La Vie En Rose (III)
Arthur is twenty-two.
As an adult, Arthur is cool, calculating, observant. He mentally notes the smallest details of the biggest things, piecing things together like puzzles.
(He’s never put a puzzle together, but he’s sure he’d be great at it.)
He doesn’t live with his brother anymore, but he still sees him, talks to him, and listens to him.
(“I saw dad the other day.”)
(“Hm.”)
(“I’m thinking about asking my girlfriend to marry me.”)
(A smile. “Good luck with that.”)
(A playful shove and a knowing smirk. “You’re an ass.”)
He doesn’t go to college (but that’s not important. Doesn’t matter. It’s the past. Don’t ask, don’t tell.), and it’s not for a lack of trying. Or maybe it is. He doesn’t really care either way if he furthers his education. High school is pointless. It isn’t easy, isn’t hard, isn’t interesting. He passes his classes, graduates (without honors, but graduates nonetheless), and moves on with his life.
As an adult, Arthur searches for the one thing that makes his heart skip, his breathing labor, his stomach clench.
He doesn’t find it, but he comes pretty damn close. Art. Sketches. Simple swirls of black and white and various shades of grey coming together in drawings consisting of disarrayed lines and shadows and sharp angles. He tries his hand at it, and finds that while he’s far from perfection, he’s better than he thought he’d be.
(Marcus doesn’t understand. He tries to explain.)
(“Why these pictures?” Marcus gestures to a recent one Arthur put together, a solitary building (that looks vaguely reminiscent of the Notre Dame) against the background of a blurry sky, the edges attempting (but failing) to give off a shimmering effect.)
(“I don’t know. I like the feel of them. I think…I’m not really sure. I’m good at it.”)
(“You are,” he agrees, “but they’re so…empty. Desolate. I feel lonely looking at them.”)
(“I think that’s what I like. That there’s so much room for growth. That there’s the chance for something new to come out of it. I dunno. Does that make sense?”)
(“Sure. You should be a philosopher.”)
(Arthur playfully punches his shoulder. “At least I don’t draw stick figures on birthday cards because I’m too cheap to buy something nice.”)
(“Hey! Those guys are hard to draw! You have to take proportions into account,” Marcus defends.)
(“And color. Do I want this one to be black or dark black?”)
(They laugh, even though Marcus doesn’t understand, but that’s okay, because Arthur doesn’t either.)
As an adult, Arthur listens to Marcus. Listens to him talk about not-dad, about his fiancé, his happy life, his qualms with the weather. (Arthur laughs and tells him he ought to move somewhere else, Hell perhaps? Marcus gripes and groans that he’s not sure whether he wants his junk to burn off, so he’ll have to give Arthur a rain check on that idea, but thanks for caring.)
His phone vibrates, dancing across the granite countertop until it ungracefully tips off the rounded edge and falls open on the floor. He answers (“Shit, goddammit, stupid phone, yes? Sorry, hello?”) He’s greeted by a dial tone, and a beep notifying him of a new voicemail. He checks it.
(“Arthur, little brother. I ju-just wanted to call you to say I love you so much. Like, like a whole lot lot. Like how Audrey Hep-hip-hipburn loved Rhett the butler,” Marcus sounds drunk, Arthur notes and continues listening. “’Essept I dun wan to fuck you, cuz that would be weird because you’re my baby bro, but I’d buy you things from Tiffany’s and I know that you’d appre-aper- you’d like them and you wouldn’t throw dem in my face and yell at me and take the car so I’d havto walk all the way to the bar. Ssssh! I am having a conversion with Art. Art? Art thor? I have to go I love you bye.”)
He wastes no time in redialing, and is greeted not by the background noise of a bustling bar, but by silence.
(“What happened? Where are you?”)
(“I’m onna bus. She left.”)
(“What? Why?”)
(“Is too dark to walk and I dun have anywhere to go.”)
(“No, I meant, what happened? Why did she leave?”)
(“She loves ‘im more, he loves ‘er better. Sumthin’ like that.”)
(“You’re drunk.”)
(“Tipsy. Buzzed. Spent all my money.”)
(“How did you manage to get on the bus?”)
(“Someone felt sorry fer me.”)
(“Well, you’re a sorry sort of fellow.”)
(Silence, and Arthur is worried he scared him off. “I’m thinkin’ about joining the Army. Gonna take some courses and see what it’s about and get outtuv here.”)
(He’s leaving, he’s leaving, ohgodohogodnohe’sleavingpleasedon’tleaveme. “Good luck.”)
(“I love you.” And this time he hears it, hears the words he wasn’t sure about before, and he’s back in the car, back at the funeral, feeling the warmth of Marcus’s hand on his knee, on his shoulder, the late night talks, the jokes (not jokes not jokes) about being able to count his ribs, and oh God, he’s really going to leave him, because Marcus doesn’t lie, doesn’t half-ass things. The only thing that’s solid in his life is crumbling and he’s helpless.)
(“I know.” He’s greeted with silence, a soft snore. “Love you,” he whispers, and presses end.)
The apartment is silent. Arthur is silent. Off in the distance, a car alarm wails. And even though she isn’t there, he can hear his mom crying.
As an adult, Arthur steps foot in a bar for the first time. He orders drinks, any drinks, whatever is good, cheap, and sips them slowly. By the third, he’s chugging and breathing them in and he can’t get enough because he’s not numb yet. He feels giddy, but sad, and dizzy, and weird and he doesn’t want to feel anything. Just wants to be numb.
There’s a blur of burnt orange and paisley and plaid and suddenly someone is sitting next to him. He has a pretty face, and Arthur doesn’t fail to tell him this.
(“You hava pretty face.”)
(“Much appreciated, darling.” He’s English, or else really good at accents. Terrible at clothing, though. Disgusting.)
(“I’m not gay.”)
(“Never said you were. Neither am I.”)
(“Your shirt’s disgustin’.”)
(“As is your attitude, dear. But that didn’t stop you from talking to me, did it?”)
As an adult, Arthur meets a horribly dressed Englishman in a half-empty bar with his stomach full of alcohol and his mind full of memories. After a few moments, he realizes the man is still talking.
(“You haven’t heard anything I’ve said, have you?”)
(“Yeah, sure. I have.”)
(“Why am I here?”)
(“To distract twenty-two year olds from feeling numb with your atrocious outfit that makes me feel like putting a bullet through both of our heads because it makes me want to hurl and puking sounds awful right now and obviously you’re delusional if you think it’s okay to go anywhere in that get-up?”)
(“Sorry darling for putting on the closest thing and coming down here to forget things.”)
(“What are you forgetting?”)
(“Myself. You?”)
(“Myself.”)
They’re both silent. The other patrons buzz around Arthur like flies, mosquitos, goddamn gnats. He wants to slap them away, squish them all until he can’t feel anything anymore.
(“Ow! Bloody hell, what was that for?”)
(“Hm? Wha?”)
(“You hit me, you fuck.”)
(“Sorry. Imma little drunk.”)
(“I’d say so. Let’s get you out of here.”)
He allows himself to be dragged out of the bar (noting dully that the Englishman throws some money on the bar to pay. Arthur says nothing about it.), to the alley, to the bus stop just down the block where he finally heaves and releases the past three hours’ worth of beer and rum and vodka on the sidewalk (and quite possibly the man’s shoes, if his cries of indignation are anything to go by. “Bloody fuck! Christ, mate!”) He falls asleep (passes out) to the whispers of the Englishman and wakes up to the aggravated shouts of the bus driver.
(“Where do you need to get off?”)
(“Oh, um…” he looks around. “Here’s fine.”)
As an adult, Arthur backtracks and walks to his apartment, less than a mile away in the opposite direction from where he was dropped off. Hands shake, fingers fumble, keys scratch against the door (and he notes that his wallet feels lighter) and soon he’s bathed in the unnatural darkness of his room. He flips on the light and grimaces.
As an adult, Arthur pulls out the suit he borrowed (stole) from his brother. It doesn’t fit right. It’s baggy (he really should eat something) and still too long, but it fits better than before. He drapes a red tie around his neck, too drunk to bother tying it properly, and stands in front of a full length mirror.
He wills himself to smile. He sees his dimples, his brown eyes, his pale skin with bony elbows and bony knees and long, nimble fingers.
(“You have his eyes. And his dimples.”)
He frowns. He sees Aaron (France and his mom and fulfillment), sees Theodore (not dad), sees Erica (red, red, so much red), and sees Marcus (leaving leaving leaving).
Standing (leaning against the countertop; he’s still drunk, tipsy) next to the mirror, Arthur still feels. He is not numb, not yet.
He throws a glass at the reflective glass. The cup shatters, but the mirror stands strong. His reflection stands strong.
But reflections don’t tell the whole story. Reflections don’t show what’s behind a person, what’s inside of them. They don’t tell who the person is; they simply verify who they are not.
As an adult, Arthur is not Theodore. Arthur is not Aaron. And most of all, Arthur is not Arthur.
Part 4
As an adult, Arthur is cool, calculating, observant. He mentally notes the smallest details of the biggest things, piecing things together like puzzles.
(He’s never put a puzzle together, but he’s sure he’d be great at it.)
He doesn’t live with his brother anymore, but he still sees him, talks to him, and listens to him.
(“I saw dad the other day.”)
(“Hm.”)
(“I’m thinking about asking my girlfriend to marry me.”)
(A smile. “Good luck with that.”)
(A playful shove and a knowing smirk. “You’re an ass.”)
He doesn’t go to college (but that’s not important. Doesn’t matter. It’s the past. Don’t ask, don’t tell.), and it’s not for a lack of trying. Or maybe it is. He doesn’t really care either way if he furthers his education. High school is pointless. It isn’t easy, isn’t hard, isn’t interesting. He passes his classes, graduates (without honors, but graduates nonetheless), and moves on with his life.
As an adult, Arthur searches for the one thing that makes his heart skip, his breathing labor, his stomach clench.
He doesn’t find it, but he comes pretty damn close. Art. Sketches. Simple swirls of black and white and various shades of grey coming together in drawings consisting of disarrayed lines and shadows and sharp angles. He tries his hand at it, and finds that while he’s far from perfection, he’s better than he thought he’d be.
(Marcus doesn’t understand. He tries to explain.)
(“Why these pictures?” Marcus gestures to a recent one Arthur put together, a solitary building (that looks vaguely reminiscent of the Notre Dame) against the background of a blurry sky, the edges attempting (but failing) to give off a shimmering effect.)
(“I don’t know. I like the feel of them. I think…I’m not really sure. I’m good at it.”)
(“You are,” he agrees, “but they’re so…empty. Desolate. I feel lonely looking at them.”)
(“I think that’s what I like. That there’s so much room for growth. That there’s the chance for something new to come out of it. I dunno. Does that make sense?”)
(“Sure. You should be a philosopher.”)
(Arthur playfully punches his shoulder. “At least I don’t draw stick figures on birthday cards because I’m too cheap to buy something nice.”)
(“Hey! Those guys are hard to draw! You have to take proportions into account,” Marcus defends.)
(“And color. Do I want this one to be black or dark black?”)
(They laugh, even though Marcus doesn’t understand, but that’s okay, because Arthur doesn’t either.)
As an adult, Arthur listens to Marcus. Listens to him talk about not-dad, about his fiancé, his happy life, his qualms with the weather. (Arthur laughs and tells him he ought to move somewhere else, Hell perhaps? Marcus gripes and groans that he’s not sure whether he wants his junk to burn off, so he’ll have to give Arthur a rain check on that idea, but thanks for caring.)
His phone vibrates, dancing across the granite countertop until it ungracefully tips off the rounded edge and falls open on the floor. He answers (“Shit, goddammit, stupid phone, yes? Sorry, hello?”) He’s greeted by a dial tone, and a beep notifying him of a new voicemail. He checks it.
(“Arthur, little brother. I ju-just wanted to call you to say I love you so much. Like, like a whole lot lot. Like how Audrey Hep-hip-hipburn loved Rhett the butler,” Marcus sounds drunk, Arthur notes and continues listening. “’Essept I dun wan to fuck you, cuz that would be weird because you’re my baby bro, but I’d buy you things from Tiffany’s and I know that you’d appre-aper- you’d like them and you wouldn’t throw dem in my face and yell at me and take the car so I’d havto walk all the way to the bar. Ssssh! I am having a conversion with Art. Art? Art thor? I have to go I love you bye.”)
He wastes no time in redialing, and is greeted not by the background noise of a bustling bar, but by silence.
(“What happened? Where are you?”)
(“I’m onna bus. She left.”)
(“What? Why?”)
(“Is too dark to walk and I dun have anywhere to go.”)
(“No, I meant, what happened? Why did she leave?”)
(“She loves ‘im more, he loves ‘er better. Sumthin’ like that.”)
(“You’re drunk.”)
(“Tipsy. Buzzed. Spent all my money.”)
(“How did you manage to get on the bus?”)
(“Someone felt sorry fer me.”)
(“Well, you’re a sorry sort of fellow.”)
(Silence, and Arthur is worried he scared him off. “I’m thinkin’ about joining the Army. Gonna take some courses and see what it’s about and get outtuv here.”)
(He’s leaving, he’s leaving, ohgodohogodnohe’sleavingpleasedon’tleaveme. “Good luck.”)
(“I love you.” And this time he hears it, hears the words he wasn’t sure about before, and he’s back in the car, back at the funeral, feeling the warmth of Marcus’s hand on his knee, on his shoulder, the late night talks, the jokes (not jokes not jokes) about being able to count his ribs, and oh God, he’s really going to leave him, because Marcus doesn’t lie, doesn’t half-ass things. The only thing that’s solid in his life is crumbling and he’s helpless.)
(“I know.” He’s greeted with silence, a soft snore. “Love you,” he whispers, and presses end.)
The apartment is silent. Arthur is silent. Off in the distance, a car alarm wails. And even though she isn’t there, he can hear his mom crying.
As an adult, Arthur steps foot in a bar for the first time. He orders drinks, any drinks, whatever is good, cheap, and sips them slowly. By the third, he’s chugging and breathing them in and he can’t get enough because he’s not numb yet. He feels giddy, but sad, and dizzy, and weird and he doesn’t want to feel anything. Just wants to be numb.
There’s a blur of burnt orange and paisley and plaid and suddenly someone is sitting next to him. He has a pretty face, and Arthur doesn’t fail to tell him this.
(“You hava pretty face.”)
(“Much appreciated, darling.” He’s English, or else really good at accents. Terrible at clothing, though. Disgusting.)
(“I’m not gay.”)
(“Never said you were. Neither am I.”)
(“Your shirt’s disgustin’.”)
(“As is your attitude, dear. But that didn’t stop you from talking to me, did it?”)
As an adult, Arthur meets a horribly dressed Englishman in a half-empty bar with his stomach full of alcohol and his mind full of memories. After a few moments, he realizes the man is still talking.
(“You haven’t heard anything I’ve said, have you?”)
(“Yeah, sure. I have.”)
(“Why am I here?”)
(“To distract twenty-two year olds from feeling numb with your atrocious outfit that makes me feel like putting a bullet through both of our heads because it makes me want to hurl and puking sounds awful right now and obviously you’re delusional if you think it’s okay to go anywhere in that get-up?”)
(“Sorry darling for putting on the closest thing and coming down here to forget things.”)
(“What are you forgetting?”)
(“Myself. You?”)
(“Myself.”)
They’re both silent. The other patrons buzz around Arthur like flies, mosquitos, goddamn gnats. He wants to slap them away, squish them all until he can’t feel anything anymore.
(“Ow! Bloody hell, what was that for?”)
(“Hm? Wha?”)
(“You hit me, you fuck.”)
(“Sorry. Imma little drunk.”)
(“I’d say so. Let’s get you out of here.”)
He allows himself to be dragged out of the bar (noting dully that the Englishman throws some money on the bar to pay. Arthur says nothing about it.), to the alley, to the bus stop just down the block where he finally heaves and releases the past three hours’ worth of beer and rum and vodka on the sidewalk (and quite possibly the man’s shoes, if his cries of indignation are anything to go by. “Bloody fuck! Christ, mate!”) He falls asleep (passes out) to the whispers of the Englishman and wakes up to the aggravated shouts of the bus driver.
(“Where do you need to get off?”)
(“Oh, um…” he looks around. “Here’s fine.”)
As an adult, Arthur backtracks and walks to his apartment, less than a mile away in the opposite direction from where he was dropped off. Hands shake, fingers fumble, keys scratch against the door (and he notes that his wallet feels lighter) and soon he’s bathed in the unnatural darkness of his room. He flips on the light and grimaces.
As an adult, Arthur pulls out the suit he borrowed (stole) from his brother. It doesn’t fit right. It’s baggy (he really should eat something) and still too long, but it fits better than before. He drapes a red tie around his neck, too drunk to bother tying it properly, and stands in front of a full length mirror.
He wills himself to smile. He sees his dimples, his brown eyes, his pale skin with bony elbows and bony knees and long, nimble fingers.
(“You have his eyes. And his dimples.”)
He frowns. He sees Aaron (France and his mom and fulfillment), sees Theodore (not dad), sees Erica (red, red, so much red), and sees Marcus (leaving leaving leaving).
Standing (leaning against the countertop; he’s still drunk, tipsy) next to the mirror, Arthur still feels. He is not numb, not yet.
He throws a glass at the reflective glass. The cup shatters, but the mirror stands strong. His reflection stands strong.
But reflections don’t tell the whole story. Reflections don’t show what’s behind a person, what’s inside of them. They don’t tell who the person is; they simply verify who they are not.
As an adult, Arthur is not Theodore. Arthur is not Aaron. And most of all, Arthur is not Arthur.
Part 4