Fractures

by M R Field

  Trust Trin to go straight to the ultra-familiar. But I’m not ready to bow down yet.

  Me: Did you miss me?

  Trin: Where are you?

  Typical of Trin to avoid emotion, too.

  Me: On a worksite at the moment.

  Trin: Oh. So, you want to go to the movies tonight? I’ve been cooped up all week.

  An idea strikes me as I begin typing.

  Me: I have a better idea. I’ll swing by this afternoon when work finishes. We’ll take a ride on the wild side.

  Trin: Typical male who wants to go there. We can’t do that this week.

  Me: No, firecracker. Wear jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt. That’s all.

  Trin: Neat-o. I’ll dig out my Bananarama tee.

  I smile as I type:

  Me: I’ll find my Hanson one.

  Trin: Fuck off you will. See you tonight.

  Me: Bye-bye.

  Tucking my phone away, I chuckle. Feels like a week since I’ve done so.

  Since our tryst began, she has softened slightly, while still keeping me at an emotional distance. We have a long and jagged history that neither one of us want to talk about. If she ever severed our ties, I fear she will dissolve me.

  I pick up my coffee and take a sip, chuckling at her brevity. Trin is never one to back down from an argument if she can see herself winning it. Getting my attention is obviously what she had set out to do.

  I place the coffee down and tuck my sketchpad back into my bag. Grabbing my camera, I turn it on and take the lens cap off to try and capture the room while the light is good. Raising it to my eyes, I snap a couple of shots, complete with Ricardo standing in the middle, observing me. His charcoal grey tailored suit sits crispy pressed against his solid chest. Even through the lens he is intimidating. His two-toned grey hair is brushed back, leaving only a few strands to fall over his forehead. His beard is kept short, and his expression is hard. Apart from our eyes, I cannot see anything that ties us together.

  I continue to take photos of the room, moving quickly to capture the different angles. We are yet to discuss the actual construction, but seeing an opportunity to put a little distance between us, I take it. As the photos fill the memory card, one thought strikes me about this place. The floor is solid and methodical … if that’s even possible. I tap my feet against the wooden floorboards for a moment and nod.

  “I noticed the noise too.” Ricardo breaks into my thoughts. “When I first inspected this place, my feet sounded like tap shoes. It was distracting at first, until the feature of my restaurant came to me.” Holding his coffee in one hand and using his free hand to press against his abdomen, he takes a few steps back and forth. “This floor was made for the salsa.” He stops suddenly and readjusts his jacket to smooth it down, like he never just danced for me.

  “Nice moves, Sinatra.”

  “When this place is done, it will be reinventing what music and dance is all about in my family.”

  I nod and face the front to take more pictures.

  “You’re part of that too, Theo,” he adds.

  I roll my eyes and take a few steps to the main doors. I have a father already; I don’t need another one. Elly’s face flashes before my eyes, and a stab of guilt pierces me.

  “I’m just going to finish the photos for the room so I can then work on the dimensions. I can email you the plan I make this afternoon of the room itself and the capacity you have to work with …” The more distance I can put between us, the better I will be. I look over my shoulder as I gesture to the front door, eager to get back to the office.

  He reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves his phone. “Let me check when I can schedule our next appointment.”

  Let’s hope it’s in another week or more.

  “Right, tomorrow at nine a.m. Is that suitable? I’ll have your safety vest and hard hat ready as it’s going to be an active site.”

  The surprise obviously shows on my face, as his eyes twinkle as they meet mine. I nod, perplexed at his genuine desire to spend time with me.

  “I will schedule that time for the rest of the week so we can make solid progress, okay?”

  “I’ll run that by Cole, I need to postpone all further meetings until I have a draft. I can set up a meeting to confirm …”

  “No need,” Ricardo interjects. “He is aware that I will be working extensively with you. Come with what you have planned.”

  My jaw locks. Any semblance of control that I thought I had in this situation begins to slip from my fingertips. “I don’t think we need daily appointments for this project. It’s going to be time-consuming and …”

  “Theo.” His voice raises slightly to cut me off. “If you think after all these years I’m not going to finally get to know you, you’re mistaken. I lived with the guilt of not doing anything sooner.”

  My heartbeat thuds profoundly in my chest. My breaths escalate as I try to calm the anger that builds within me.

  “How about we don’t fucking talk about that?” I seethe through clenched teeth.

  “Why not?” He waves his hand in the air. An inscrutable expression lies across his face. Is he trying to piss me off? I’m not in the mood for this shit. Ever. “We can get it all out in the open and move forward.”

  I feel like banging my head against the wall. “Not today, not ever. Got it?”

  I turn and face him, head-on. The harsh methodical piano chords of a ring tone that I hate hearing sounds from my pocket. I deliberately set it for Ko, and each time it pissed me off. I sigh in frustration as my fist clenches around my side, holding the phone in my pocket. What the fuck? Did he have beat your son while he’s down intuition? Could all the “fathers” in my life currently just FUCK RIGHT OFF?

  The chords cease to annoy me as the room silences.

  “Who was that?” Ricardo gestures to my phone, his brows tightening in concern.

  “My father.” I release my pocket and shake my head, turning away from him. “I’m not in the mood to hear what a disappointment I am today, thanks. Maybe tomorrow.” Adjusting the strap on my shoulder, I point to the door. “I’m going to the office; I’ll have the area plan mapped out by this afternoon.”

  “What song was that?” he asks.

  “It’s Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #3.” My throat dries and I look down at my shoes as I remember. “I started piano lessons when I was three, and that was the song that tortured me in its forty-five-minute glory. It also led to me smashing a $15,000 piano.” I run my tongue along the front of my teeth in hopes of stopping my lips from disclosing any more.

  “Theo …” His feet move closer to me, but I hold my hand up to halt him getting farther.

  “And, that would be enough storytelling for the day. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

  “Theo,” he calls out to me as I grab onto the doorframe. I look over my shoulder at him as he adds, “I won’t ask about him again, until you want to talk about it.”

  I nod and head out the door. That was a discussion I hoped we’d never have.

  After spending the entire afternoon in the office fighting with the designer software,

  I manage to get the basic floor plan done with the features of the warehouse. The base outline is ready to start adding our ideas to. Now, as I send it to the printer, the reality of the project strikes me. I am going to be working with my real father. Part of me wants to do a mediocre job so he won’t want to spend time with me, but the other part, the pathetic child that wants to please, resurfaces. Entrapped in a never-ending self-depreciating cycle, I scold myself for being so weak. In front of me, I’ve unconsciously lined my pens in order of length. Another fallback from being part of such a strict household. My fingers begin to curl and press into my palms.

  I stand, walk over to the printer, and retrieve the plan. Gazing at the lines, I double-check the observations I made until my eyes blur with fatigue. Blinking, I look through the window as I step closer to the glass surface to cast my eyes down into the busy laneway tha
t separates our steel tower from the rusty bricks that lined the building next door. A small line of eager patrons has formed outside the ice cream parlour; the shop’s business never seemed to dwindle during summer.

  The dark doorway to the comic book store beside it sways with the excitement of patrons coming up and down the stairs. I turn my head to look at the clock on the wall and smile. While my new comic is off being printed, my recent comic has just been released. The seesaw of stress in comic book author life. Expel it all out only to have it launched back at you. Turning back to the window, the gelati line progressively moves and I wonder if I should make the effort to go down there for a break.

  A shimmer of bright blue captures my attention as Trinity’s sleek body comes into view from the road. I quickly retrieve my phone and take a photo, taking care to focus it on her directly. I’ll need it for my next edition. I watch her strut as she confidently strolls down the road, oblivious to the half-dozen guys and a few girls who are surreptitiously checking her out.

  She reaches the comic book store’s front and eagerly jogs out of sight down the stairs. My pulse quickens at the thought of her grabbing the latest edition. Will she discover my other identity? Or do I need to be making things clearer to her? Tonight, when she’s on the back of my bike, I’m going to find out.

  “Don’t let your stubbornness hold you back. Forgive. Love. Live.”

  Love, M

  TRINITY

  My precious.

  No, step back.

  You can’t touch it.

  The amused clerk stares at me, stupefied.

  “What?” I ask, clutching the plastic-covered goods. I’m only hugging a magazine. What’s wrong with that? Pressing my thumb and index finger together, I feel the thickness of the comic. Is it thicker, this edition? I glance down at the glossy contents, trying in vain to guess the page number. Does she finally see him?! Oh my God! He can’t be captured! My excitement flares until the clerk’s eyes clash with mine.

  “Haven’t you worked out internet shopping yet? You can order it online and have it delivered to your front door, you know.” He hands me the receipt for my precious purchase, but I can’t move. His sheer stupidity has me frozen to the ground.

  I stare at him. Right at him. Why was he discouraging customers from coming in?

  Can I poke him on the forehead to check for any sign of life in there? Check that he isn’t a damn fool?

  I snap out of my trance and snatch the receipt out of his villainous fingers.

  “And you fucking work here,” I mutter in disgust. “The whole purpose of coming in here is to immerse myself in the vibe. The unity of like-minded people in one place. You clearly do not have the said vibe to be standing behind that desk.” I stand on my tiptoes and look over the desktop at him. “You’re not even dressed like you belong here. Where are your Docs? Where’s the metal in your face? Where’s the chain to your wallet? You’re wearing ordinary jeans … did you lose your way from the GAP?”

  He leans forward and stares down at my outfit, paying significant attention to the cherry blossom tattoo that crawls over my shoulder. Stare at my boobs, buddy, and my shoe goes up your arse.

  “Did a Smurf attach itself to your head?”

  I touch my tongue to my labret and run a hand quickly through the loose ends of my bun, unweaving it to form a ponytail. “Well, there was a Smurf orgy, actually. They all got excited and left a mess.” His face stills as he stares at me. “Yeah, I know, I took it too far. But, you have to admit, you kinda don’t fit in here if you can’t take on the weirdos.” I chuckle as I bring the comic closer to me.

  “I get off in fifteen if you want to hit a pub and yell at me some more.” He winks, leaning his elbows on the desk. “We can see how weird this conversation can really get.”

  My chin flinches in surprise. He’s cute. I’ll give him that. He has short blond hair and blue eyes, but that familiar feeling of interest doesn’t come. No accelerated heartbeat, or pulse—nothing.

  A year ago, I might’ve said yes, the quick thrill of want overriding anything else. The need to escape my clouded thoughts had been easily fixed with a cheap screw. So why not now? ’Cause I had a boyfriend? We weren’t even classified that.

  I consider my response for a moment longer, not realising that I’ve kept him waiting until he clears his throat.

  “So, I take it that’s a no, then?” He tilts his head, leaning closer to me, but I take a step back. His cuteness does not lure me in. He chuckles and winks. But, again, nothing. No twitching—nothing igniting between my legs. I honestly think my vagina is on a hiatus or holidaying in the Bahamas. All the while it sunbakes, waiting for Theo. We need to sort our shit out.

  “Sorry. I’m not able to,” I say, clutching the mag to my chest. “But … um, thanks?”

  “You’re asking a question?”

  “It’s not every day you get a backhanded compliment after being accused of a Smurf invasion.”

  He smiles and points to the magazine that I grip at my chest. “Off you go on your special adventure with that.” He gestures as the magazine crinkles slightly between my protective fingers. “Try to avoid any Smurfs on your way home.”

  I release the magazine in one hand and point up towards my left. “I think once you’re up those stairs, the GAP is that way.”

  Turning before he replies, I make my way through the shelves to the stairs. The low lighting contrasts against the stark colours of the magazines that I pass, and I love it.

  Once a month, this place is my destination. I even deliberately leave the last appointment blank on release days so I can come to visit.

  I climb the steps and eagerly make my way up the narrow one-way street to the tram stop. The shop lies hidden between an ice cream shop and an alleyway, one that I decide to turn down to take a shortcut. Behind me, a steel skyscraper faces my back, looking onto the shops where the comic store is. Each time I walk down the alley, I get a weird sense that something strange lurks in that building. But I can’t put my finger on it.

  As my feet travel down the crowded café-filled alleyway, I take a moment to people-watch as I walk. The brusque nature of the waiters hurrying from table to table as impatient patrons snap their fingers has me thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a part of the hospitality industry. If a customer snapped their fingers at me in my store, they would probably be told where to shove those snappy hands.

  A blonde by the side catches my attention, and for a moment, I think it’s Brit. I blink and shudder, shaking my shoulders to get rid of the thought. After she came in last time, it left a bad taste in my mouth. High school might’ve been a few years ago, but I remember what bitch looks like. Me, fucking me, designing her wedding dress. You can’t be a fucking bullying whore to my best friend and expect me to forget. No fucking way. I would line her dress with arsenic and see how she likes that.

  My steps continue as I eliminate that serpent from my mind. Aside from the hustle, I love the eclectic Melbournian way of life. I could wear my Marvel pyjamas down here and no one would think it was strange. As I surreptitiously note the shoes of some of the women at the tables, I mentally catalogue where to find them online and skip a little in my step. I have a new magazine in my hand and hopefully in a week or two, some new shoes on my feet.

  The edge of the worn alleyway approaches as cars and trams on the road trundle along past. Posters line the brick walls, advertising bands and comedians, until one about the recent Comic Con convention catches my eye. I had gone with Robbie’s friend Ty and Maxi from Hazel’s band, who both were keen comic book fans.

  I stop for a moment and stare at the jagged edging of the lettering on the poster. I had gone there with keen enthusiasm, hoping to catch a glimpse of the secretive TTE writer, whose magazine I clutched in my hand. I wanted him to be there to finally put a face to the name, but he hadn’t come. According to the geek grapevine, he wants to remain anonymous. His magazine has been a hot commodity for the last three years, and his identity is st
ill unknown. He is male and lives in Melbourne. That is it. The dude could’ve worn a mask or something, or at least spoken somehow so on lonely nights I could give myself a soundtrack to masturbate to. It’s funny that I’d fantasise about a person who I’d never seen, but comic book guy never stood a chance.

  I sigh and begin walking over to the tram stop. Reaching into my satchel, I check my phone for the time and find I have just forty minutes until Theo will be at my place. My other hand is itching to open the magazine, but I need more than forty minutes for that. I want to see what the characters are up to this edition without rushing it. This is my guilty pleasure, and I want to relish every second of it. I love reading romance, angst, and mind-fuckery. This comic by TTE has it all.

  I arrive home and rush through the warehouse to dash up the stairs. I wasn’t joking when I said I’d dig out my Bananarama T-shirt. I may be a kick-arse designer and comic book freak but 80s rock and 90s pop are also loves of mine. Slipping into my skinny jeans, I wiggle into my shirt and have a giggle at the “I’m your Venus” on the front. Trice and I used to sing this as, “I’m your penis, your vagina.” I stare at the bright neon pink lettering, thinking that I should’ve ironed on an arrow pointing down to my own Venus.

  I slide my feet into my cherry Docs and grab my satchel. Although it is summer, typical Melbournian weather doesn’t mean it will be hot. A cool change for the evening has already begun, so riding wherever Theo wants to is going to be great.

  I jog towards the steps, flicking lights off as I go. Despite my parents being environmentally conscious about everything when I was a kid, I somehow managed to be a power sucker. I flick the last switch near the landing as a faint memory of my mother grips me.

  “Be careful you don’t strain your fingers, flicking all those switches, honey.” Her smile fills my thoughts as I thump down the stairs, pushing the memory back with each step. A lump forms at the back of my throat as the guilt threatens to undo me. I could’ve had more memories if I weren’t so fucking selfish. I’d have more memories that I wouldn’t hide from or push away.