Sisi / Season 1

96⁒

                 

habits of my heart – james young

In a dark room. In cold sheets. I can't feel a damn thing.

They say time waits for no one. But I still challenge my clock's shape-shifting red lines. My drapes let the cool blue light slice through them in tenderness. My life embraces the air I breathe in. My fingertips scratch my palms, as I stretch my body for another day. My upper lip sits heavy on the bottom one. With inflated cheeks, I sigh.

Stepping into the bathroom slowly, because the monsters need time to run away and hide.

I turn the tap and listen to the running water. I brush my teeth wastefully and scrub my face.

I don't miss early waking up to walk for catholic school. I don't miss ironing my skirt and having to roll it up to the right length, enough to make the 32 year old music teacher look twice. Sometimes the corners of his loping mouth would moisten.

Now, I can wear skinny jeans and tops that crop for some reason.

College is always worthwhile in my mind.

Mascara never hurts anybody. It can be a weapon all the same. I throw it the small pocket of my bag.

There's a muffin waiting for me, as I walk into the kitchen. Étienne waits for me too, it seems.

He has one arm through his Nike shirt, that's all. He pushes multigrain bread in the iron toaster. I stare at the consequences basketball training has done to the muscles down his back.

"You're up awfully early," I say out loud, directing my eyes at pale walls.

He looks up again and shrugs his shoulders.

"I know," he replies lazily, "Open gym starts today. Want to shoot some hoops before classes."

I nod, inspecting my muffin. My eyes fall on him again. Now he's facing me. His hair is due for the barber. The same blue light from outside mutes the small kitchen. The toasty smell gets between us.

"Are you going to put on that shirt... or are you going to let you nipples freeze?" I ask him, my head dipping sideways.

He stupidly looks down to his bare torso, as if he had no clue he didn't finish getting dressed, but did. He grins and pulls his shirt down properly.

Étienne has fallen out with his roommate, when he lived at Henri-Bourassa. To his misfortune, he was kicked out. He didn't give me the whole story, but he needed a place to crash. He said he'd asked another boy of his squad, but I live closest to the train.

He's been crashing for over a week now. I haven't yet complained. It's hard to when he behaves so well.

"I have to go to the library," I inform him. I go through the door. "I'll see you."

The toaster releases its burnt prisoner.

·•●⦁·

I finally find my book on respiratory acidosis. I break my water bottle cap. The crack gains attention in the stuffy narrow aisle I stand in.

I meet eyes with the person across searching for his own novel. Something doesn't feel right, because this guy isn't even hunting for a book, which is normal behaviour in a library. Instead, he's sketching.

My eyes don't move away from him. The bottle's circle presses with my lips. Cold water spills in my mouth and falls down my throat in each gulp I take. He has pale bronze skin and long sandy hair. It reminds me of the coast of Gaspésie, how the cold sand waves with the sun. His dark green eyes draw me in and out like lungs of a demon. What else in life is there?

All six feet and plus inches of him drifts next to me. His inverted jaw contracts and releases. His peachy lips open up a bit.

"Stay still," he says to me.

I hug my fat book against my chest and freeze over. His right hand begins to wind on the sketchbook. All I can think is how quick his hand can move. If I were a doll, I'd want him to play with me with those hands.

Cursing my thoughts, my teeth crush my lip. I shift my weight on one leg. Before I understand existing procedures, he turns the sketchbook to me.

I see me in grey strokes and smudged charcoal. Captivated at my instant portrait, I look up at the artist.

"I'm not impressed," I say, my hand pushes my hair away from my shoulder.

He smirks at an acceptable level. I give him a flat face.

"I knew you'd like it," he throws, showing me how his cheeks folds in faint dimples when he smiles.

I open my mouth to contest, but he tears the page out his book and passes it to me as a contract gift. I just take it, without really thinking.

"You must draw often," I state the obvious, looking over the picture and how he didn't miss the fading acne scar I have over my brow.

He folds his voodoo sketchbook under his arm. I try to remember if I've seen him before. He must be from the same apartment complex.

"Med student, huh?" he glances at the book in my hand.

"I pretend to be," I say.

I decide it's a good time to leave. I turn on my heel. This guy has no cares, though.

He smirks recklessly now. He ferments it in my soul.

"You must pretend often," he mocks.

·•●⦁·

this is me story. hope ye enjoy.