Abrupt Awakening

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/6/02

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large,
high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still
smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled
canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the
walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating
a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece
is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the
glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond
it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming
shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they
grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace
curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is
quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A
Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor;
the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and
shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless
steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small,
sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood,
supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a
good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows
holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it,
and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Morning shows up without fanfare, filtering in through the windows. Two
sounds wake him: a distant siren, a much closer, a sudden scream of terror.
Behind the big painting that walls off the bed, Rina sits bolt upright,
staring straight ahead.

Salem jolts awake, yanked from his own uneasy, disturbing dream -- something
about firelight and desperate struggling, all for naught -- with abrupt
violence. There's a thud as his body hits the floor, and a curse.

For a few minutes there is only the sound of her breathing, harsh and fast.
Slowly, the speed of it eases. "You aright?" she calls out, hoarsely.

"Just my pride," comes the response. He doesn't sound all that much better.
"You?"

"Yeah." She wraps up in a huge plaid flannel bathrobe that drags the
floor--it must have been John's--and comes out. Red-eyed, her face streaked
with tears, she doesn't look at him; one hand is drawn across her eyes in a
bleary gesture. "I'll try and be quiet. Sorry."

Rina paces toward the bathroom in her bare feet, the hem of the robe
trailing behind her.

Salem grimaces and hauls himself back onto the couch, sitting; he's
barefoot, hair hanging loose and wild, and otherwise fully dressed. "Don't,"
he rasps, just before she vanishes into the bathroom. "Don't apologize. It's
all right." He rubs at his face, trying to shake off the clinging leeches of
sleep.

Rina isn't gone long; just enough to wash her face and brush her teeth, and
then she pads back out again. She doesn't raise her eyes to look at him, as
she crosses the distance between them and drops to sit next to him on the
couch. With the insistence of an animal or a small, annoying child, she
curls up into a little ball beside him and leans on his shoulder: a package
of grief wrapped in cozy flannel that still smells like John.

He looks down at her with bemused, bleary eyes, then leans back against the
couch cushions, his body settling into a slouch. He blinks slowly and then,
finally, asks, "How're you feeling?"

She answers with a small shake of her head, and a whisper. "Stupid fucking
question, Jack." Her eyes look off into nothing.

Salem acknowledges this with a grunt, no arguement and only the slightest
trace of knee-jerk irritation. "Sorry."

Like someone with a broken rib, she breathes carefully, steadily. "You want
breakfast? No peppers and eggs, but I can at least make toast or muffins or
somethin'."

Salem gives his head a slight shake. The Philodox's responses are slow, not
all the way there, almost as if he were drugged; he's awake but not. "No
need to, mmh, go to trouble on my account."

Rina nods minutely. "'Kay." She falls silent, leaning against his shoulder.

He stares off into the middle distance, at nothing in particular, too far
from sleep to return to it and too close to that state to be truly aware of
things. After several long minutes, his eyes slip closed, then open again,
and he levers himself up from the couch, muttering something about a 'be
right back' as he stumbles toward the bathroom.

He'll find her half-asleep in his place, wrapped up in her plaid flannel.
The strain is gone from her face, in sleep, leaving it clear of those lines
which have just begun to appear at the corners of her eyes and in her
forehead.

Somewhat more alert, thanks to the judicious use of cold water, Salem rests
his hands on the back of the couch and leans against it, watching her.
Eventually, he takes himself over to her kitchen to see what he can do about
brewing up some coffee.

The place is not as neat as it used to be; there are dishes moldering in the
sink, including the carafe for the coffeepot. Given that it's in Italian
glass canisters labeled 'decaf' and 'drip' and 'espresso' in marker, the
coffee is at least easy to find.

Salem studies this for a moment, then fishes the elastic from his pocket and
pulls his hair back into a rough ponytail. Hair more or less out of the way,
he unstraps his watch, sets it aside, and attacks the mess in the sink.
Carafe first, to get the coffee started, and the rest to follow.

This time, there are no nightmares. She sleeps like the innocent and the
dead, her breathing deep and calm.

The dishes get washed and dried, and the kitchen counters are wiped down as
well, neatly. In time, Salem returns to the couch with a fresh cup,
steaming, which he sets on the coffee table. Then, down on a knee, he
touches her shoulder to wake her, saying her name.

A wordless plea comes from her, and then a sleepy murmur: "Caro?" She draws
a deeper breath and smiles faintly, perhaps at the smell of the coffee. The
dark eyes flicker open, confusion clearing from them--and then a veiled look
coming to the black, as reality sets in. She carefully doesn't look at him,
but the pain is patently obvious to someone who knows her so well. The
brief, fragile happiness of dreaming is gone, and truth sinks in like a
knife to the gut.

There's a flicker of pain in his eyes, too, like a flinch, but it's quickly
suppressed. Wordlessly, he picks up the cup of coffee and offers it to her.

Rina sits up unsteadily. She keeps her eyes lowered, as she takes the cup
and drinks from it. "Thanks," she says hoarsely.

"Welcome." Salem's voice is quiet, reserved. He's awake now, if still tired.
Standing, he pads barefoot back to the kitchen to pour a cup for himself.

She wraps both hands around the cup, and sits there quietly, drinking.

Rina seems quiet, withdrawn--but not dangerously so, as far as he can tell.
Rather, she looks to be in a state of numb distance, her eyes unfocused.

Salem returns shortly with a second mug and perches at the end of the couch
to drink it. He offers no conversation, but watches her out of the corner of
his eye.

He gets up again when his cup's empty, offering to take hers back to the
kitchen along with his own -- presuming that she's also finished drinking
it, that is. "I have to get to work," he says, voice low.

Rina nods minutely, and glances over to him. "Thanks," she says again,
lamely. She at least gets up to escort him out--but there are no more words,
only the dark eyes following him as he leaves.

Salem departs with a promise to check up on her in a few days, and -- of
course -- an invitation to call him whenever she needs. And then he's gone,
boots clomping down the stairs, already fishing for the cigarette holder
within the big black coat.