 8:59 flames in red bars, 18:88 hidden beneath the light. I watch the clock flicker to 9:00, pausing a moment before the sound.
"Everybody was Kung-fu Fighting..."
My prophetic dream jars the sleep from my eyes. I wrestle free from the sheets and head to the kitchen enclave. The coffee-mate bubbles, spitting out hot water before it turns brown with the grounds. I let the gurgling alone, refusing to be held captive by a machine. A quick shower and a change later, I'm back, cup in eager hands. I line the bottom with ice, sugar and cream, pouring the scolding coffee over it and finishing it just as quick. Skipping the ice on the second and squirming a camel from my kitchen-only pack, I lounge against the wall and slow roast my way into the morning.
Once the post is drained, and my sleep-softened morning throat is sore, I clean the mug and throw on my coat. Inventory.
Keys, phone, wallet? All systems go, I leave.
End Chapter 2!