Not Long At All

Chapter Five

Sarah's POV:

      It was almost like living in another dimension, seeing David but remembering Jareth. Maybe this is what crazy people felt like. I shoved a mass of pillows and two t-shirts off the aging couch before sitting down. It sunk beneath me, obviously tired from years of misuse. A sweat jacket was crumpled helplessly between two cushions. I fingered it before pulling it from its hiding space. Like the couch, it was worn to near nonexistence, bearing the kind of softness only time can bring.

      Was it weird to wear it? Jareth wouldn't have minded. But what about David? I'd just wake up before he did and put it back. I nodded, as if to confirm it, and slipped into the jacket. The sleeves paid no attention to the length of my arms and continued to slide past my hands, stopping when they hung what seemed like miles from my fingers. Laying on the couch, I snuggled into the jacket, the smell of his cologne a comforting bonus.

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      The sun is what woke me up. Heavy beams of warmth that crawled over me, prying at my eyelids. I blinked, trying to position myself out of the light. Who puts a couch so close to the window? Stretching off the sleep, I yawned and looked around. My hair felt like a mass of knots on my head. I'd forgotten about the sweat jacket and, upon leaving the couch, continued to wear it as I paraded into the kitchen.

      The fridge was surprisingly full. From what I'd seen so far, I would have expected crushed take out boxes, beer, and maybe some flat soda. Grateful to be wrong, I grabbed an apple and closed the door. Upon turning around, I saw a bowl on the counter. Peaches. This was seriously twisted. I sniffed one suspiciously and put it back.

      Was Jareth sleeping?  Should I check? I stood in his kitchen and hopelessly flapped an arm against my side. What do you do in a stranger, not-stranger's home? Snooping was obviously wrong. I shifted weight and let my eyes wander around the apartment before landing on the dining room table. The poor thing seemed like an opening to an antidepressant  commercial.

      I ventured over to it and gazed at the heap of records and sheet music, some blank and some full. I picked up a sheet and stared at the sloppy writing splashed across it. A small bell went off in my head, he was writing music. The thought had barely ended when another came- the lullaby. I couldn't remember any of what he'd sang in that ballroom, but maybe...

      Snooping is wrong. But sometimes desperation can be a strong motivator. Setting down the apple I began sifting through the pages, occasionally stopping to glance at one or two. What would he call it? Suddenly, as if a plug had been pulled, I stopped. If I don't know any of the words, how am I supposed to find it?

      My shoulders sagged and I bitterly chewed at my apple. This song thing was mounting into an unhealthy obsession.  All of this was some sadistic trip down memory lane with none of the memories that I remembered. Peter Pan grinned up at me from my pajama pants and I sighed, "What would you do Peter?"

      The bedroom door opened and I looked in its direction as a half-asleep David pushed through it. Still in yesterday's clothes, he ran a hand through his equally disgruntled hair. I watched from where I sat on the dining chair and waited for him to say something. Instead, he walked past me and into the kitchen,  busying himself with coffee. I waited for him to ask if I wanted any. He stared at the coffee maker as it came to life. We both waited.

      Annoyance nudged me and I picked up a piece of sheet music, "What's this?"

      My words shook him awake and he jumped, his face a mix of fear and surprise, "Oh! Hey. Wow, I didn't see you there. Geez. Sorry."