sketch, round 2
Because I don't really want to get rid of the first draft (I can look back someday and try to see a process, or something), I'm going to leave the second draft of that crappy story from last night on here.
I think this is slightly better -- I felt much more in the narrator's head as I wrote it. So yeah.
I was about to send her a text message when some poor bastard, returning from a late afternoon class, opened the front door and held it while I caught up. Sneaking into dorms - and sneaking is the wrong word, really - was always sort of off-putting to me. I had let countless folks into the dorms I lived in. I assumed that they had either lost track of their ID cards or were just visiting friends, but I always felt, when I did it, that people were eyeing my suspiciously.
I felt stranger sneaking into a dorm at someone else’s school, and for an instant was sure that whoever sat in the windowed office was going to stop me. Of course, they didn’t, and I took the stairs up the ninth floor to avoid elevator talk with the guy who had opened the door.
Nine smelled like ramen noodles and perfume. Heavy bass pumped from somewhere to my right, someone’s television ahead of me was far, far too loud, a conversation was echoing into the lobby, and in one of the bathrooms, someone was taking a shower.
As promised, the door to room 903 was open. Inside was the standard-issue dorm furniture you would expect, and all of the personal touches that you never really expect. It was faux homey, in classic collegiate fashion: a welcome mat and fluffy rug spread neatly in the floor, with camping chairs folded next to the television.
I noticed this peripherally in the split-second between turning to face the open doorway and seeing her bolt up from her desk. She wore on her face the widest grin I’ve ever seen. I smiled back at her - a soft smile, effortless and natural, and for a moment, we could only stand there, grinning at each other.
“Hey, you! You made it!” she said.
I took a tentative step into the room, bringing the flowers out from behind my back. As I started to move, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine. I immediately wrapped my free arm around her body - a perfect fit - and she sighed happily into my ear as the flowers were crushed between us.
The bouquet giving way between us startled her: her eyes opened wide (the lashed tickled my cheek) and she quit the hug and leapt back a half-step.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anything was there!” she squealed. “I just felt something cold on my stomach!” And we both burst into near-hysterical laughter. It had been a stressful couple of months. I dropped the ruined flowers onto her desk as we calmed down.
“Christ, girl, you excited or something?” I said. My heart fluttered at the sight of her.
She gave an excited, “Whee!” and spun around twice before stopping to face me again.
“He came back!” she said. I couldn’t even be sure who she was talking to. She was trying not to smile, that was obvious, and just as obvious was the fact that she literally could not help herself - and because of that, I couldn’t contain myself, either. I chuckled at her, running a hand over my face.
Wait, what did she say?
Joy flushed her cheeks, and she hugged me again. My arms closed around her instantly. It was an undeniable reflex, like breathing. She squeezed my neck - I inhaled sharply - and she said, “My stupid boy came back!”
She pulled back, her hands clasped onto my shoulders and looked into my eyes, biting her lip, still grinning. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding her around the lower back and watching her face as she waited for my response. She looked worried - it was adorable. Finally, I nodded at her dumbly, my mind struggling to catch up to her words.
“I think things are really gonna be okay this time,” she said with more serious intonations. “I really think so.”
I laughed lightly (imagined a balloon drifting in the sky -- lightly) and snatched my cell from my coat pocket and checked the time. 6:40 pm, it read.
“I need to let my Ma know that I made it out here okay.” I said. She motioned for me to call - I inspected my phone again.
“No bars,” I lied. “I’ll have to go outside.”
“I’ll come with you, so you won’t have to sneak back in.”
She could hardly stand still as the elevator descended, bouncing one leg and beaming at nobody
in particular.
As I stepped through the back door, I fished my phone out of my pocket and tossed the receipt for the flowers into the ashtray as I passed. I turned to see her, still smiling, watching after me through the window next to the door. I counted the stairs on the way down, skipped the third, and sat down on the sixth, looking out across the rear lot. The sun was setting blandly tonight, grey and overcast. The dumpsters were overflowing with white bags and beer boxes. A trickle of coffee rolled down the hill toward the woods from a spatter which I mistook at first, thanks to the light, for vomit.
I hit the five three times, the seven once, and the two three times, and lifted the phone up to my ear.
Fuck, I thought. Just that, only that: Fuck.
Inside, she could probably see my head bobbing occasionally in animated conversation as she plotted her next trip to see her stupid boy, where they would make amends and doubtlessly have lots and lots of wonderful sex, troubles forgotten, fights forgiven.
Outside, I carefully measured my breathing, subdued the worst of the shaking, and in the dim light, managed to look halfway convincing, even from the front. I gave myself five minutes, wiped my eyes while pretending to scratch my forehead, and blew my nose into a fast food napkin I found in my pocket, phone pressed to my cheek the entire time.
When I stood to go inside a few minutes later, feeling suitably in control and cooled down, darker clouds had already brought the night’s full force.
“You look a little red,” she said as she opened the door. “Is everything alright?”
“Tiff with Ma.” I said, and hoped that my smile was convincing as we walked slowly back to the elevator. “So, tell me what happened."
There you go. Suggestions? Lines you fucking hate? Anything?
I think this is slightly better -- I felt much more in the narrator's head as I wrote it. So yeah.
I was about to send her a text message when some poor bastard, returning from a late afternoon class, opened the front door and held it while I caught up. Sneaking into dorms - and sneaking is the wrong word, really - was always sort of off-putting to me. I had let countless folks into the dorms I lived in. I assumed that they had either lost track of their ID cards or were just visiting friends, but I always felt, when I did it, that people were eyeing my suspiciously.
I felt stranger sneaking into a dorm at someone else’s school, and for an instant was sure that whoever sat in the windowed office was going to stop me. Of course, they didn’t, and I took the stairs up the ninth floor to avoid elevator talk with the guy who had opened the door.
Nine smelled like ramen noodles and perfume. Heavy bass pumped from somewhere to my right, someone’s television ahead of me was far, far too loud, a conversation was echoing into the lobby, and in one of the bathrooms, someone was taking a shower.
As promised, the door to room 903 was open. Inside was the standard-issue dorm furniture you would expect, and all of the personal touches that you never really expect. It was faux homey, in classic collegiate fashion: a welcome mat and fluffy rug spread neatly in the floor, with camping chairs folded next to the television.
I noticed this peripherally in the split-second between turning to face the open doorway and seeing her bolt up from her desk. She wore on her face the widest grin I’ve ever seen. I smiled back at her - a soft smile, effortless and natural, and for a moment, we could only stand there, grinning at each other.
“Hey, you! You made it!” she said.
I took a tentative step into the room, bringing the flowers out from behind my back. As I started to move, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine. I immediately wrapped my free arm around her body - a perfect fit - and she sighed happily into my ear as the flowers were crushed between us.
The bouquet giving way between us startled her: her eyes opened wide (the lashed tickled my cheek) and she quit the hug and leapt back a half-step.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anything was there!” she squealed. “I just felt something cold on my stomach!” And we both burst into near-hysterical laughter. It had been a stressful couple of months. I dropped the ruined flowers onto her desk as we calmed down.
“Christ, girl, you excited or something?” I said. My heart fluttered at the sight of her.
She gave an excited, “Whee!” and spun around twice before stopping to face me again.
“He came back!” she said. I couldn’t even be sure who she was talking to. She was trying not to smile, that was obvious, and just as obvious was the fact that she literally could not help herself - and because of that, I couldn’t contain myself, either. I chuckled at her, running a hand over my face.
Wait, what did she say?
Joy flushed her cheeks, and she hugged me again. My arms closed around her instantly. It was an undeniable reflex, like breathing. She squeezed my neck - I inhaled sharply - and she said, “My stupid boy came back!”
She pulled back, her hands clasped onto my shoulders and looked into my eyes, biting her lip, still grinning. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding her around the lower back and watching her face as she waited for my response. She looked worried - it was adorable. Finally, I nodded at her dumbly, my mind struggling to catch up to her words.
“I think things are really gonna be okay this time,” she said with more serious intonations. “I really think so.”
I laughed lightly (imagined a balloon drifting in the sky -- lightly) and snatched my cell from my coat pocket and checked the time. 6:40 pm, it read.
“I need to let my Ma know that I made it out here okay.” I said. She motioned for me to call - I inspected my phone again.
“No bars,” I lied. “I’ll have to go outside.”
“I’ll come with you, so you won’t have to sneak back in.”
She could hardly stand still as the elevator descended, bouncing one leg and beaming at nobody
in particular.
As I stepped through the back door, I fished my phone out of my pocket and tossed the receipt for the flowers into the ashtray as I passed. I turned to see her, still smiling, watching after me through the window next to the door. I counted the stairs on the way down, skipped the third, and sat down on the sixth, looking out across the rear lot. The sun was setting blandly tonight, grey and overcast. The dumpsters were overflowing with white bags and beer boxes. A trickle of coffee rolled down the hill toward the woods from a spatter which I mistook at first, thanks to the light, for vomit.
I hit the five three times, the seven once, and the two three times, and lifted the phone up to my ear.
Fuck, I thought. Just that, only that: Fuck.
Inside, she could probably see my head bobbing occasionally in animated conversation as she plotted her next trip to see her stupid boy, where they would make amends and doubtlessly have lots and lots of wonderful sex, troubles forgotten, fights forgiven.
Outside, I carefully measured my breathing, subdued the worst of the shaking, and in the dim light, managed to look halfway convincing, even from the front. I gave myself five minutes, wiped my eyes while pretending to scratch my forehead, and blew my nose into a fast food napkin I found in my pocket, phone pressed to my cheek the entire time.
When I stood to go inside a few minutes later, feeling suitably in control and cooled down, darker clouds had already brought the night’s full force.
“You look a little red,” she said as she opened the door. “Is everything alright?”
“Tiff with Ma.” I said, and hoped that my smile was convincing as we walked slowly back to the elevator. “So, tell me what happened."
There you go. Suggestions? Lines you fucking hate? Anything?