My blood runs cold and then hot. There’s a low buzz in my brain. The same noxious thrill I felt the first time I saw him. My heart contracts and relaxes. Blood is forced through valves and chambers. I’m brutally, blissfully aware of its passage.
Right atrium. Right ventricle.
Lungs.
Left atrium. Left ventricle.
Limbs.
I breathe in, gratefully, as warmth spreads to the rest of my body. It’s a soft whisper. A gentle reminder of something I didn’t think I’d ever need to be reminded of: life.
I’m alive.
I’m still here.
I’m real, and I’m living.
6
Lennon
IreturntoCremaon Wednesday and Thursday. I don’t expect him to be there. I know he won’t be, and that’s fine. I’m not here for him. I’m here for his notice.
To look at it.
To be close to it.
To skate the intoxicating knife-edge that is looking and not touching.
It’s rudimentary, his notice. It might well be the most rudimentary notice on the whole board. I can’t say for certain whether it is or isn’t because it’s the only one I can see. Everything around it is a blur.
He printed it at home. I can tell by the paper stock and the milky streaks that run through some of the letters. His printer isn’t quite out of ink, but it will be in a week or two.
I wonder if he knows that.
I wonder if he’s like Havi and he’ll let it run out completely before he buys more, or if he’s the kind of person who has a sparecartridge stashed in a drawer somewhere in anticipation of such an event?
I sit at the table closest to the board. The same table I sat at the day he put the notice up, but this time, I sit facing the board, not with my back to it. I sip my coffee and read his notice again.
I don’t need to. I’ve done it so many times that I know every word by heart. Every letter. Every punctuation mark. I work my way through it anyway, line-by-line.
When I’ve read it twice, I soften my gaze and focus on the first two words only. The most important words. The only ones that matter.
Capital letters. Bold, blockish font.
ROOMMATE WANTED
7
Lennon
I’mnotgoingtodo it. Obviously, I’m not. I’m not going to get up from this chair and walk to the notice board. I’m not going to get any closer to it than I am right now. I’m not going to touch his ad, not even to finger one of the little vertical tabs at the bottom of it. I’m not going to tear one of the tabs off, and above all things, I’m definitely,definitelynot going to respond to the ad.
8
Lennon
Thescrapofpaperin my pocket burns a hole through my clothes. Through my skin. It’s small, but potent. Less than three inches by one. It’s been folded in half and in quarters. I’ve folded and unfolded it so many times, it’s starting to fray in some places. Even when it’s smoothed out, there’s a permanent grid pattern carved into it.
