Sisi / Season 1

49⁒

heroes - david bowie

I wish I could swim.

I feel bad. There are a bunch of girls across sacred screens and clashing keyboards who wait to see how I end my story. A marathon of Luther runs on my Netflix. I haven't been outside for an alarming amount of hours.

I try to imagine what 'dinner' consists of, especially with a being as elusive as J.

My fingers type out the event vividly. Of course the lights would be dim and of course my knee would rub against his under the table. Of course.

My soul is torn. I shouldn't be thinking about this guy. It always goes like that. I know he's a player. It's freakin' written on his forehead. So why am I fantasizing about a heartless prick? He's irresistible, that's why.

Okay, Étienne is out on his basketball escapade. I'm not sure why his schedule is my concern.

I sit too long my leg falls asleep. The changes in the sky remind me that the earth spins around and that my problems are insignificant. Plus, I have a paper to write for school. I haven't even started that yet. And then there's my idiot brother.

"Hey," I call Alex.

"Hey," she answers.

I hear One direction playing in the background.

"I need advice," I warn her.

I imagine she nods her head.

"What's up?" she chews,

I shrug, although I know she doesn't see me.

"Étienne still lives with me," I begin.

"M-hm," she acknowledges the fact I lay out.

"And my brother is coming sometime tomorrow."

"Whoa. Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. My place is a one room apartment. In fact, it's just one room. There's no room."

Alex laughs a bit, "I don't know, make him sleep in the tub."

"If my brother knew that a guy is staying with me, he'd flip," I think further of the possibilities and voice my bigger fear. "He'd snitch to mom."

"Just tell Étienne to sleep someplace else."

"Do you know... how many times... I tried..." I spell.

"No, I mean literally saying 'Étienne, you need to get out'."

That's true, I've never went out and said it. I'd just make a subtle joke about it or throw hints. But even if I could, I'd feel terrible for it. It's short notice.

"Where would he go?" I bite my nail.

The nail polish chips on my tongue and then I try to spit it off.

"He's got plenty of friends with bigger apartments. Why are you so worried?" she asks me something I don't have an answer to.

I feel the thin obstruction in my cheek. I dig my finger in my mouth to get it out.

"Well, think about it. If he actually stays at my place for this long—maybe it's because he doesn't have other options."

I know Alex is frowning at my theory.

"Can't he get his own place?"

I mumble, "You'd think he would after he had a run in with my bloody pad."

"Do you cook for him? My mom always say men stick around because of that."

"I don't cook for him, no."

"Tell your brother that he can't come over."

"I can't do that."

"I don't know how to help you, girl."

I sigh.

·•●⦁·

I stare blankly at Bowie's blue and red face. He stares back in my hand. The chain dangles sweetly between my fingers. The other stare belongs to the boy in my course. He doesn't look like he'll become a medical practitioner. Instead, he wears those drop leather jackets on his shoulder and washed out black t-shirt and an empty backpack. He looks like a fallen angel, really. But not one that fell from heaven, no. One that came out of the depths of hell. Like he goes there every Tuesday. I can only observe the crease in his lips.

"I can have it?" I ask the deadly keychain owner.

He shrugs, "It might be worth something when I'm dead."

"Why prophecy your death?" I ask slowly.

Shrugging is his language.

"We all die someday."

"Only bad people die," I raise my chin slightly higher.

The grin he gives me is timeless. Fossilized. Set in stone. Engraved in everything. I indulge in the unknown spectrums of a person. It's like that one time thing you do only one thing once. The feeling comes and goes, but somehow we'll know the feeling forever.

"I am as bad as..." he replies. I stare at him, expectant. Expecting him to blow my mind with a wisdom of youth an recklessness. A hymn choir goes off in my head. My body itches for him to finish his sentence. I want to look at this encounter logically, instead of abstract and infinite. He ends, "Well, you know."

My brain deflates. Bowie boy walks his path down the B hall. I kid not. I still don't believe what happened. The contrast of the large open rose tattooed behind his neck hypnotizes me.

"Thanks," I call out one last time.

He turns to tell me, with a shrug, "Don't thank me just yet."

The way he says it, though. I wish I were his rose...

Just when I sober up, my phone beeps.

A text from Étienne. 

·•●⦁·