9. Clark #3
“Yes,” I breathed, a bit of fog appearing when I exhaled.
“I noticed a minute or so ago. I didn’t want to say anything, but I also didn’t, um, what was that phrase, ‘come down with the last shower,’ and something is telling me that perhaps indoor snowstorms are part of what you feel you can’t tell anyone.
Considering I’ve already seen it, wouldn’t you say that it’s become moot to keep it a secret?
” I was doing my best to keep it together, but it was fucking snowing.
In my apartment! How does that happen? I couldn’t think of what to do, so I wondered instead what I would tell my insurance company when everything in my apartment got destroyed by an indoor snowstorm.
“Aw, hell,” she murmured, looking around.
“I hope the floors won’t be ruined. And the books!
Oh god, the books, the books! Just give me a sec.
” She closed her eyes and clasped my hand harder, and I felt a warm, tingly sensation running up my arm as she just seemed to think really hard.
The snow stopped, then it vanished from where it had gathered on surfaces, everything looking dry like it had never happened at all.
“Just, um, check the books, okay? And things like your TV? I thought I had things on lockdown, but talking about the accident is hard for me, and sometimes I lose control. At least it didn’t advance to the fire? ”
Fire? Oh, hell no. One of my biggest fears was being caught up in a fire. It didn’t root in some childhood trauma. It was just that, well, fire was damned scary.
We both got up and walked around the room, and declared the electronics and the books undamaged.
She even made me turn on the TV and PS4 to make sure that she really had managed to...
to what? She did more than make it just stop snowing.
She had somehow made it so that it never happened, like some strange manipulation of time itself.
The former astrophysics student in me was fascinated.
The everything else in me was terrified, with a touch of awe.
I mean, if she could do this, what didn’t I know?
I sat down on my couch this time, my legs having gone weak after the whole snowstorm incident.
“Well, takeout and a show,” she said, in a shaky voice.
“I guess that kind of killed things for the rest of the night.
Um, in the morning, well, want me to treat you to one of my favorite greasy spoons for breakfast, and we can start from where I left off?
Maybe answer some of those questions swirling in your mind?
Don't try to deny it, it's as plain as the nose on your face.
And that's alright. I think it's normal or healthy to have a bit of skepticism when faced with someone like me. And no, I am not reading your mind. You are the one leaking your thoughts all over the place like they're being poured from a tap. I can't help but hear them—you wouldn’t believe the amount of energy I expend just trying not to hear them. Just try to reserve judgment until you’ve heard more of the story. At least the parts that are safe for you to hear. It's all I ask of you, and I’ll even pick up the tab. We on?”
Of course we were.
Then I remembered what I had wanted to do with her tomorrow afternoon. “Hey, I know this is super last minute, but I did something a bit spontaneously like two weeks ago, and I’m hoping you won’t get mad, though I’ll understand if you do.”
“Go on.”
“You know how, two weeks ago, we got that email at work announcing that we are encouraged to wear Halloween costumes to the office, and then afterward there’s a party.”
“I’m aware. They do it every year. Last year, I went as The Bride. You know, from Kill Bill? I still have that yellow jumpsuit in my closet, bloodstains and all. Of course I’ve not come up with anything for this year yet because I’ve been a bit distracted.”
“Exactly! You’ve been so busy, where would you find the time?
So I kind of commissioned an outfit for you.
I’m good at eyeballing measurements. My mother made most of our clothes, and often there wasn’t anything to do but watch.
There would be a fitting tomorrow afternoon, then we’d go Wednesday evening for a final fitting, and it would be ready Thursday for you to wear to work. ”
“So what’s my costume?” she asked, and I could tell by her tone that she was ready for something somewhat terrible.
“Nuh-uh. That’s part of the package. That I get to see your face at some kind of grand unveiling I haven’t worked out yet. I really do think you’ll like it, Olly. I wouldn’t try to embarrass you in public.”
She chuckled, then said, “Good night, Clark,” and headed for my door. “I’ll see you bright and early for a Lumberjack Special and blueberry pancakes.”
How in the hell did she know what I was probably going to order?
Now, I was off to somehow process a world in which indoor snowstorms were possible, because if magic existed in this world, it surely existed in Olly McLeod. And I wanted her. Like hell I was going down without, well, not a fight, but without at least a well-reasoned conversation.
Lumberjack Special, indeed.