by Vivien Vale
But he’s been out there for a while, and I’m starting to worry. The storm’s getting crazy intense, and I could do without a guy’s death on my head.
Even if he just caught a cold or something, I’d kind of feel responsible.
All I have on now is the shirt Dylan gave me last night. I look around and find an old coat on the back of the door. I slip my feet into a pair of boots by the door and brace for the cold.
Millions of tiny pins prick my skin the second I poke my head out through the door. I squint, trying to minimize the pain on my eyes.
Fuck. I’ve never felt anything like it.
It must be like minus a hundred or something.
No one could survive out here for more than a minute. How long had Dylan been gone now? At least ten, maybe fifteen?
I put one arm up to shield my face and trudge through the snow. In some spots, it’s almost up past my knees.
These boots are so big that they’re filled with snow. Big clumps fall in and settle around my toes. I stop and try to scoop them out, only to have more come in with my next step.
It’s a cumbersome process, and I’m beginning to wonder how wise it was for me to come out here in the first place.
I squint, trying to see through the snowstorm. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me at most. I turn my head around, and notice I’m only like ten steps away from the cabin.
Seriously? That’s all? I’m breathing harder than if I’d just run five miles on the treadmill.
If I don’t see him soon, I’ll have to turn back.
There’s no point in letting myself die out here. What the fuck would it achieve if I perished in the cold trying to find the fucking arrogant prick of a sex god anyway? It’s not like he ever paid me much attention when we were working together.
Just thinking about him in one of his tailor-cut Armani suits—starched white shirt casually left open at the top—and the recollection of all those women he dated comes instantly to me. Not a day went by when Dylan didn’t walk around the office with at least one big-boobed blonde on his arm.
What really made me sick was the way those vacant-looking chicks hung on every one of his words and laughed at every one of his stupid jokes.
Stop it, I yell at myself. This is not fucking helping.
I keep slogging through the snow, trying not to think, trying to resolve to turn around after a few more steps.
But I keep going, because it’s getting too cold to think, which is kind of a relief.
And then I see him.
Bear-like, he appears in front of me.
Well, at first I think it is a bear. An angry bear demolishing a poor, innocent tree.
I’m rooted to the spot. I don’t move. I don’t want this animal to see me.
But as soon as I see a patch of flannel through the snow, and realize the bear is Dylan, I inch forward.
What the fuck is he doing? For some reason, he’s punching a tree like it’s a punching bag at the gym.
Left, right, left, right, over and over, his bare hands connecting with the trunk of some kind of pine tree.
When he stops, I see the top of the tree swaying back and forth.
My eyes widen. I realize that any second now, that poor tree is going to come crashing down.
Sure enough, I hear the sickening sound of a crack before it falls gracefully, silently to the ground. And there it stays, unable to get up again.
What did that pine tree ever do to anyone?
I can’t help but give Dylan a piece of my mind. What was he thinking, destroying a tree for no reason?
Fuck, it’s cold.
Dylan turns around—his shirt is still open. I try yelling at him, try to focus on my words, but why is his shirt unbuttoned?
And did he really fell that tree with his bare hands?
“Oh, wow,” I say out loud, unable to help myself. “Such a…male way to resolve problems: let it out on some poor, innocent tree, destroying nature instead of communicating. How mature.” I look at him in disbelief and frustration. “But then, I guess you don’t know how to do that—communicate. You never have.”
Forget it. I swing around and plod straight back into the cabin, shaking my head about Dylan’s destruction of nature—and about his clothing choice in this weather.
I slam the door shut and storm into the living room. I pace back and forth, anger raging inside me.
This isn’t annoyance or confusion or fear. No, I’m fucking angry, and I’m not even sure why, and it’s getting worse.
Why did Dylan leave me—and his whole life—to live by himself in the middle of goddamn nowhere?
I’d like that explained, but I’m now realizing what’s really making me angry: his fashion choices.
Dylan used to be the most fashionable colleague I had, and probably—no, definitely the best-dressed guy I know. So, what’s with all this plaid, flannel shit?
It’s bad enough that he wears that stuff now, but he can’t expect me to go along with the lumberjack look anymore.
My eyes roam the room and fix on the curtains. They’re a forest green kind of color, but I don’t care—I mean, they’re not plaid, at least.
A plan forms.
What else am supposed I to do? My options are limited. His bed sheets are white and thin cotton, so that wouldn’t work. These curtains really seem to be the only thing available for fashioning some decent clothes.
Green’s not usually my color, but I bet I could make it work.
Resolutely, I rip one of the curtains off its rod and spread it out on the floor.
Okay, good start. Now I need some tools.
I go to the kitchen and rummage around various drawers until I find what I need: needle, some thread, scissors, and a whole lot of motivation.
Armed with my sewing tools, I sit down next to the material and stare at it.
How the fuck do you start making your own clothes? I have no fucking idea.
I think hard, searching my memory for any knowledge about where the hell to begin.
I have no luck with that. Sewing or dressmaking was not even a subject at school. But I got to try.
With no fucking idea, I lie down on the curtain to measure it for length. Okay, looks like I’ll be covered from head to foot. So far so good.
So, I should get a sort of shirt and pants out of it, maybe even a slip, Tarzan- and Jane-style. I spread my arms, and there’s still more than enough material to have me covered.
Step one completed: I’ve established there’s enough curtain to cover me from head to toe. If I was in ancient Greece, I could just drape it around me, toga style—or was that the Romans?
Who fucking cares. Let’s just get a move on and start sewing.
So much green. With shaking fingers, I pick up the scissors, and hover them at the bottom of the material.
No, wait, maybe I should draw an outline of what I want to make.
I furrow my brow. Did I see a pen anywhere? Back into the kitchen I go, pulling drawers open until I find what I need. Armed with a black ballpoint pen, I return and get to work.
I start drawing, and soon wriggly lines fill the material. I try to draw the outline of a slip, a t-shirt of sorts, and pants. From time to time, I lay down and trace the outline of my own body for a bit more accuracy, but, like many great artists, most of my work is from memory.
Hands on hips, I stand to examine my handy work. Not bad, if I do say so myself. My drawing could have been a bit neater, but I can sort of see where I’m supposed to cut.
I can’t wait for Dylan the bear-man to return and see how fucking productive I’ve been while he was out there trashing the forest.
The sight of the tree falling from the force of Dylan’s bare hands has me shivering all over.
It’s one thing to look at his wild, angry, bear-like features, but it’s another thing altogether to see him in action, demolishing an innocent tree.
Picturing what those hands could do to me sends my imagination to some weird,
wild places.
Time to get a fucking move on and actually make something.
I start cutting.
For some reason, the scissors are refusing to cooperate. They just won’t cut through the thick material. I shove, I push, and I force the scissor blades until I slowly start making progress.
I’d call it more ripping and tearing than cutting.
After what seems like hours, with sweat dripping down my back and chest, I’ve cut out what could be my slip.
At this rate, I’ll be here all fucking day.
Maybe I need a knife? I go to the kitchen and grab a small black knife and a large serrated knife. One of these should get the job done.
While the small knife is able to cut the material, it’s a lot harder sticking to the lines and cutting straight. I have to keep stopping and starting.
Finally, trying to hold the material steady with one hand and cut with the other, I end up slicing right into my forefinger.
Ouch, fuck, ouch.
I stick the dripping finger into my mouth make my way to the kitchen yet again. I wonder if Dylan keeps any bandages around.
When I can’t find one, I go back and wrap a bit of the green material around it.
I better be careful not to lose a goddamn finger.
I have no fucking idea how long it takes, but eventually I’ve got a whole lot of pieces. As I stare at them. I can’t remember what’s what. I pick up a scrap that could be the slip, but I think there was another piece that goes with it…
Is it that one? Whatever, time to sew.
Now for threading the needle.
There only seems to be black thread and I have a hell of a time getting it through the tiny hole. Why they make the hole so impossibly small is beyond me. Surely, it would be better to make it bigger so it’s easier to thread?
There’s no doubt a man invented this crap.
While trying to thread the needle, I stab myself six or seven times. By the time my finger looks like a pincushion, I’m ready to give up.
Shit, there it goes. I’ve threaded the fucking needle fucking finally.
I fit the two pieces together and try to push the needle through.
Nothing happens.
What the fuck? Instead of piercing the material with ease, the needle keeps bending, nearly breaking in two.
I push harder, stabbing myself with the blunt end. I push and push until, at last, some of it’s sticking out the other side. Relieved, I grab the pointy end and pull. It takes great effort to bring the needle through two layers of material.
Sewing’s a lot harder than I’d thought. No wonder clothes cost so much.
By the time I’ve sewn halfway around, I realize I forgot to leave an opening for my legs to go through.
Fuck.
The door opens. A cold gust of wind comes in before it is shut again.
Seconds later, Dylan appears in the doorway.
Any words of triumph die on my lips when I see his expression. Thunderclouds appear friendly compared to the way Dylan is looking at me right now.
I wish I hadn’t done this in the living room. How am I supposed to work without any privacy?
Dylan
I know what my lifestyle looks like to contemporary, genteel people, especially folks used to living in gentrified cities. But, fuck, it’s not like I’m living raw out here.
I’ve got my own electrical grid, for crying out loud. I’ve got my own goddamn motherfucking helicopter that I make my own fuel for.
I’d like to see some of those motherfuckers buying up the condos at 57 West try living out here and see how they do.
Fuck, I can’t blame them for not wanting that. After all, it’s not like I wanted that.
I’ve made the most of it by making my wild Vermont fortress as civilized as I could. Over the past five years, I’ve done everything in my considerable power to avoid the dreaded ‘p’ word and all the preconceived notions that go with it.
Five years, and I was doing pretty well, until I went outside and began smashing apart a tree with my bare hands.
It’s pretty fucking primitive. That’s what I’m feeling right now, and it feels o-fucking-kay.
Primitive.
I can’t hide from that shit at the moment. No, sir.
Emma’s feeling it, too. It’s like I’m radio-fucking-active, full of isotopes spewing out...primitiveness—r something.
I look at my cabin from the outside and see a light shine through one of the front windows.
If the whole point of civilization is shared human experience, why is it that the presence of another human being is making me less civilized than I have in years?
Is it because the other human being is a woman, and not just any woman—but her?
I walk towards the cabin, giving myself some time to think before bounding through the front door. Seeing that light from the outside is weird—I would never have a light on, sucking up energy, unless I was inside and using it.
It actually makes sense that I’m feeling so primitive, so primal. I’ve been isolated from other people for so long that being in such close proximity to someone—to Emma, of all people—is dredging up all kinds of shit.
The past is catching up with me.
And it’s not like being around people automatically makes one civilized. It took humans hundreds of thousands of years on Earth before we finally eked out a few thousand measly years of civilization—and even that’s been a pretty bumpy road.
I stop a few yards short of the front door.
This situation’s challenging, but what situation isn’t? What’s more, I like a fucking challenge.
How the hell we move forward is something that I don’t know.
What I do know is that we need to figure it out starting right now, because we’re facing some shit that’s much bigger than our little feelings and discomforts.
I open the door and step inside my cabin with a mild yet growing eagerness to find out what’s next.
What’s next is Emma, sitting on my floor and staring up at me with an inscrutable expression. I’m not sure what she’s trying to communicate, but I don’t care anymore.
To be clear, I was concerned with it. Emma’s wearing one of my flannels, but she hasn’t put some pants on. The way she’s sitting could be enough to drive me completely nuts.
I was interested in trying to read her expression, just so I could discern what the hell she’s trying to tell to me.
That all changes, however, when I notice what looks like my living room curtains, on the floor and mutilated beyond any fucking use. Emma’s sitting right in the middle of this wanton destruction, looking at me with that unchanging, impenetrable expression.
“Emma, what the fuck? What did you do?”
Emma takes a quick look around at the shreds of fabric surrounding her.
“What? You mean this?” Emma waves her arms over my dead curtains with a weird, theatrical flourish.
A thunderous expression clouds my face. “What do you think?”
Emma’s face drops, and she pulls a torn rag of curtain fabric over her lower half. How could she be surprised I’m upset about this?
“I was just trying to make something nice to wear,” she pouts.
“Nice to wear? Emma, those were my curtains. They served an important purpose...” I try to keep my voice calm, but it’s not easy.
Emma stands up, holding what’s left of my curtains around her legs like it’s a petticoat.
“Oh? And you know what’s important to me?”
Her voice and expression are starting to match my intensity—exceeding it, even. I wasn’t expecting that.
“What, Emma? What could possibly be so important that you just need to ruin my shit?”
“Finding some clothes that don’t look like fucking garbage!”
After hearing that, the last thing I want to do is look down at what I’m wearing with a self-conscious expression on my face. But that’s exactly what I do—for a full second or more—befor
e I can stop myself.
“What’s wrong with the clothes?” I can’t help saying, a frown on my face.
“You mean all the flannel? Because all your shit is flannel.”
“Yeah, it’s all fucking flannel. So? What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s tacky, and I hate it!”
I look over the remains of my living room curtains on the ground because I honestly can’t think of a response. Emma had brought out one of my sewing needles and some spools of thread.
She’s seriously trying to go Gone with the Wind on this shit.
“I haven’t been down to the Armani Exchange in a while,” I growl, resisting the temptation to kick the pieces of fabric from here to eternity.
“Well, no kidding.” Emma lets go of the scrap of curtain she’s holding, and it falls to her feet. “Where did you go?”
“You mean when you I used to go shopping in...”
“No. I mean why did you go? When you left? Now I know where you went, because we’re here now. But, why?”
Any anger I thought I had was gone, because it was never really there.
“You know, I could stand to diversify my wardrobe a bit.”
“Why, Dylan?”
“Like you just said, it’s tacky...”
“Cut the shit. Why did you leave?”
The flannel shirt Emma’s wearing goes just a couple of inches past her waist. It leaves an ideal amount to the imagination—to my tortured fucking imagination—and her legs are just...
“Perfect.”
“What’s perfect, Dylan? Are you being cryptic? Are you at least trying to answer my question?”
At least I know now, consciously, that what I thought was irritation—and anger—is really just frustration in disguise.
“Goddamnit,” Emma grumbles, and tries to kick the curtain fabric with her right foot. She lifts her leg as the cloth slides gradually from her ankle.
“The ideas for a new wardrobe I’m thinking of right now. They’re perfect. That’s what I meant.”
“What?” Emma asks in confusion and annoyance.
The frustration works both ways with Emma and me.
I’m still thinking about her leg lingering in the air, the fabric sliding down slowly...damn, I think it was worth losing my curtains just for that, even if that image is going to haunt me for the foreseeable future.
