[Patrick Bateman]

In Three Minds





Lily wiggles her feet under the duvet with a squirm and twist, she giggles the mattress will suffice, the covers need loosening, the pillows are hers. Three months ago Davison was hers - an outdoor performance, she floated in and out of her partners arms, suddenly a grin, a turn, a tiptoe toward the audience - overly dramatic perhaps but love may be insanity at play and insanity has much love for melodrama.
Davison curls his toes. Barefoot, his barefoot ballerina.

Lying in bed as she leans in kisses warm against his neck. They've discussed before how they're too young to nap, but afternoon siesta seems somewhat more agreeable on holiday.
Outside the gravel gives a scuttle, a door opens, a door shuts, an engine runs.
“Good God” he yawns, “we've only been here a day and a half and already we're bothered.”
“Bothered?”
“They're curious, they want to say hi, what are we doing, how long, where from, it's a whole fucken production.” He can't help but smile, Lily does not appreciate such old man despair from her young man, she reminds him with a pinch above the elbow, the flesh, that'll leave a mark. “I'm bruised now, bruised and broken by the arrival of Fred and Wilma from Albuquerque. Ow! You made your point, what was that for?”
“Emphasis” she says as she sits up and turns to face the bedroom door, leading to the front door and God knows what else. “Best to say hello now, hun.” She calls him hun, he likes it when she calls him hun.
Lily is two steps away from the bed when a voice is heard over the engine. They both pause.
“Don't ...” from Davison, “best come back to bed, they'll be unpacking and ... ” sitting up as she lies down, “I best go and say hello ... see if they need a hand with heavy - just be a minute.”
He stumble's, attempts to navigate a couple of white striped maroon suitcases and a fake leather carryall - add the typewriter and the blue and red backpack and it strikes him that this is far too much, it seems almost pointless to travel somewhere and bring all you need - and peeks outside.
Owen.
Lugging a suitcase he resembles a busboy for a rather rundown chain of motel. Shorter than Davison, skinny, lithe perhaps, shoulder length zigzag jet black hair with sweat from a thousand pubs and clubs, black shorts and jandals with black rubber straps, a tea stained t shirt and beard. Owen.
Jess was inside it seemed. Small world indeed.
He eases the door back into place, retreats to the bedroom. “It was just ... you know.”
“Te he he” she replies, not laughing but saying 'te he he', as she does when she knows something's awry.
He steps with purpose toward the backpack in the far corner of the closet. Far from what he is unsure but this seems of little importance, tonight will be curtains drawn, minds adrift.

He'd slept in their bed one night but when they were away she'd said it was ok and the couch was not only uncomfortable but located between every other bedroom and the bathroom so he wasn't naive he slept on top of the duvet and entered in the dark and fell asleep half drunk and woke oh too sober he can still feel that knife in the back that betrayal more than ... Owen had held her in his arms and here was the proof.

A Vogue cover greets Davison as he wakes, sheets covering just enough, a brush of her cheek and a wander outside to write before the crash. He can recall letting her win last night so as to feel his hand atop hers.
A frown to no one in particular, bottle of spiralina in one hand, joint between his teeth, he settles in his seat, leaning far back ready to light when he spies Owen, approaching cup in hand.
“Do you mind if I ...”
“No, right ahead.” Davison replies, he pours half a cup. “Sit down,” letting the flame draw deep, “take the weight off.”
Owen sits, scratches his head and “Is that a ... ”
“Yeah,” an offer in his direction.
“No I better ...” he nods toward his cabin window. “Uh, we could, we could well ... hear you ... last night.”
Davison fails to catch on right away, and then “Oh, shit ... sorry man.”
“It's no prob ... no worry.”
“No, seriously, I'm fucken sorry. I've never actually heard anyone else ... it must be awful. Was it muffled at least, the odd scrape?”
“No, it was ... like it was right next door and ... well, pretty impressive.”
“Well ... senses ... when you can't see ... only hear ... what's ... your mind probably exaggerates, compensates.” The noise had little to do with his abilities as a lover, Lily was a noisy girl anywhere and anytime. They could have been playing snap for all it mattered, earlier that evening had been and she had squealed with equal delight. To his dismay he had found a vocal woman as disconcerting as a silent woman, there seemed to be no pleasant medium. “Well, I'm sorry, I ... it won't happen again. Well, it will, you know, hopefully, but ...”
Owen prepares to leave, ever so slowly. This visit does not leave him content, there is other business at hand, he will depart for now and that is all.

Wednesday morning follows Tuesday evening most often, but not today. Today Wednesday morning follows Monday evening, a blur, a stumble, the glisten of ecstasy’s wink and speed's slap on the back. The bed sags in the middle, the carpet covered in orange peel and laundry powder mountains, the sunset hangs at an angle - light shade dangling off one corner. One would assume heaven forgiving and hell abject but it appears they tussle all the same. He leave's the results with a kiss on her forehead, her hands placed ready for prayer, it strikes him here is one mirror image God may not beat himself up about.
With a flick of the chain and sharp handle turn light bursts in, he steps backward and opens the curtains, release's the window. Mornings like this a nagging reminder that time does not slow no matter how fast you swerve.
Stepping outside barefoot, singlet inside out, boxers dangerously low, a flicker catches his eye, a torn piece of paper against the door. Beneath a red drawing pin, “One whose love may not be pure, and one whose purity may not extend to love - affection as affectation.” A literary shrug of the shoulders, a sneer outlined in pencil in handwriting most familiar.
He pockets the paper then quickly takes it out ready to tear. He know's it by heart, had considered removing it altogether, but it struck a chord no matter how maudlin. Apparently a fine instinct.
He places the note back in his pocket.

That evening Lily and Davison walk downhill, they play miniature golf after agreeing to forgo a tally. She says the world is too obsessed with winning, that the ball should be propelled with little agenda, why should they place constraints on it's path? They giggle and swing and finish hours later.
They climb a roof, flat on their backs they create constellations. Lily wonders if a star's light can be claimed honest. She calls it the Universe's autobiography.

Chapter One just out of reach for yet another morning.
Owen steps into view. Kicking at gravel, head down.
“She's pretty.”
“Lily? Yeah. Pardon? Sorry ... I thought you meant the name, Lily.”
“She looks a bit like, ah, Jess.” He places a cup on the table, there is nothing to pour. “She looks like Jess does in photos of you together.” He plays with a small rock, turning it over with his shoe, “She's, uh ... is it ... is it her? The book?”
“No, I wrote it before we ... oh, Jess you mean. It's a novel ... it's an amalgam, so she's there somewhere I'm sure.”
“Yeah ...”
“It's pages, just pages. She's an amalgam ... additive amidst pages ... actually.” The actually is self-recognition of a need to alliterate in moments of tension. Perhaps this may not be the last of this little conversation, perhaps they are both compensating for a feeling of loss, perhaps ...
“Well, I better, you know ... early morning and all ... huh.” He turns to leave, pause, then wanders off.
Curious.

He'll open the door now and retire to that same orange and white tiled kitchenette, try to find the three simple answers in this mornings crossword, place the pen down, lay next to her and stroke her hair the way she likes it and whisper good morning.
He's all awake and alone, and the day cannot begin without her.

[Wayne]

Well, it was better than the artwork for Brinstar. As a fellow writer, all I can say is that the third person narrator felt very self righteous, kinda victorian and flowery. You (and I've gotten nothing published, so don't take my word for it if you don't want too) should make him a little bit grittier, if you know what I mean. It wasn't the sort of thng I'd normally read, but it was pretty good in and of itself.