Aerial

The Thirty-Fifth Chapter

Tip, tap. Tip, tap. Tip, tap. Tip, tap.

I'm gonna go surf for an hour.

Waiting, watching. Sometimes it's impossible to tell the difference between the light at dusk and the light at dawn, the sting of distress and the sting of anticipation. Your eyes don't stray from the wall very often; a toneless Kit Cat clock and the cold telephone hanging side-by-side against the patterned kitchen wallpaper. The former ticks with constant life, sped up and slowed down all-at-once. The latter is paralyzed. The vinyl upholstery of the dining chair is sticky and pea green, smacking against your sweaty thighs as you adjust every few minutes. Nettie sits to your left, her hair wound up in empty orange juice concentrate cans, her eyelashes thick with mascara, her cheek smudged with a smear of black from rubbing her face in unease. If you were feeling even the slightest bit more vocal, you would help her wipe it off. Or at the very least, tease her for it. Your fingernails drumming on the plexiglass tabletop reminds you of the distant morning after the infamous Chubby's date, when Nettie dragged you out for milkshakes with girlfriends at Susie Q's and Harry appeared with a harsh slap and a pair of pining, pine tree eyes breathing oxygen into yours.

Cherry pie.

You had wished for him to appear that time and he did, except that identical wish isn't having quite the same impact right now.

A couple weird things happen when you stare at the same sight incessantly for two hours straight; you become certain that the images will permanently be burned into your eyeballs and you become certain that what you're seeing will have a lasting effect on your sanity. You imagine that if these objects ever happened to appear again in your life ten years down the road, just the pure perception of a clicking clock would be enough to trigger a panic attack.

The persistent swish of a black, hooked cat's tail. Arrhythmic, bulging shifty eyes, laced up with a prim, white bowtie. A small, feline pendulum that plays tricks on your ears; little auditory hallucinations of staccato two-syllabled phrases that both soothe and frighten you with each painstaking swing back-and-forth.

Tip, tap. He's, fine.

Tip, tap. Just, wait.

Tip, tap. Please, call.

Tip, tap. Rip, tide.

Tip, tap. Je, t'aime.

Tip, tap. Go, check.

Tip, tap. God, spoke.

Tip, tap. He's, dead.

Your gooey hot fudge Sundae, your shining pink Sunbaby. Where is he?

The minute hand on the clock ticks forward once more, but it's easily the slowest minute of your life. It somehow defies the space-time continuum. Harry is now nearly three hours late.

Would you have even picked up on any indicators if he were planning to skip town? Would he tell you? Is he a better liar than you originally thought? Did he wipe out on his surfboard again? Did he crash his van? Did he get drunk and forget about your date? Did he abandon you?

The cat's eyes roll. The phone is dead. Harry's last words to you mix with the insanity of the clock mixes with the insanity of your inner monologue.

Tip, tap. Honey, baby. Tip, tap. Odd, request. Tip, tap. Nine, yeah?

Tip, tap. What, now? Tip, tap. 11:46, 11:47. Tip, tap. What, now?

"Are you sure you don't want some Swiss Miss? It's the kind with the little marshmallows in it. And I think I have some whipped cream for double the sugar buzz."