TVs work on the idea of persistent vision. Perhaps dreams work on the idea of persistent sensations. Well, maybe not dreams, maybe just memory. Makes no difference. They’re difficult to hold back. It’s been… three hours since we took our leave of each other, and still the images/scents/sounds/sensations are there, though not as strong as they were before. They’re dormant, just below the surface now; I can call them at will. Before, they were pleasant but distracting... popping up all over the place at unexpected times.
Mobile rings. “Okay, meet you there then.” Ask directions. Run there. Walk and try to get normal breathing patterns back. Tapped on the right shoulder. Turn, smile? Dark blue t-shirt, beige cargo pants, beige coat with dark blue wool lining. Could probably have been worn inside out as well; too thick to tie around one’s waist. Standing in line, distance of friends, hands in pockets. Unintentional interruption, I shouldn’t have. Short small talk. Concession to The Day After Tomorrow. Medium popcorn. Theatrette 1. 10:12am? Take the row in front of all the other people. Loud ads. Music to suit the ocean and ice scenery. Shine of his eyes in the dark, silhouette of a youth, almost a man. Inner strength, unseen? Swallow, and hold back memories. ‘I know what that feels like... would I be able to do that?’ Notice slowed fire in fireplace between. Crappy CGs and animations of wolves, but good CGs and animations of weather. “Nature is to be respected.” Dim lights on, stretch, and hope that headache doesn’t come. Popcorn box left on seat. “I’ve never been in one of those. That room is so claustrophobic.” (He meant the theatrette, which was only half the size of a normal cinema theatre.) It wasn’t too bad a film, a good attempt at playing the audiences’ heartstrings. Good weather effects, plausible scientific weather theory, but plot easy to guess. The only twist being that the president didn’t make it. Some unbelievable bits – a Russian ship in the middle of the city?! Even though the entire place has been flooded?! Penicillin just happens to be onboard, with the name written in English? (Although it might be called that in Russian too.)
Wandering around inside Westfield – in large circles, up and down the same two floors. Dymocks. “I don’t think they sell exercise books here.” Newsagent. Two red binder grid-ruled maths books. “That’ll be $5.00 please. Would you like a bag?” “Yes please.”
“Not used to walking?” His smile. White couch. Bright lights. Curse the lights. Stand, observe, am glanced at. $2 fell out of pocket! Find another white seat elsewhere, elliptical prism (cylindrical), no backrest. He has a chunky watch on the left arm. Blue-yellow-grey, cloth band. It has hairs on it (the arm, not the watch). Thin, with a visible bluish vein running on the inside of the arm. His chair has no wheels, and it can’t turn either. I’m a little frustrated and somewhat nervous, but trying not to show it. Get up, look around, shake legs, sit, back-to-back now. Shivering slightly, heart racing, my arms crossed in uncertainty. My fear of being seen/caught, truth, also a good excuse, paranoia, being watched. “Too many people? ...I always feel like I’m being watched. In my room there’s no one to watch me.” Warm body, somewhat skinny, slouching some. Webcam, questions from mother, remote observation via webcam. His short hair, fuzzy against my neck, slightly tickly. “Are you all right?” Mobile phone vibrations, twice. Grandpa?! Head leaning on shoulder, back against shoulder, shoulder against shoulder, head over shoulder, gentle pressure, forehead on cheek, skin against skin. “I keep wanting to bite!” “Playing vampire game?” Look at tan-coloured neck. No visible vein or pulse. Shoulder - flesh and possibly a tendon, covered by cloth – in my mouth for a short second. Hopefully not bruised too much.
Lincraft?! “It’s outside somewhere.” Really... I wouldn’t know. “She’s not picking up. I’ll have to find her.” Coming with? Okay. Not wanting to be seen by either mother, not wanting negative/troublesome reactions, but not wanting to leave either. “You know the way back from here, right?”
Shake – limp, textured. A remark about his hands, which could have been taken as an insult, though not meant that way. Hand over heart, then lightly clenched. Rapid tone of green light heard by both. Wave. Turn and don’t look back... don’t look, keep walking... no. Have to look. Stop in shadow of pillar. He walks to grey car, just around the corner. Not the expected black one. Wait, watch... the car doesn’t move. Turn away, glare – not too hostile – at staring smoker. Turn back – still not gone. Watch. Enough of waiting, let’s go. Give smoker and smokeress a wide berth, take off black skivvy, let black hair loose for the wind, which quickly tangles it and blows it into my face. Try and catch pigeons with bare hands, view always being blocked by hair. Hoping emotions aren’t showing on my face. Go, Dance it away, hide them under the surface. Fail the sixth song – Burnin’ the Floor. (I don’t have that version on my computer. There were three versions on the machine...) “Fuck.” For the first time, I notice the DDR machine mocking me. Was too distracted, couldn’t get footwork right, I was dancing it all twisty. Mum calls, quickly shove everything behind a flimsy screen, barely control voice and breathing. Let her suspect, she can probably guess, but she won’t find any confirmation from me if I can help it. She probably doesn’t need one anyway. I try not to lie, but she is too good at asking questions. Such as, “So, how many people ended up coming?” “One.” “Who was it?” “Jonathan.” She laughed, “Yeah, I thought so. ... And who arranged this?” “I don’t know.” “It was you, wasn’t it? Of course it was.” I didn’t answer. Let her assume. In hindsight now, why didn’t I just say, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know her?’
Well, that’s pretty much the stuff I want to remember most about today. He was a little sick, which was why he sat.