You could be from Venus/ And I could be from Mars
I've been writing too much up here. Actually, no, there's no such thing as writing too much, but hey, it's more than usual. Recently it seems I've been on a kick writing things about people meeting. Dunno why, it's just been there. Working on my dialogue, I guess. As you can see, it still sucks. Hence, I'm working on it. It's hard, man.
Anywayz, I just finished this and was like, hey, I think I'll post it on lj cause that's REALLY what people are interested in! Nah, it's just for the hell of it. Whatever. I'm in Maine, people, I'm bored! Give me a break! Love me! Give me a break, at least. I'm putting it in an lj-cut, this time, to spare the masses. And save space. Yay me.
I meet him on the beach, two months after I leave my first real job. It’s the coldest, windiest day of spring so far. Spring always comes late and ugly around here. I’m staying at my sister’s beach house, knowing that this time of year will shelter me from tourists better than any bright umbrella could.
The beach in the rain is a different creature from the sandy expanse where so many sticky July memories are created. It’s gray and damp and clings to your skin, desperate for human contact. I’m collecting sea glass, just because I have nothing better to do. I thought, at best I could make something artsy with it. Apply that college degree, which so far has proved about as useful as the freckles on my arm. I have twelve green pieces, eight blue, six brown, nine white, and two purple to show for forty minutes’ worth of searching.
He’s sitting in a beach chair on top of a dune, wearing Florida sunglasses and a trenchcoat. Most people either wear one or the other. There aren’t any spare chairs on the beach, especially not at this time of year, so I figure he must live nearby. I’m about to walk past him, just leave the weirdo alone, but he’s reading a book written by a friend of my family. I have a moral obligation to ask him if he liked it.
“What do you think of the book?”
He looks up at me, apparently not surprised that a total stranger is starting a conversation with him. “It’s pretty good. I like the message she’s trying to get across, and she has a good style. It does seem a little pretentious in places, though. I wish she’d cut down on the social commentary and let us figure it out for ourselves.” He smiles. “It’s good, though. Have you read it?”
I nod. “Yeah. Diane’s an old friend of my father’s.”
He really looks at me this time. A good hard stare, not a casual glance like before. “Really.”
He’s got a cigarette in his mouth, but it isn’t lit. “You need a lighter?”
“Oh, right.” He takes it from his lips and stuffs it in his pocket. “I don’t actually smoke. I’ve found that it’s a good way to distinguish between the two groups of people.”
“What groups?”
“Those that are offended by smokers, and those that aren’t. The J. Crew yuppie types, the ones who ask you to put your Marlboros away when you’re sitting outside on a park bench, on public property...” He shakes his head. “They’re not my kind of people. Never will be. People like you, the ones that’ll talk to me and don’t try to tell me I’m going to get cancer, they’re the ones I make friends with. The others, I don’t bother.”
“How do you know that wasn’t the next thing I was going to say to you?”
“What?”
“That you’re giving yourself cancer.”
“Well, first of all, you asked me if I needed a lighter, which alone tells me that you don’t care I’m smoking. In fact, you’re willing to help me in my quest for black lungs.”
“Good point.” He doesn’t miss much. “Okay, so what are you doing on the beach in the middle of March?”
He grins. “Reading. Clearly.”
“Alright, okay. But why here? Why not somewhere, I don’t know, warmer maybe?”
He closes the book and folds his legs, frowning at the chair. “Well, coffee shops seem so tacky, and the last place I want to be is home, and I thought, hey, the beach is right down the street, and there won’t be anyone out there in this weather. Seems I was wrong.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I was just getting bored with this part of the book anyway. You saved me from a tragic and frostbitten death.” He slumps back in the chair dramatically. I sit down on the end of it. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“So. Where are you from?” I can’t think of anything more intelligent to ask. I hate that question, it’s all anyone gets around here. Apparently I’m only capable of being creative on a canvas.
“Does it matter? I mean, are you going to walk away if I say Missouri, or fall in love with me if I say Nepal?”
“No, I mean, I was just....it’s not like I discriminate against people based on where they’re from, that’s just stupid. I was-”
“You were making small talk.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“People get good at that around here. They need to think of better questions.”
“Like what?”
He lifts the sunglasses onto the top of his head. He has gray eyes and a skinny nose that doesn’t seem to start anywhere. “Like,” he leans forward, “when was the last time you were drunk? I mean really drunk?”
“That’s kind of a weird question. I mean, you don’t even know me.”
“No, but I’m trying to get to know you. Hence the question. What would you rather have me ask, what’s your pet’s name?”
“I get what you’re saying. It just seems weird to ask personal questions to a total stranger, you know?”
He smiles again. “If you answer it, you won’t be a total stranger anymore. Then I’ll know something about you.”
This is either the best or the worst logic I’ve ever heard. I’m thisclose to walking away from him (what kind of person asks things like that when they don’t even know you?) but there’s still some potential to this conversation. And this guy.
“Okay. The last time I was really, really drunk was at my friend Joanna’s New Year’s party.”
“Typical,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so. It was pretty funny, though. Someone decided we should play Sardines at like, two in the morning, so it was really dark, and people were falling all over the place. It was fun.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Do I get to ask you some crazy question now?”
He spreads his hands. “Shoot.”
I’m ready. “If you had to kiss a guy, who would it be?” I’ve been using this since seventh grade, when I was playing Truth or Dare with my friend David. He punched me and never answered the question.
He laughs. “That’s a hell of a good question. I’ve gotta remember that one. Alright, let me think.” He taps his fingers against his knee, watching me watch them. “Celebrity or someone I know?”
“Either one. Actually, celebrity. I won’t know anyone you know.”
He’s frowning, staring into space. “Okay, got it.”
“And? Who is it?”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Not exactly what I was expecting. “For the love of god, why him?”
Shrug. “He scares me.” I’m getting a sense that he doesn’t like to give straight answers. He’s definitely interesting, but frustrating as hell, too.
“Then.....I don’t get it. He scares you?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t he scare you? He’s this big Austrian on steroids who doesn’t know how to pronounce the state he’s supposed to be running. Scares me. Plus, he’s so macho. I think it would be kinda subversive, him kissing a guy, right?”
I have no idea where he gets these ideas from. “I guess. I never really thought of that.”
“What, you thought I’d say Brad Pitt or something?”
“Well, no, but I didn’t expect you to say Arnold Schwarzenegger either.”
He smiles at me and stands up, brushing the sand from his lap. “Learn something new every day.”
It’s wetter now, still not quite raining, but getting there. The air is so saturated, my face is wet seconds after I’m out from under the protection of the umbrella. He picks up a black top hat from the sand next to the chair and puts it on his head. It doesn’t look like it’ll do much good against rain.
“Nice hat.”
“You like it? It was my grandfather’s. Best things in life are free.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I have a lot of my aunt’s jewelry. She died a couple years ago.”
“Really.” He doesn’t say he’s sorry or ask what happened to her. It’s like he doesn’t care, or maybe he just doesn’t feel like asking. Or maybe he realizes that whenever a person mentions a dead relative, they either get sympathy or curiosity as a response. Never acceptance. Whatever his reasoning, it’s a nice change.
He starts walking along the dune, and I have to run after him to catch up. He’s much taller than he looked in the chair, over a head taller than me. “Wait up!” He turns, waits for me. “Are you just leaving that stuff there?”
“It’s not mine.”
“What do you mean? There aren’t normally chairs and umbrellas sitting on the beach this time of year!”
He shakes his head and looks at me like I’m three. I hate that look. “No, but this time there were.” He turns around and keeps walking. He probably stole them from someone’s yard. I wouldn’t be surprised. He seems like that kind of person. Not that I know him well. I’m not sure I want to. He seems like a weird guy. Crazy, even.
I sprint to catch up with him. “I don’t know your name.”
“No.” He gives me that look again. “I never told you.”
“That’s true, but I never asked. Now I’m asking.”
“What if I don’t want to tell you?”
“Why not?”
“Why would I tell you why I don’t want to tell you?”
He’s incredibly confusing. “Why can’t you just tell me your name?”
“Calvin.” He’s walking faster now, easy for him with his long legs. I have to run again.
“Calvin?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve never met anyone with that name. The only Calvin I’ve ever heard of is-”
“-the little kid from the comic,” he finishes. “I know. I’ve heard that one before.”
“Were you named after anyone?”
“God knows.” He doesn’t say anything else.
“Well, I’m Anya.”
“Pretty.” He says it like he means the opposite.
“Don’t you want to know where my name came from?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
I stop. I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome. It seems his attention span only reaches so far. “Oh. Sorry.” We’ve walked past the path to my sister’s house. I turn around to go. It’s getting late anyway. I count my steps away from him, one, two, three, four, five-
“Anya!”
I won’t turn around. Not after he was so rude to me. “What?”
“Anya.”
“What?”
“Anya, look at me.”
Something in his voice makes me think, maybe he’s going to be polite and apologize. I turn.
He’s standing right in front of me, so close I hit him with my elbows when I spin to face him. I’m looking up, expecting to hear an apology come falling down from his lips. It’s the least he can do. He doesn’t say a word, just puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses me.
Nobody has kissed me since Paul. It’s been I-don’t-want-to-say-how-long a time, long enough for me to feel embarrassed, long enough for me to lie to my friends. Calvin’s not a great kisser, not like Paul, but it’s been so long, I don’t care. I don’t try to think about this kiss, what it means, why it’s happening. There’s no reason to think about it until it’s over. I concentrate on tilting my face up into his, blinking off the mist on my eyelashes.
He leans back and it’s over. We look at each other, not smiling, but not angry. It’s something in between, something like two people realizing that they don’t have a clue what they’re doing. God only knows I’ve felt like that before, but somehow, this time, it’s okay. I don’t have to know exactly what my plans are, because sometimes it’s enough just to think about your lips, and someone else’s lips, and holding your face at the right angle to keep the rain off.
He takes his hat off, puts it on my head. “I’ll call you,” he says with a little smile. I watch as he walks away down the beach, droplets collecting in his hair, without my phone number.
It’s three days after I’ve stopped waiting for the phone to ring. I go down to the kitchen, yawning against the bright sun. Spring, real spring, is finally coming. He’s sitting there, fingers steepled on the table. One of my sister’s good red cups is in front of him, full of orange juice from the fridge. When he sees me, he takes a drink and stands up.
“I said I’d call,” he says.
“How did you find me?” I ask. This house is listed under my sister’s husband’s name.
He smiles, a tiny smile. “Magic.” I’m still wondering how he found me, how he got in, when he grabs my hand. “Come on.” He pushes open the door to the porch and we step outside. Everything is washed with sunlight, soaking up the warmth of only the second sunny day of the month. The early morning atmosphere is so hazy, so dreamlike, I can’t be sure if I’m really awake. I put my hand on his chest, his heartbeat a reassuring metronome of my conscious. He responds by pressing the cup, still in his hand, against my forehead. Drops of water from the sweating glass trail to the tip of my nose, hang, fall to the porch steps. We stand like that, paused, until a door across the street slams.
He takes off his coat and leaves it, folded, on the railing next to the cup. I stay on the porch, watching in my pajamas as he walks to the gate and out into the middle of the street. It’s still too early for cars in this neighborhood. Most of the houses are still quiet. He smiles at me, a real smile this time. A smile to match the day. “Isn’t it beautiful,” he says. It’s not a question. There’s no need for an answer.
Quite frankly, it's not very good. In all honesty, it pretty much sucks. But that's ok, because I'm not pretending that it's great. It's just something I wrote, because I was bored. And I liked Calvin, when it started. I don't like him so much anymore, but I did for a few days. It's not like I'm going for a Pulitzer anyways.
Anywayz, I just finished this and was like, hey, I think I'll post it on lj cause that's REALLY what people are interested in! Nah, it's just for the hell of it. Whatever. I'm in Maine, people, I'm bored! Give me a break! Love me! Give me a break, at least. I'm putting it in an lj-cut, this time, to spare the masses. And save space. Yay me.
I meet him on the beach, two months after I leave my first real job. It’s the coldest, windiest day of spring so far. Spring always comes late and ugly around here. I’m staying at my sister’s beach house, knowing that this time of year will shelter me from tourists better than any bright umbrella could.
The beach in the rain is a different creature from the sandy expanse where so many sticky July memories are created. It’s gray and damp and clings to your skin, desperate for human contact. I’m collecting sea glass, just because I have nothing better to do. I thought, at best I could make something artsy with it. Apply that college degree, which so far has proved about as useful as the freckles on my arm. I have twelve green pieces, eight blue, six brown, nine white, and two purple to show for forty minutes’ worth of searching.
He’s sitting in a beach chair on top of a dune, wearing Florida sunglasses and a trenchcoat. Most people either wear one or the other. There aren’t any spare chairs on the beach, especially not at this time of year, so I figure he must live nearby. I’m about to walk past him, just leave the weirdo alone, but he’s reading a book written by a friend of my family. I have a moral obligation to ask him if he liked it.
“What do you think of the book?”
He looks up at me, apparently not surprised that a total stranger is starting a conversation with him. “It’s pretty good. I like the message she’s trying to get across, and she has a good style. It does seem a little pretentious in places, though. I wish she’d cut down on the social commentary and let us figure it out for ourselves.” He smiles. “It’s good, though. Have you read it?”
I nod. “Yeah. Diane’s an old friend of my father’s.”
He really looks at me this time. A good hard stare, not a casual glance like before. “Really.”
He’s got a cigarette in his mouth, but it isn’t lit. “You need a lighter?”
“Oh, right.” He takes it from his lips and stuffs it in his pocket. “I don’t actually smoke. I’ve found that it’s a good way to distinguish between the two groups of people.”
“What groups?”
“Those that are offended by smokers, and those that aren’t. The J. Crew yuppie types, the ones who ask you to put your Marlboros away when you’re sitting outside on a park bench, on public property...” He shakes his head. “They’re not my kind of people. Never will be. People like you, the ones that’ll talk to me and don’t try to tell me I’m going to get cancer, they’re the ones I make friends with. The others, I don’t bother.”
“How do you know that wasn’t the next thing I was going to say to you?”
“What?”
“That you’re giving yourself cancer.”
“Well, first of all, you asked me if I needed a lighter, which alone tells me that you don’t care I’m smoking. In fact, you’re willing to help me in my quest for black lungs.”
“Good point.” He doesn’t miss much. “Okay, so what are you doing on the beach in the middle of March?”
He grins. “Reading. Clearly.”
“Alright, okay. But why here? Why not somewhere, I don’t know, warmer maybe?”
He closes the book and folds his legs, frowning at the chair. “Well, coffee shops seem so tacky, and the last place I want to be is home, and I thought, hey, the beach is right down the street, and there won’t be anyone out there in this weather. Seems I was wrong.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I was just getting bored with this part of the book anyway. You saved me from a tragic and frostbitten death.” He slumps back in the chair dramatically. I sit down on the end of it. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“So. Where are you from?” I can’t think of anything more intelligent to ask. I hate that question, it’s all anyone gets around here. Apparently I’m only capable of being creative on a canvas.
“Does it matter? I mean, are you going to walk away if I say Missouri, or fall in love with me if I say Nepal?”
“No, I mean, I was just....it’s not like I discriminate against people based on where they’re from, that’s just stupid. I was-”
“You were making small talk.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“People get good at that around here. They need to think of better questions.”
“Like what?”
He lifts the sunglasses onto the top of his head. He has gray eyes and a skinny nose that doesn’t seem to start anywhere. “Like,” he leans forward, “when was the last time you were drunk? I mean really drunk?”
“That’s kind of a weird question. I mean, you don’t even know me.”
“No, but I’m trying to get to know you. Hence the question. What would you rather have me ask, what’s your pet’s name?”
“I get what you’re saying. It just seems weird to ask personal questions to a total stranger, you know?”
He smiles again. “If you answer it, you won’t be a total stranger anymore. Then I’ll know something about you.”
This is either the best or the worst logic I’ve ever heard. I’m thisclose to walking away from him (what kind of person asks things like that when they don’t even know you?) but there’s still some potential to this conversation. And this guy.
“Okay. The last time I was really, really drunk was at my friend Joanna’s New Year’s party.”
“Typical,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so. It was pretty funny, though. Someone decided we should play Sardines at like, two in the morning, so it was really dark, and people were falling all over the place. It was fun.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Do I get to ask you some crazy question now?”
He spreads his hands. “Shoot.”
I’m ready. “If you had to kiss a guy, who would it be?” I’ve been using this since seventh grade, when I was playing Truth or Dare with my friend David. He punched me and never answered the question.
He laughs. “That’s a hell of a good question. I’ve gotta remember that one. Alright, let me think.” He taps his fingers against his knee, watching me watch them. “Celebrity or someone I know?”
“Either one. Actually, celebrity. I won’t know anyone you know.”
He’s frowning, staring into space. “Okay, got it.”
“And? Who is it?”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Not exactly what I was expecting. “For the love of god, why him?”
Shrug. “He scares me.” I’m getting a sense that he doesn’t like to give straight answers. He’s definitely interesting, but frustrating as hell, too.
“Then.....I don’t get it. He scares you?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t he scare you? He’s this big Austrian on steroids who doesn’t know how to pronounce the state he’s supposed to be running. Scares me. Plus, he’s so macho. I think it would be kinda subversive, him kissing a guy, right?”
I have no idea where he gets these ideas from. “I guess. I never really thought of that.”
“What, you thought I’d say Brad Pitt or something?”
“Well, no, but I didn’t expect you to say Arnold Schwarzenegger either.”
He smiles at me and stands up, brushing the sand from his lap. “Learn something new every day.”
It’s wetter now, still not quite raining, but getting there. The air is so saturated, my face is wet seconds after I’m out from under the protection of the umbrella. He picks up a black top hat from the sand next to the chair and puts it on his head. It doesn’t look like it’ll do much good against rain.
“Nice hat.”
“You like it? It was my grandfather’s. Best things in life are free.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I have a lot of my aunt’s jewelry. She died a couple years ago.”
“Really.” He doesn’t say he’s sorry or ask what happened to her. It’s like he doesn’t care, or maybe he just doesn’t feel like asking. Or maybe he realizes that whenever a person mentions a dead relative, they either get sympathy or curiosity as a response. Never acceptance. Whatever his reasoning, it’s a nice change.
He starts walking along the dune, and I have to run after him to catch up. He’s much taller than he looked in the chair, over a head taller than me. “Wait up!” He turns, waits for me. “Are you just leaving that stuff there?”
“It’s not mine.”
“What do you mean? There aren’t normally chairs and umbrellas sitting on the beach this time of year!”
He shakes his head and looks at me like I’m three. I hate that look. “No, but this time there were.” He turns around and keeps walking. He probably stole them from someone’s yard. I wouldn’t be surprised. He seems like that kind of person. Not that I know him well. I’m not sure I want to. He seems like a weird guy. Crazy, even.
I sprint to catch up with him. “I don’t know your name.”
“No.” He gives me that look again. “I never told you.”
“That’s true, but I never asked. Now I’m asking.”
“What if I don’t want to tell you?”
“Why not?”
“Why would I tell you why I don’t want to tell you?”
He’s incredibly confusing. “Why can’t you just tell me your name?”
“Calvin.” He’s walking faster now, easy for him with his long legs. I have to run again.
“Calvin?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve never met anyone with that name. The only Calvin I’ve ever heard of is-”
“-the little kid from the comic,” he finishes. “I know. I’ve heard that one before.”
“Were you named after anyone?”
“God knows.” He doesn’t say anything else.
“Well, I’m Anya.”
“Pretty.” He says it like he means the opposite.
“Don’t you want to know where my name came from?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
I stop. I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome. It seems his attention span only reaches so far. “Oh. Sorry.” We’ve walked past the path to my sister’s house. I turn around to go. It’s getting late anyway. I count my steps away from him, one, two, three, four, five-
“Anya!”
I won’t turn around. Not after he was so rude to me. “What?”
“Anya.”
“What?”
“Anya, look at me.”
Something in his voice makes me think, maybe he’s going to be polite and apologize. I turn.
He’s standing right in front of me, so close I hit him with my elbows when I spin to face him. I’m looking up, expecting to hear an apology come falling down from his lips. It’s the least he can do. He doesn’t say a word, just puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses me.
Nobody has kissed me since Paul. It’s been I-don’t-want-to-say-how-long a time, long enough for me to feel embarrassed, long enough for me to lie to my friends. Calvin’s not a great kisser, not like Paul, but it’s been so long, I don’t care. I don’t try to think about this kiss, what it means, why it’s happening. There’s no reason to think about it until it’s over. I concentrate on tilting my face up into his, blinking off the mist on my eyelashes.
He leans back and it’s over. We look at each other, not smiling, but not angry. It’s something in between, something like two people realizing that they don’t have a clue what they’re doing. God only knows I’ve felt like that before, but somehow, this time, it’s okay. I don’t have to know exactly what my plans are, because sometimes it’s enough just to think about your lips, and someone else’s lips, and holding your face at the right angle to keep the rain off.
He takes his hat off, puts it on my head. “I’ll call you,” he says with a little smile. I watch as he walks away down the beach, droplets collecting in his hair, without my phone number.
It’s three days after I’ve stopped waiting for the phone to ring. I go down to the kitchen, yawning against the bright sun. Spring, real spring, is finally coming. He’s sitting there, fingers steepled on the table. One of my sister’s good red cups is in front of him, full of orange juice from the fridge. When he sees me, he takes a drink and stands up.
“I said I’d call,” he says.
“How did you find me?” I ask. This house is listed under my sister’s husband’s name.
He smiles, a tiny smile. “Magic.” I’m still wondering how he found me, how he got in, when he grabs my hand. “Come on.” He pushes open the door to the porch and we step outside. Everything is washed with sunlight, soaking up the warmth of only the second sunny day of the month. The early morning atmosphere is so hazy, so dreamlike, I can’t be sure if I’m really awake. I put my hand on his chest, his heartbeat a reassuring metronome of my conscious. He responds by pressing the cup, still in his hand, against my forehead. Drops of water from the sweating glass trail to the tip of my nose, hang, fall to the porch steps. We stand like that, paused, until a door across the street slams.
He takes off his coat and leaves it, folded, on the railing next to the cup. I stay on the porch, watching in my pajamas as he walks to the gate and out into the middle of the street. It’s still too early for cars in this neighborhood. Most of the houses are still quiet. He smiles at me, a real smile this time. A smile to match the day. “Isn’t it beautiful,” he says. It’s not a question. There’s no need for an answer.
Quite frankly, it's not very good. In all honesty, it pretty much sucks. But that's ok, because I'm not pretending that it's great. It's just something I wrote, because I was bored. And I liked Calvin, when it started. I don't like him so much anymore, but I did for a few days. It's not like I'm going for a Pulitzer anyways.