The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

XXVII

xxvii

HARRY didn't know if he could stand any more of it.

Any more of the wondering and the wanting and the unanswered knocks on the door of a studio that was falling apart. Any more of the "Natalie can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message" and the cold beep of her answering machine before Harry was ready to stop talking to her, telling her she needed to come out.

Because Harry didn't know if he could stand and more of it.

He was drinking something he found in his fridge and it was getting him drunk so he kept drinking it, taking slow sips at the commercial breaks of that one Green Bay game he had recorded since last year. It used to be a nail-biter- that was why he kept it. But as he was sitting there on his couch, taking slow sips at the commercial breaks of something he found in his fridge and smelling Nat in the air and on the couch cushions and on his skin he knew what was going to happen. He wouldn't be surprised in the least.

But maybe that was what he needed. The normality. The winning pass to the end zone and the cheers of the crowd and the green and the yellow and the happy, happy, happy and it was normal, to Harry. Because that was what he needed. The normality.

He couldn't stand any more of the wondering and wanting and the absence of her in the air and on the couch cushions and on his skin.

There was a chirp from the cage in the corner, and it was a sad chirp. Whenever Nat wasn't around it was sad chirps and weakly padding around the bottom of the cage and not even trying to bite at the bars anymore- he understood that he wasn't getting out. Only Nat got him out. Harry drank things in his fridge that got him drunk and re-watched old American football games. He couldn't be bothered by a pretty bird unless that pretty bird was Nat.

Harry wiped his tired eyes and stood, stretching his back and his arms and his heart because it had been beating in the same, slow fashion ever since Nat locked herself in that falling apart studio three days ago. So he stretched his back and his arms and his heart and he took a long, last sip from the bottle helping him understand the concept of giving his girlfriend space.

Space, space, space.

She needed space.

Once the television was off and Harry's flat was dark, he walked slowly to his room because Harry was afraid of the dark so maybe the fear would get his heart beating quickly again, giving him a sliver of similarity since his heart beat quickly when Nat was around, too.

But she needed space, space, space so Harry was forced to walk slowly to his room because Harry's afraid of the dark.

Space, space, space.

She needed space.

The door to his bedroom shut quietly, and he was lifting his shirt off his sculpted torso in the short seconds following behind. He took his trousers off too because they were a bit tight, even though he hired a tailor to make them fit perfectly and he should complain to him about that, maybe throw something, yell a bit. Just so he can let it all out before he confronts Nat.

In a few days. So he can confront Nat in a few days.

She needed space.

Space, space, space.

Soon, the man formerly known as Nat's Executive was stood in only his pants, undoing the tie keeping curly strands at bay and climbing in between his sheets. They smelled like her- his sheets did. And it made sense, really. She slept in them only three days before.