NaNo - Day 13
Today, I made it past the 30K mark. According to NaNo God, Chris Baty, once you hit 35K it's a smooth coast to 50,000, so I guess I'm nearing the home stretch.
Today's word count:
2,358
Total word count:
31,461 / 50,000
(62.9%)
Chapter Twenty-One
Those who love and those who were loved are never gone. Not really. Their echoes stay behind in the places they’ve been and the things they touch. And when you love what they love, the echoes become true voices.
Mort’s home now speaks to her. It comforts her. It blocks out the random noise of the city sleepers with it’s own friendly chatter. Those voices, which were once little more than strange, distant whispers, are now blossoming into a vibrant, lively chorus. Mort is connecting with the home’s past spirit.
“Do you know that my bedroom once belonged to a girl named Melanie?” Mort tells Dave. They are lounging on the floor of the freshly painted living room, enjoying the pizza Dave has brought over.
“How do you know that?” Dave asks, reaching for his third slice.
“I was polishing the baseboard in there and I found her name etched in a corner at the bottom of the wall. ‘Melanie Sayer, aged nine and three-quarters,’” Mort says around a mouthful of melted cheese and pepperoni. The mozzarella is thick and so stringy it’s practically a liquid. Mort tries ungracefully to suck up a big glob at the edge of her lips. She fails and winds up with a lap full of sauce and cheese. Dave finds this terribly funny and lets out a snort of laughter.
“Are you laughing at me,” Mort asks with mock haughtiness.
“A little bit, yes,” Dave admits.
“And yet, you’ve never wanted me more,” she says. It’s true. Dave is clearly attracted to the goofy, silly side of people. Probably because seeing other’s natural imperfections allows Dave to relax about himself. And when he relaxes, his sexual nature kicks in.
“You know it is,” Mort insists, a slightly wicked smile on her face, “This cheese on my pants is totally turning you on. It’s okay, I understand. Anytime I see someone accidentally snort pop up their nose, I want to jump them right then and there.”
And just like that, Dave goes shy again. Damnit! Mort curses to herself inwardly. When will she learn not to say things like that to him? It just scares him. Now they’re caught up in one of those terrible awkward silences again. At this rate they’re never going to get anywhere.
“Okay, no more talking about sex,” Mort declares, “From now on we’ll only talk about non-sexy things…like my new houseplant over there. Do you like it?”
“Yeah! It’s great!” Dave says, glancing across the room at the large amaryllis plant sitting in the corner. He isn’t as enthused about the plant as his tone would imply but he’s certainly relieved by the change of subject. And suddenly, looking at the plant a tiny seed of hope begins to flower within.
“So…you’ve been doing a lot of work around this place. Does this mean you’re thinking of sticking around -- you know, after you finish writing your book?” Dave asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I don’t think so. This place is great but as soon as my…um…my work here is over; I’m gong back to my house. It’s where I belong,” Mort says, hating the way Dave’s heart grows heavy upon hearing the words.
“I see.”
“Of course, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be finished my work anytime soon. And for the time being, I live near a candy store and I have a very cute neighbour-“ (blushing and mild embarrassment from Dave) - “so I’m happy for now.”
“How long have you lived there? Your other house, I mean?”
“Almost five years. You remember I told you I named myself after Mort, the shop keep?”
“Yes. And by the way, I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard anyone work the term ‘shop keep’ into everyday conversation,” Dave teases, his green eyes sparkling mischievously. Suddenly it’s Mort’s libido that’s revved up and ready to go. If she wasn’t positive he’d bolt and never come back, she’d pin him down on top of the pizza box and -
“So what about Mort, the ‘shop keep’?” Dave asks. If he’s not going to put out, Mort sincerely wishes he wouldn’t mockingly emphasize the words “shop keep” like that. It’s like a fire in her pants. “What was I saying?” she asks, confused.
“You were talking about your house and how it has to do with other Mort,” Dave reminds her.
“Right! Anyway, my house used to be his house.”
“Wow! That’s kind of a cool. He sold his house to his namesake!”
“Well, not exactly. He died,” Mort explained.
“Oh. That’s awful Oh I’m so sorry,” Dave says with genuine sympathy.
“Don’t be sorry. He had a really good life and a really good death, too.”
“Good death?” Dave repeats, his brow furrowed with confusion.
“Sure. He was doing some repairs up on the roof of his house…or my house…our house, when out of nowhere a storm develops and ‘zap’ - he gets hit by lighting.”
“And that’s a good death?”
“Yeah. I mean, first of all it was super-fast. He had no clue it was about to happen. And secondly, that house was his favourite place on earth. He loved working on it. What better way to go out than fast and happy?”
“Sure,” Dave agrees, looking away. The mention of death and dying has once again provoked a desperate frenzy of trying to manage his emotions. Mort is about to relieve them both of their discomfort by changing the subject. But suddenly she changes her mind.
“Why is it so many of you freak out when face with the topic of death?”
“So many of who freak out?” Dave asks.
“I just meant that, in general, people seem very uncomfortable if you bring up the topic of death,” Mort explains, hoping she doesn’t as evasive to Dave as in her own head.
“It’s pretty much the worse thing there is,” Dave replies, apparently unsuspicious, “I mean, no one wants to think about their life to be over.”
“But it will be over. Not thinking about death, can’t stop it from happening,” Mort pointed out.
“Yes, but not thinking about it can stop you from feeling terrified every moment of your life.”
“Is death terrifies you?”
“Doesn’t it terrify you?” Dave counters.
“No. I mean I’m a little afraid of dying, you know, because I might get sick or badly hurt first. I don’t want to suffer. But I’m not afraid of being dead.”
“And what are you afraid of?” Dave asks.
“Not being alive,” Mort answers. Dave looks her straight in the eye and when he smiles softly, Mort knows that for the first time since they’ve met he understands her completely.
“Do you like to slow dance?” Dave asks her.
“I would love to slow dance with you,” Mort replies.
“Actually I just asked if you liked to slow dance. I didn’t say anything about doing it with me,” Dave corrects.
“I know. But you were going to,” Mort tells him.
“As a matter of fact, I was,” Dave admits. He stands up and extends a hand to Mort. She rises to join him.
“Should we put on music?” Dave asks.
“We have our own music,” Mort replies, wrapping her arms around his neck. This time he doesn’t recoil. Instead he places his free arm around her waist, tentatively at first and then drawing her in. Mort leans her head against his shoulder as they begin swaying back and forth. And there, in the silence of her newly painted home, Mort feels Dave open his heart to her.
‘Now,’ she thinks, ‘we’re getting somewhere.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the weeks following their evening of pizza and philosophical banter, Dave found himself spending more and more time over in Mort’s apartment. He loved it there. The newly painted walls were a wonderful, warm, light brownish colour that Mort claimed was named “honey wheat” and reminded Dave of the cream-laced cups of coffee that punctuated his day. She had also visited his place several times and to his relief she proclaimed his apartment “cozy and not at all bachelor scary.”
Since the dance, things between them had become more physically intimate. There were hugs and cuddling and although being touched still made Dave a little self-conscious, the feeling of warmth and goodness he got, far outweighed any discomfort. However, this was clearly not as much physical contact as Mort wanted. They’d spent one evening making dinner in his very cramped kitchen. It was hot and there had been no way for them to avoid being pressed up against one another. They had been practically marinating in their own pheromones and eventually Dave had felt he had no choice but to excuse himself from the kitchen or risk doing something he regretted.
“Where are you going?” Mort had demanded
“Just going outside for some air,” Dave said, as breezily as he could manage given that he felt like pillar of hormones about to go up in flames. It was then that Mort had grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him so he was forced to look at her.
“Listen, don’t bullshit me. I know you want to have sex me,” she’d told him that blunt manner that was so her, “And don’t even try deny it because I know it’s true. And it’s fine. I want to have sex with you too.” She’d tried to kiss him then, but he pulled away.
“Yes I do want to have sex with you,” he’d admitted, “but…I’m not ready yet. I need time.”
“Time for what?” Mort had asked and he knew she wasn’t asking for justification but simply trying to understand.
“I wish I could explain, but I can’t. I’m just…slow…when it comes to that sort of stuff. I’ve probably alienated many a potential relationship because some woman thought I wasn’t interested in being with her.”
“Well are you interested in being with me?” Mort had asked.
“Absolutely. More than anyone, I’ve met in a long time. More than maybe anyone I’ve met period,” Dave had confessed.
“Okay then. We’ll wait until you’re ready,” Mort agreed. Then she’d reached for her coat and purse.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Dave had asked.
“Home. I’m horny and I need to get off, so I’m going home to wank. If we’re going to spend the rest of the evening hanging out, then I suggest you do the same. It’ll diminish the tension.”
Dave had had no response to that.
“I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.” And with that Mort had left him with a half-made bouillabaisse and a totally stunned expression on his face.
Since that night, she hadn’t pressed him at all. She seemed perfectly content to let him set the pace of things. Occasionally she would dash home for what she now referred to as mandatory “self-service”.
But this day, Dave was particularly excited. Mort was coming to his office at lunch to pick him up and then they were driving to Toronto for Terri’s rehearsal supper. The next day was the wedding, where Dave was fairly confident there would be slow dancing. He was looking forward to this weekend immensely. Dave was a sucker for romance and his mind, there were few more romantic occasions than a wedding.
“Dave?” Carol’s voice interrupted his reverie. He looked up to see her leaning against the wall of his cubicle.
“Hey Carol, what’s up?”
“First of all, I need to know if you’re coming to office Christmas party on the 2nd and whether or not you’re bringing someone,” she informed him.
“Yes and I yes I’m bringing someone. Or at least, I hope I’m bringing someone. There’s someone I’m kind of seeing, but I haven’t technically asked her yet, so I’m not sure if -“
“Whatever. I’m putting you down for two, “ Carol cut him off, “And secondly, tell Pete that I said he can go fuck himself.”
Dave stood up and peered over the cubicle to where Pete sat, “Hey Pete, Carol says to go fuck yourself.” Engrossed as usual in his iPod, Pete did not even look up. Instead he continued quietly humming along to what was arguably Santana’s “Black Magic Woman”. Carol on the other hand, was livid grabbed Dave by shirt and practically threw him back into his chair.
“Not that Pete, goddamn you!” she hissed trying to keep her voice low, “I’m talking about your good buddy Pete, who you sent your doctor because apparently he has herpes! Is that right?”
“Wha -- ? No…I…NO!”
“Don’t try to spare me. He called me last night to tell me about the rash and the tests. He said whatever’s going on down there, he must have got it from me, but last time my gynaecologist checked, I didn’t have herpes or anything else and I haven’t slept with anyone since. So if he didn’t get herpes from me, he clearly got them from someone else! Someone else with herpes! Who is it, Dave? What do you know?”
“I know that it’s generally considered unprofessional to discuss herpes with a co-worker.”
“Dave, don’t be a jackass! Tell me what you know!”
“Carol, I just gave Pete the name of my physician. I don’t know anything.” Carol stared at him with soul searching eyes for a moment. Then just as quickly as the rampage had started, it disappeared and Carol was back to her professional organized self.
“Alright then. Just let me know as soon as possible about your date for the Christmas party,” she said in her normal voice. She walked away, moving out of Dave’s line of sight to reveal Mort, standing there in her coat and hat.
“Oh no. Did you just witness that insanity?” he asked, rising to give her a hug.
“Part of it,” Mort confessed.
“Great,” Dave remarked dryly.
“It’s not your fault,” Mort told him, “and besides, she’s not crazy.”
“Are you sure she’s not crazy? Because, I think maybe you missed the part where she was crazy.”
“I think she’s just hurt…and scared. She doesn’t know what to do.”
“Well, not attacking me would be a good start,” Dave said emphatically.
Today's word count:
2,358
Total word count:
31,461 / 50,000
(62.9%)
Chapter Twenty-One
Those who love and those who were loved are never gone. Not really. Their echoes stay behind in the places they’ve been and the things they touch. And when you love what they love, the echoes become true voices.
Mort’s home now speaks to her. It comforts her. It blocks out the random noise of the city sleepers with it’s own friendly chatter. Those voices, which were once little more than strange, distant whispers, are now blossoming into a vibrant, lively chorus. Mort is connecting with the home’s past spirit.
“Do you know that my bedroom once belonged to a girl named Melanie?” Mort tells Dave. They are lounging on the floor of the freshly painted living room, enjoying the pizza Dave has brought over.
“How do you know that?” Dave asks, reaching for his third slice.
“I was polishing the baseboard in there and I found her name etched in a corner at the bottom of the wall. ‘Melanie Sayer, aged nine and three-quarters,’” Mort says around a mouthful of melted cheese and pepperoni. The mozzarella is thick and so stringy it’s practically a liquid. Mort tries ungracefully to suck up a big glob at the edge of her lips. She fails and winds up with a lap full of sauce and cheese. Dave finds this terribly funny and lets out a snort of laughter.
“Are you laughing at me,” Mort asks with mock haughtiness.
“A little bit, yes,” Dave admits.
“And yet, you’ve never wanted me more,” she says. It’s true. Dave is clearly attracted to the goofy, silly side of people. Probably because seeing other’s natural imperfections allows Dave to relax about himself. And when he relaxes, his sexual nature kicks in.
“You know it is,” Mort insists, a slightly wicked smile on her face, “This cheese on my pants is totally turning you on. It’s okay, I understand. Anytime I see someone accidentally snort pop up their nose, I want to jump them right then and there.”
And just like that, Dave goes shy again. Damnit! Mort curses to herself inwardly. When will she learn not to say things like that to him? It just scares him. Now they’re caught up in one of those terrible awkward silences again. At this rate they’re never going to get anywhere.
“Okay, no more talking about sex,” Mort declares, “From now on we’ll only talk about non-sexy things…like my new houseplant over there. Do you like it?”
“Yeah! It’s great!” Dave says, glancing across the room at the large amaryllis plant sitting in the corner. He isn’t as enthused about the plant as his tone would imply but he’s certainly relieved by the change of subject. And suddenly, looking at the plant a tiny seed of hope begins to flower within.
“So…you’ve been doing a lot of work around this place. Does this mean you’re thinking of sticking around -- you know, after you finish writing your book?” Dave asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I don’t think so. This place is great but as soon as my…um…my work here is over; I’m gong back to my house. It’s where I belong,” Mort says, hating the way Dave’s heart grows heavy upon hearing the words.
“I see.”
“Of course, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be finished my work anytime soon. And for the time being, I live near a candy store and I have a very cute neighbour-“ (blushing and mild embarrassment from Dave) - “so I’m happy for now.”
“How long have you lived there? Your other house, I mean?”
“Almost five years. You remember I told you I named myself after Mort, the shop keep?”
“Yes. And by the way, I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard anyone work the term ‘shop keep’ into everyday conversation,” Dave teases, his green eyes sparkling mischievously. Suddenly it’s Mort’s libido that’s revved up and ready to go. If she wasn’t positive he’d bolt and never come back, she’d pin him down on top of the pizza box and -
“So what about Mort, the ‘shop keep’?” Dave asks. If he’s not going to put out, Mort sincerely wishes he wouldn’t mockingly emphasize the words “shop keep” like that. It’s like a fire in her pants. “What was I saying?” she asks, confused.
“You were talking about your house and how it has to do with other Mort,” Dave reminds her.
“Right! Anyway, my house used to be his house.”
“Wow! That’s kind of a cool. He sold his house to his namesake!”
“Well, not exactly. He died,” Mort explained.
“Oh. That’s awful Oh I’m so sorry,” Dave says with genuine sympathy.
“Don’t be sorry. He had a really good life and a really good death, too.”
“Good death?” Dave repeats, his brow furrowed with confusion.
“Sure. He was doing some repairs up on the roof of his house…or my house…our house, when out of nowhere a storm develops and ‘zap’ - he gets hit by lighting.”
“And that’s a good death?”
“Yeah. I mean, first of all it was super-fast. He had no clue it was about to happen. And secondly, that house was his favourite place on earth. He loved working on it. What better way to go out than fast and happy?”
“Sure,” Dave agrees, looking away. The mention of death and dying has once again provoked a desperate frenzy of trying to manage his emotions. Mort is about to relieve them both of their discomfort by changing the subject. But suddenly she changes her mind.
“Why is it so many of you freak out when face with the topic of death?”
“So many of who freak out?” Dave asks.
“I just meant that, in general, people seem very uncomfortable if you bring up the topic of death,” Mort explains, hoping she doesn’t as evasive to Dave as in her own head.
“It’s pretty much the worse thing there is,” Dave replies, apparently unsuspicious, “I mean, no one wants to think about their life to be over.”
“But it will be over. Not thinking about death, can’t stop it from happening,” Mort pointed out.
“Yes, but not thinking about it can stop you from feeling terrified every moment of your life.”
“Is death terrifies you?”
“Doesn’t it terrify you?” Dave counters.
“No. I mean I’m a little afraid of dying, you know, because I might get sick or badly hurt first. I don’t want to suffer. But I’m not afraid of being dead.”
“And what are you afraid of?” Dave asks.
“Not being alive,” Mort answers. Dave looks her straight in the eye and when he smiles softly, Mort knows that for the first time since they’ve met he understands her completely.
“Do you like to slow dance?” Dave asks her.
“I would love to slow dance with you,” Mort replies.
“Actually I just asked if you liked to slow dance. I didn’t say anything about doing it with me,” Dave corrects.
“I know. But you were going to,” Mort tells him.
“As a matter of fact, I was,” Dave admits. He stands up and extends a hand to Mort. She rises to join him.
“Should we put on music?” Dave asks.
“We have our own music,” Mort replies, wrapping her arms around his neck. This time he doesn’t recoil. Instead he places his free arm around her waist, tentatively at first and then drawing her in. Mort leans her head against his shoulder as they begin swaying back and forth. And there, in the silence of her newly painted home, Mort feels Dave open his heart to her.
‘Now,’ she thinks, ‘we’re getting somewhere.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the weeks following their evening of pizza and philosophical banter, Dave found himself spending more and more time over in Mort’s apartment. He loved it there. The newly painted walls were a wonderful, warm, light brownish colour that Mort claimed was named “honey wheat” and reminded Dave of the cream-laced cups of coffee that punctuated his day. She had also visited his place several times and to his relief she proclaimed his apartment “cozy and not at all bachelor scary.”
Since the dance, things between them had become more physically intimate. There were hugs and cuddling and although being touched still made Dave a little self-conscious, the feeling of warmth and goodness he got, far outweighed any discomfort. However, this was clearly not as much physical contact as Mort wanted. They’d spent one evening making dinner in his very cramped kitchen. It was hot and there had been no way for them to avoid being pressed up against one another. They had been practically marinating in their own pheromones and eventually Dave had felt he had no choice but to excuse himself from the kitchen or risk doing something he regretted.
“Where are you going?” Mort had demanded
“Just going outside for some air,” Dave said, as breezily as he could manage given that he felt like pillar of hormones about to go up in flames. It was then that Mort had grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him so he was forced to look at her.
“Listen, don’t bullshit me. I know you want to have sex me,” she’d told him that blunt manner that was so her, “And don’t even try deny it because I know it’s true. And it’s fine. I want to have sex with you too.” She’d tried to kiss him then, but he pulled away.
“Yes I do want to have sex with you,” he’d admitted, “but…I’m not ready yet. I need time.”
“Time for what?” Mort had asked and he knew she wasn’t asking for justification but simply trying to understand.
“I wish I could explain, but I can’t. I’m just…slow…when it comes to that sort of stuff. I’ve probably alienated many a potential relationship because some woman thought I wasn’t interested in being with her.”
“Well are you interested in being with me?” Mort had asked.
“Absolutely. More than anyone, I’ve met in a long time. More than maybe anyone I’ve met period,” Dave had confessed.
“Okay then. We’ll wait until you’re ready,” Mort agreed. Then she’d reached for her coat and purse.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Dave had asked.
“Home. I’m horny and I need to get off, so I’m going home to wank. If we’re going to spend the rest of the evening hanging out, then I suggest you do the same. It’ll diminish the tension.”
Dave had had no response to that.
“I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.” And with that Mort had left him with a half-made bouillabaisse and a totally stunned expression on his face.
Since that night, she hadn’t pressed him at all. She seemed perfectly content to let him set the pace of things. Occasionally she would dash home for what she now referred to as mandatory “self-service”.
But this day, Dave was particularly excited. Mort was coming to his office at lunch to pick him up and then they were driving to Toronto for Terri’s rehearsal supper. The next day was the wedding, where Dave was fairly confident there would be slow dancing. He was looking forward to this weekend immensely. Dave was a sucker for romance and his mind, there were few more romantic occasions than a wedding.
“Dave?” Carol’s voice interrupted his reverie. He looked up to see her leaning against the wall of his cubicle.
“Hey Carol, what’s up?”
“First of all, I need to know if you’re coming to office Christmas party on the 2nd and whether or not you’re bringing someone,” she informed him.
“Yes and I yes I’m bringing someone. Or at least, I hope I’m bringing someone. There’s someone I’m kind of seeing, but I haven’t technically asked her yet, so I’m not sure if -“
“Whatever. I’m putting you down for two, “ Carol cut him off, “And secondly, tell Pete that I said he can go fuck himself.”
Dave stood up and peered over the cubicle to where Pete sat, “Hey Pete, Carol says to go fuck yourself.” Engrossed as usual in his iPod, Pete did not even look up. Instead he continued quietly humming along to what was arguably Santana’s “Black Magic Woman”. Carol on the other hand, was livid grabbed Dave by shirt and practically threw him back into his chair.
“Not that Pete, goddamn you!” she hissed trying to keep her voice low, “I’m talking about your good buddy Pete, who you sent your doctor because apparently he has herpes! Is that right?”
“Wha -- ? No…I…NO!”
“Don’t try to spare me. He called me last night to tell me about the rash and the tests. He said whatever’s going on down there, he must have got it from me, but last time my gynaecologist checked, I didn’t have herpes or anything else and I haven’t slept with anyone since. So if he didn’t get herpes from me, he clearly got them from someone else! Someone else with herpes! Who is it, Dave? What do you know?”
“I know that it’s generally considered unprofessional to discuss herpes with a co-worker.”
“Dave, don’t be a jackass! Tell me what you know!”
“Carol, I just gave Pete the name of my physician. I don’t know anything.” Carol stared at him with soul searching eyes for a moment. Then just as quickly as the rampage had started, it disappeared and Carol was back to her professional organized self.
“Alright then. Just let me know as soon as possible about your date for the Christmas party,” she said in her normal voice. She walked away, moving out of Dave’s line of sight to reveal Mort, standing there in her coat and hat.
“Oh no. Did you just witness that insanity?” he asked, rising to give her a hug.
“Part of it,” Mort confessed.
“Great,” Dave remarked dryly.
“It’s not your fault,” Mort told him, “and besides, she’s not crazy.”
“Are you sure she’s not crazy? Because, I think maybe you missed the part where she was crazy.”
“I think she’s just hurt…and scared. She doesn’t know what to do.”
“Well, not attacking me would be a good start,” Dave said emphatically.