TITLE: "Bliss Of Another Kind"
AUTHOR: Jess (bolander3@aol.com)
ARCHIVE: It'll be up soon at http://www.sparkgirls.com.
SUMMARY: What it means to be made for you.
NOTES: They aren't mine, but we all know they're doing it anyway.  
Title and summary are from Tori Amos.  Many thanks to the wonderful k 
and crazy laptop thanks to Luna.  Feedback is blissful.


Bliss Of Another Kind


He writes for her, page after page, his script neat and round in some 
areas, sprawling and angular in others.  The words do not stop.  He 
writes for hours, stooped over the old table in her dining room, 
filling legal pads and their cardboard backs.  The ink from his pen 
grows faint, but he does not stop until he physically cannot write 
anymore.

She emerges from the bedroom in flannel pants and his sweatshirt, 
feet covered in mismatched socks.  A crease from her pillowcase 
snakes up the side of her face.  From the doorway, she watches her 
cat rub its head against his hand as he massages his forearm.

"It smells like coffee and cat food in here."

"The bedroom smells like vodka."  He looks at her.  "How're you doing 
there?"

She tries to smooth down her hair.  "Did you leave a sweatsock in my 
mouth?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"  She shuffles past him and towards her cupboard, 
where she reaches into the back and pulls out an oversized mug with 
the word "Friends" emblazoned on the side.

He turns around to observe her.  "You could just drink it straight 
from the pot."

"I'm not entirely certain that's a bad idea."  She takes a large 
swallow from the mug.  "Ow."

He buries his smile within his beard, but she sees it and narrows her 
eyes at him as she blows on the coffee.

"Your brother called."

She leans against the counter.  "Tom?"

"Yes."

"Is it on the machine?"

He drinks from his own mug.  "I answered it."

Her eyes grow wide.  "Toby, you answered my phone?  What if it had 
been my mother?"

"She probably would have thought, 'Go, C.J.'"

"She probably would have questioned you about your intentions."  She 
wraps her left hand around the mug and massages her neck with her 
right.  "Are we eating?"

"We could go out," he consults his watch, "for lunch."

"We could do that.  Or, you know, I could slam my hand in a car door."

"You're turning into a vampire."  He takes a final sip from his 
mug.  "You only go outside when it's dark."

"We're all that way.  I've still never figured out how Sam stays so 
tan.  Do you think he's got one of those tanning beds in his 
apartment?"

"You scare me," he says, standing and slipping into his jacket.  "You 
scare me a lot."

C.J. slides up onto the counter.  "I want one of those chicken 
things, but no mayonnaise, and as many fries as you can carry."

Toby rinses out his mug.  "Be careful up there."

"I'm perfectly fine up here," she declares.

"How soon we forget last night's unfortunate tumble."

"Fiction, my good man."

"I knew I should have taken a picture."  He steps from her apartment 
and closes the door carefully behind him.

When Toby is gone, she gets down from the counter.  Paper plates are 
piled in the sink and she pokes at them with a plastic fork, trying 
to determine which foods are clinging to them.  She gives up when she 
cannot decide if they are animal, vegetable, or mineral.

In the bathroom, C.J. notices that Toby has left a half-smoked cigar 
in the ashtray on the back of her toilet.  She thinks she remembers 
him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, blowing smoke rings at her as 
she applied her eyeliner.  The cigar goes into the wastebasket and 
the ashes, along with several cigarette butts, go into the toilet.  
She flushes, brushes her teeth and debates taking a shower.  She 
knows that, sooner or later, she will have to; after a moment, she 
spits and decides on later.  Rinsing out the sink, she notices that 
her knuckles are bruised and thinks Toby was telling her the truth 
about the fall.

The notepad on the table catches her eye.  She finds her glasses 
underneath a black bra on her dresser, then returns to the dining 
room.  C.J. sinks into his chair, seat already cold, and begins to 
read.  

Her favorite thing is the way his letter 'r' is always taller than 
his letter 's'.  C.J. can predict his alphabet, could live within the 
sizes and shapes of his words.  The sentences do not say what she 
expects them to say, but as always, she gives herself up to the 
familiar scrawl of black against yellow.

"Here."

C.J. screams, a full, loud sound, and jumps from the table, wielding 
Toby's spent pen like a weapon.

"Put that down," Toby says.  "You don't know how to use it."

She places a hand against her chest and tries to catch her 
breath.  "What is wrong with you?"

He drinks from a plastic cup.  "You didn't hear my keys in the door?"

"I think I'm having a heart attack."

He passes a bag to her.  "I was assisted by a young man named King.  
King had a very difficult time holding the mayo."

"Thank you."  She stuffs three French fries into her mouth and nods 
at his cup.  "What is that?"

"It's green.  I was drawn to it.  I don't know why."

"Blame it on the hangover," she says, mouth full of chicken, pickle, 
and bread.

"I don't have a hangover."

"Okay."

She eats the sandwich quickly, as he drinks the shake, and they watch 
each other.

"What do I owe you?"

He shakes his head.  "C.J., for God's sake."

"I'm trying to make a point."

"Stand back," he says mildly and to the room at large.

"Listen to me.  I know that I look ridiculous right at this moment 
and that I act ridiculous most of the time, but I don't need to you 
leave lists on my dining room table.  I know what this is, and what 
it isn't, and I don't want you to think you have to buy McDonald's 
for me."

He does not blink.  "So you've read it."

"Well, not all of it, Toby.  This damn thing's like War and Peace."  
She gathers the legal pads into a pile and lets them fall onto the 
table.  "But I've read enough of it to know that you've spent an 
awfully long time thinking of reasons why we shouldn't be together."

Now, he blinks.

"And I've got to tell you, you've left off a few things."

"Such as?"

She begins counting on her fingers.  "We don't have a song.  You hate 
my cat.  I like the Beatles and you like the Rolling Stones.  It 
freaks me out when you answer my telephone."

"Your legs," he says.

"You get randy at inappropriate times."

"They start higher than most people's."

She scoots to the edge of the chair.  "I just don't understand why 
you think I don't know these things, Toby.  Nothing on this list is 
news to me."

"Good."

"Good?"

"I want you to know those things."

"I do," she says softly.

"Okay."  He crosses the room and stands before her and reaches for 
her hands.  She stands.

"My legs don't really start higher than most people's," she says, her 
face close to his.  "It just seems that way."

He puts his fingers on her collarbone.  "I like to buy you 
McDonald's."

Her cat weaves in between their ankles as their lips meet.  "Okay."

***
End.  Feedback, as ever, is appreciated.