hazlogs | Just a Mess

It is currently 23:54 Pacific Time on Sat Aug 24 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 60
degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.07 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 57
degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (89% full).

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large,
high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. All the
space is crowded with canvases in storage and others in progress, rolled
works propped up in one corner, easels here and there with new canvas or
finished work. Sometimes the place has two or three pieces in various
stages of development--though usually, one large work dominates the space
just before the windows, behind the green velvet-upholstered couch (which
is quirky and curving, a work of modern art on its own). There's a
colorful Kilim rug under the coffee table--and that table is a sculpture
of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum. Another big
canvas--this one a darkened cityscape--hangs from the ceiling on chains
rigged to runners, similar to those for rack lighting. The work seems to
block off one area for sleeping, since a large queen-sized futon can be
seen behind it. The walls around the bed are painted with swirling color,
undersea tones predominant; they gradually grow quieter as the organic
patterns grow out into the rest of the room, and angles replace curves,
until the mural morphs into a mix of oceanscape and circuitry.

A small, compact bar and kitchenette, a stereo unit, and a plain-lined,
sparely-appointed bathroom complete the artist's workspace.


There's a brief rapping on the door of the studio, just a couple of quick
knocks.

A rattle behind the door, and then Rina opens it--and steps back from him,
averting the bruised side of her face. "Hey," she says casually. "C'mon
in. Mi casa and all that shit."

Salem's eyes are obscured behind his sunglasses despite the lateness of
the hour. Weariness and full-moon rage war with each other under his skin,
as if his reflexes can't quite decide whether he wants to collapse or hit
something. Still, he seems more or less in control of himself, almost
stiltingly so. "Thanks." He steps into the studio, glancing around.

Rina closes the door with a soft, final sound. There is no sign of John,
and the place smells of paint and thinner, and chilly night air. There's a
canvas in progress, a study of the inside of that empty warehouse with a
central figure pinned spreadeagled in the air, like the famous da Vinci
sketch.

Salem takes off the dark glasses and tucks them into his jacket; there are
dark circles under his eyes. His gaze is drawn toward the work in
progress. He studies it for a moment or two before turning back to the
kin. "Has he hit you before?"

Rina swallows, and leans her forehead against the door, eyes closed. Her
back is turned to him. "I don't know," she says softly. "When I want it,
sometimes. Or else when I... push him that far."

Salem's eyes narrow, the blind one closing to a thin crescent of white. A
twitch of something unreadable passes across his face at the phrase 'want
it'; then he shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. "Shit."

Rina turns slightly, enough to look over her shoulder, dark eyes fixing on
him--hard, suddenly, betraying the iron beneath that pretty surface.
"What. There's nothing wrong."

On another night, a more well-rested Jack Salem would keep his expression
bland. Neutral. Tonight, though, his face betrays him, showing distaste.
He meets her gaze steadily, though, and after a moment says, flatly,
"Fine. If you say so." His voice is flat. It, at least, remains under
control.

That look causes an immediate hurt, easily read in her eyes as they dart
away. She has to move, an Italian tension building up to the point of
explosion, released suddenly in pacing and gesture. "It's not what you
think. I'm not defending him. Not defending-- he lost it, same as you did.
Just to a lesser degree is all. He--sometimes Russell is there, and it--
comes up inside him, the way it does with me, and--" Reaching the windows,
she turns to look at him, dark gaze meeting his with an implicit defiance.
"It's not like you think."

Salem's jaw clenches, teeth gritting together. Locked stares and full
moons are a poor combination at any time, and after last night, the
ex-Ronin's eroded self-control makes things even less safe. Before things
can slide close to the danger level, though, he yanks his gaze away with a
muttered curse and stalks the length of the apartment, coming no nearer
her than necessary. "Except that I _didn't_ lose control. And I didn't--"
He cuts himself off, rubbing at one temple. "Nevermind. Forget it. I came
to see that you were all right, not to... to _interfere_." There's a touch
of venom in the last word, bitter and weary and hollow.

Rina swallows, and her expression suddenly goes blank. "Jesus," she says
quietly. "Fucking hell." She watches him, turning to stay focused on him
when he moves, her face pale. When she speaks again, her voice is softer,
touched with pain and empathy. "You didn't hit me. No. I thought I was
about to die, Jack. And so did he, and-- and can you blame him, f'bein mad
that I walked into that? That I-- I was an idiot, and coulda got m'self
killed?" The dark eyes watch him, even when the pain shadows them further.
"Can you hold it against him, when you know how he feels?"

Salem stops near the new, still-uncompleted painting, hands shoved into
his pockets and his back mostly turned toward the kinswoman. It's
debatable whether he's actually studying the canvas or using it as an
excuse not to look her way. "Anger I can understand," he says flatly.
"Where I stand, however, there's still no excuse--" He stops again. "No,"
he says, and then again, "Forget it. Not my damned business."

She wets her lips nervously, watching him, letting a silence stretch until
the discomfort makes her speak. "Jack," she says quietly, "I'd like to
think that-- that maybe we could be friends. Or as-- as close to that as
you'll let anyone." That voice, usually managed and clear and purposeful,
is less than steady now. "So it matters. I can forgive him for losing it
like that once or twice. It's... it almost never happens, like that. And
when he does, the punishment he gives himself is -- a hell of a lot worse
than anything I would do." She swallows, and glances down. "It's-- I'm the
one who made him loosen the control. Learn to let go. And Christ, if the
price of him having /feelings/ is that he slaps me a coupla times over the
course of however many years we got... then I'll pay it." A fierceness
touches her eyes. "I'd rather that, than the ice. The way he was before."

"Hmnh," Salem says, after she's finished. It's a neutral noise, committing
him to nothing. Still facing the canvas, he slips a hand inside his jacket
and removes the sunglasses; he opens them with a flick of his hand and
puts them on. Only then does he turn to look at her, his saturnine face
like that of a particularly world-weary devil. "It's your life," he tells
her. His voice is still flat. "I have to be going."

This time, she almost hides the flicker of hurt. Her expression settles
into a tiny half-smile, vague and dark. "Sure." She looks away from him,
glancing involuntarily to the windows. "Maybe we can talk about it-- some
other time. Work it out."

Salem nods. "Some other time," he says, echoing her words in a way that
indicates that, currently, 'some other time' translates to 'never'. "I'd
appreciate it if you didn't... ah, mention this to John."

Rina looks down at the floor, tense and angry and suddenly blinking back
tears. "Whatever," she says quietly. Her jaw tightens with the effort of
holding back; she does not look up.

Salem hesitates a moment, just looking at her, and there's a heartbeat or
two when he might say something more. Might, but doesn't. Without further
word, he turns on his heel and heads for the door.

She lets him go. Lets the door close. And a few moments later, there's the
solid thump of a thrown object, perhaps a boot, hitting that door from the
inside; at the same time, a shout muffled by the intervening walls.
"FUCK!"