how do you want to live
JI: You should drabble something.
FAHYE: What?
JI: Thomas Beech/your choice
FAHYE, LIKE A FOOL: Sure.
The first fellow American that Thomas meets in Moscow has sandy-gold hair in two loose plaits, a lot of freckles, and a nametag that reads MELODY in careful red pen. She's standing against one wall at an international students meet-and-greet, balancing a full plate of cocktail food and drinking instant coffee with the kind of concentration that Thomas usually associates with people who reserve it for alcohol.
So he opens with: "What did you spike that with?"
The girl looks at him with genuine surprise for a second, then turns her body towards his in a friendly way. "Nothing," she says, "alas. I left my smokes in my room -- don't suppose you've got any?"
"I don't smoke." He shrugs. "Sorry."
"But you've got some vices, right?" All of a sudden she pulls a smile out of somewhere, a wide, brilliant, Julia Roberts kind of smile.
Thomas blinks, and his answering smile feels pale and thin in comparison. "Yes, but I try not to disclose them in the first five minutes of acquaintance. Thomas Beech," he adds, extending a hand out of sheer habit.
"Melody," she says, not sounding too enthused about it. Thomas squeezes her hand and decides to push.
"Melody what?" he asks, all innocence.
"If you laugh I'll kill you," she warns.
"Okay."
"Dawn." She lifts her chin. "Melody Dawn."
"Oh my God." Thomas manages, heroically, not to laugh, but his smile is painful. "You're joking."
"You can call me Mel."
Thomas can tell by her expression that he had better stop smiling or else subject himself to some kind of reciprocal humiliation, or this friendship will be over before it begins.
So he says, "You can call me Dorothy," entirely deadpan. "It's my middle name."
~
There are a few hysterical seconds, the first time he sleeps with Melody, where he wonders if he'll have somehow forgotten how to do it with women. But it's easy, enjoyable, normal, and Mel has ticklish sides and freckles dotted all across her chest and a very gratifying way of gasping in the back of her throat.
"That was a lot of fun," he says afterwards, and kisses her shoulder.
"Well, gee, Thomas Beech," Mel says, amused, leaning over the edge of the bed in order to rummage around in her discarded clothes for cigarettes. "You needn't sound so surprised. Damn. They must be in my coat." She lies back on the pillow. Mel seems incapable of keeping track of her cigarettes, and smokes each one with a charmingly determined satisfaction, as though unsure of when she'll get her hands on another.
"Sorry." Thomas laughs. "I didn't mean to insult you. It's been a while since I started anything new like this, that's all."
"I think we did quite well, for a first time." Mel rolls over onto one elbow and looks down at him. "There was certainly a minimum of awkward grasping and flailing."
Thomas notices a red mark on the underside of her jaw and reaches up to touch it; she follows his fingers with her own and gives something that's midway between a giggle and a wince. "Got a little rough for a moment there, didn't you. Have we found one of your elusive vices? Or were you just carried away by your insatiable lust for me?"
Thomas thinks, if I were Thom, I'd be bright red around now. He grins and tugs on the unwound strands of her hair. "You didn't mind?"
"Don't worry." Mel stretches, kisses him lightning-fast on the side of his mouth, and swings her legs off the bed. "As soon as I mind, I'll let you know. In no uncertain terms."
"That's good to know," Thomas says, and means it.
She laughs. "Come on, Dorothy, get dressed and I'll buy you a coffee."
Coffee, and then another coffee, and Mel staring at each individual cigarette as though she personally tracked them down and trapped them. Thomas had forgotten that a comfortable relationship could be easy to fall into, rather than something that itself has to be trapped and struggled for. Melody Dawn's father is a mathematician and her mother is a crystal healer, and she has two younger sisters. She likes physics more than almost anything in the world, and no, she doesn't talk about the things she likes more than physics until she's slept with someone at least five times.
Thomas laughs and watches her lips blow smoke into the evening air and tells her about his parents, the music he likes, and some of his ambitions. Not all of them.
During a lull in the conversation his eye is caught by a flash of short red hair atop a slender figure, a girl walking past their table speaking irritated-sounding Russian into her cell phone. There isn't any real resemblance, but the colouring and the glimpse of her pale wrist emerging from her coat is enough that Thomas watches her until she's rounded the corner.
When he looks back at Mel, there's a knowing expression hovering around her eyebrows. "Remind you of an old girlfriend, did she?"
"Old boyfriend, actually."
It's almost a surprise not to hear Thom's voice, pushed even higher than usual with indignation, protesting the title. Thomas imagines his expression and smiles.
~
Three weeks later, Mel is pounding on his door and yelling, "Hey, Dorothy! Wake up!"
"Almost ready!" Thomas shouts back, his sleep-lined throat totally ruining that attempt at strategic lying.
"You're a disgrace," Mel tells him when he opens the door. "And if we're late for the movie, you're paying for my ticket."
Thomas dresses quickly, but not overly so: Melody is the most punctual person he's met in his life -- and enjoys bemoaning the loose relationship that most of their colleagues have with time -- so he doesn't think they're in much danger of being late. Sure enough, they end up with enough extra time that they dawdle in a tiny park on their way to the cinema.
"What're you thinking about?" Mel bumps his shoulder, and Thomas realises that he's been fiddling with equations in his head for the last five minutes.
"Just planning my Nobel address," he says, an automatic response left over from conversations with Thom, and he smiles to let her know that it's a joke. But Melody turns to look straight at him; her plaits are sticking out from her green beanie at odd angles, and her mouth is twitching with something that he recognises as careful thought.
"You're not going to fall in love with me, are you?" she asks then.
"No." Thomas feels sad, for a moment, because he can see it; he can see himself falling in love with her, and he can see it being good, but it's not going to happen and she deserves to know that upfront. "No, I don't think so."
"Pity," she says, her fingers very gentle at his jaw for a brief moment. Then she gives that bright, wonderful smile. "But I think I can probably settle for sex and coffee. Come on, we're going to be late."
She grabs his gloved hand with her own bare one and pulls him along the path, whistling something that is only just recognisable as We're Off To See The Wizard.
FAHYE: What?
JI: Thomas Beech/your choice
FAHYE, LIKE A FOOL: Sure.
The first fellow American that Thomas meets in Moscow has sandy-gold hair in two loose plaits, a lot of freckles, and a nametag that reads MELODY in careful red pen. She's standing against one wall at an international students meet-and-greet, balancing a full plate of cocktail food and drinking instant coffee with the kind of concentration that Thomas usually associates with people who reserve it for alcohol.
So he opens with: "What did you spike that with?"
The girl looks at him with genuine surprise for a second, then turns her body towards his in a friendly way. "Nothing," she says, "alas. I left my smokes in my room -- don't suppose you've got any?"
"I don't smoke." He shrugs. "Sorry."
"But you've got some vices, right?" All of a sudden she pulls a smile out of somewhere, a wide, brilliant, Julia Roberts kind of smile.
Thomas blinks, and his answering smile feels pale and thin in comparison. "Yes, but I try not to disclose them in the first five minutes of acquaintance. Thomas Beech," he adds, extending a hand out of sheer habit.
"Melody," she says, not sounding too enthused about it. Thomas squeezes her hand and decides to push.
"Melody what?" he asks, all innocence.
"If you laugh I'll kill you," she warns.
"Okay."
"Dawn." She lifts her chin. "Melody Dawn."
"Oh my God." Thomas manages, heroically, not to laugh, but his smile is painful. "You're joking."
"You can call me Mel."
Thomas can tell by her expression that he had better stop smiling or else subject himself to some kind of reciprocal humiliation, or this friendship will be over before it begins.
So he says, "You can call me Dorothy," entirely deadpan. "It's my middle name."
~
There are a few hysterical seconds, the first time he sleeps with Melody, where he wonders if he'll have somehow forgotten how to do it with women. But it's easy, enjoyable, normal, and Mel has ticklish sides and freckles dotted all across her chest and a very gratifying way of gasping in the back of her throat.
"That was a lot of fun," he says afterwards, and kisses her shoulder.
"Well, gee, Thomas Beech," Mel says, amused, leaning over the edge of the bed in order to rummage around in her discarded clothes for cigarettes. "You needn't sound so surprised. Damn. They must be in my coat." She lies back on the pillow. Mel seems incapable of keeping track of her cigarettes, and smokes each one with a charmingly determined satisfaction, as though unsure of when she'll get her hands on another.
"Sorry." Thomas laughs. "I didn't mean to insult you. It's been a while since I started anything new like this, that's all."
"I think we did quite well, for a first time." Mel rolls over onto one elbow and looks down at him. "There was certainly a minimum of awkward grasping and flailing."
Thomas notices a red mark on the underside of her jaw and reaches up to touch it; she follows his fingers with her own and gives something that's midway between a giggle and a wince. "Got a little rough for a moment there, didn't you. Have we found one of your elusive vices? Or were you just carried away by your insatiable lust for me?"
Thomas thinks, if I were Thom, I'd be bright red around now. He grins and tugs on the unwound strands of her hair. "You didn't mind?"
"Don't worry." Mel stretches, kisses him lightning-fast on the side of his mouth, and swings her legs off the bed. "As soon as I mind, I'll let you know. In no uncertain terms."
"That's good to know," Thomas says, and means it.
She laughs. "Come on, Dorothy, get dressed and I'll buy you a coffee."
Coffee, and then another coffee, and Mel staring at each individual cigarette as though she personally tracked them down and trapped them. Thomas had forgotten that a comfortable relationship could be easy to fall into, rather than something that itself has to be trapped and struggled for. Melody Dawn's father is a mathematician and her mother is a crystal healer, and she has two younger sisters. She likes physics more than almost anything in the world, and no, she doesn't talk about the things she likes more than physics until she's slept with someone at least five times.
Thomas laughs and watches her lips blow smoke into the evening air and tells her about his parents, the music he likes, and some of his ambitions. Not all of them.
During a lull in the conversation his eye is caught by a flash of short red hair atop a slender figure, a girl walking past their table speaking irritated-sounding Russian into her cell phone. There isn't any real resemblance, but the colouring and the glimpse of her pale wrist emerging from her coat is enough that Thomas watches her until she's rounded the corner.
When he looks back at Mel, there's a knowing expression hovering around her eyebrows. "Remind you of an old girlfriend, did she?"
"Old boyfriend, actually."
It's almost a surprise not to hear Thom's voice, pushed even higher than usual with indignation, protesting the title. Thomas imagines his expression and smiles.
~
Three weeks later, Mel is pounding on his door and yelling, "Hey, Dorothy! Wake up!"
"Almost ready!" Thomas shouts back, his sleep-lined throat totally ruining that attempt at strategic lying.
"You're a disgrace," Mel tells him when he opens the door. "And if we're late for the movie, you're paying for my ticket."
Thomas dresses quickly, but not overly so: Melody is the most punctual person he's met in his life -- and enjoys bemoaning the loose relationship that most of their colleagues have with time -- so he doesn't think they're in much danger of being late. Sure enough, they end up with enough extra time that they dawdle in a tiny park on their way to the cinema.
"What're you thinking about?" Mel bumps his shoulder, and Thomas realises that he's been fiddling with equations in his head for the last five minutes.
"Just planning my Nobel address," he says, an automatic response left over from conversations with Thom, and he smiles to let her know that it's a joke. But Melody turns to look straight at him; her plaits are sticking out from her green beanie at odd angles, and her mouth is twitching with something that he recognises as careful thought.
"You're not going to fall in love with me, are you?" she asks then.
"No." Thomas feels sad, for a moment, because he can see it; he can see himself falling in love with her, and he can see it being good, but it's not going to happen and she deserves to know that upfront. "No, I don't think so."
"Pity," she says, her fingers very gentle at his jaw for a brief moment. Then she gives that bright, wonderful smile. "But I think I can probably settle for sex and coffee. Come on, we're going to be late."
She grabs his gloved hand with her own bare one and pulls him along the path, whistling something that is only just recognisable as We're Off To See The Wizard.