Thunderstorms kept him busy. Wild cumulus grazed upon the vast bluescape above him until one or more gave in to their feral nature and dove into thin sheets of gloom that stretched toward sunset. Catches of birds expanded then fell like confetti, roused from their search for food in the rutted soil by disjointed claps of thunder. He spent days running the backroads on the balls of his bare feet until the pulsing bundle of meat in the center of his chest tormented him to the dust. Dreams surged with incessant running and chasing and escaping faceless winged humanoids over cloud crowned mountains.
Malorie sat on the patio of the coffee shop staring into a planter filled with chaotic portulaca, her strawberry hair teased by a persistent breeze. He sat at a table just inside the door, admiring every detail of her smoldering beauty, her wide cobalt eyes, her flawless neckline. He couldn’t tell if she detected his examination. It wouldn’t have deterred him. Hatchet had recently abandoned his late night pursuits of the local party girls. Only she and the wily Delilah held his interest now.
Delilah evaded him, designing him with muddy frustration. He could sense her unspoken condescension as he made persistent advances, never allowed to get as far with her as he had on their first date. In her presence, he lost his words. He had played a good game that first night but her impenetrable confidence squeezed the spontaneity from him. After he confused the difference between anode and cathode while comparing batteries to brains, he lost all courage to gamble intellectually. But no matter how many times she laughed at him, he could not resist her.
How well do you know Woody? he asked her over peppered steak that had gone cold. Pretty well; we’ve been classmates for two years; we’ve partied. Is he a liar? A what? A liar, does he lie? No more than any other person I suppose; that’s a weird question, Hatchet. We’re working on something and I don’t think he’s being completely honest with me. What’s this? Hatchet could see the scientist inside her emerge from some white lab curtain as she puckered her lips in concentration. He’s done this before, she said. Pardon me? He kinda sabotaged another students’ work once, well, not sabotaged but kinda made things a little difficult… no, it was sabotage. Do you know why? Maybe. Well, why do you think he would lie to me? Maybe he’s crazy; maybe the more difficult he can make things, the more time and attention you spend on him. What do you mean by that? He’s gay, Hatchet. No shit, brainiac. Her face inclined toward him and she batted her lashes like a cartoon hussy. Oh shit, he said. Uh-huh. He’s done this before? Yup, he had the hots for his team leader, work gets close to done, he jacks with the controls, boom, the project screeches into limbo and they spend three extra weeks together trying to figure out what went wrong. How do you know this? I was there, Hatchet, I’m not stupid; I confronted him about it, made it clear I won’t put up with that high school musical shit; bush league shit. Holyshit. He’s stalling you.
Hatchet could sense she was evaluating him.
What’s your project?
I can’t tell you and you wouldn’t believe me if I did.
I’m so grateful we have this give and take relationship, Hatchet.
He wanted her parts and pieces wrapped around him, clutching him, synthesizing something new with him but even the full thrust of his typical volcanic approach would never have scratched the surface. No amount of his molten weaponry would ever burn her. She smiled at him, knowing that he was in deep speculation about her. What are you doing to me? he asked her abruptly. What are you doing to yourself? that’s the question you should be asking. I think you may be right. I am a scientist, Hatchet; I do know how to ask questions.
Malorie sat on the patio of the coffee shop staring into a planter filled with chaotic portulaca, her strawberry hair teased by a persistent breeze. He sat at a table just inside the door, admiring every detail of her smoldering beauty, her wide cobalt eyes, her flawless neckline. He couldn’t tell if she detected his examination. It wouldn’t have deterred him. Hatchet had recently abandoned his late night pursuits of the local party girls. Only she and the wily Delilah held his interest now.
Delilah evaded him, designing him with muddy frustration. He could sense her unspoken condescension as he made persistent advances, never allowed to get as far with her as he had on their first date. In her presence, he lost his words. He had played a good game that first night but her impenetrable confidence squeezed the spontaneity from him. After he confused the difference between anode and cathode while comparing batteries to brains, he lost all courage to gamble intellectually. But no matter how many times she laughed at him, he could not resist her.
How well do you know Woody? he asked her over peppered steak that had gone cold. Pretty well; we’ve been classmates for two years; we’ve partied. Is he a liar? A what? A liar, does he lie? No more than any other person I suppose; that’s a weird question, Hatchet. We’re working on something and I don’t think he’s being completely honest with me. What’s this? Hatchet could see the scientist inside her emerge from some white lab curtain as she puckered her lips in concentration. He’s done this before, she said. Pardon me? He kinda sabotaged another students’ work once, well, not sabotaged but kinda made things a little difficult… no, it was sabotage. Do you know why? Maybe. Well, why do you think he would lie to me? Maybe he’s crazy; maybe the more difficult he can make things, the more time and attention you spend on him. What do you mean by that? He’s gay, Hatchet. No shit, brainiac. Her face inclined toward him and she batted her lashes like a cartoon hussy. Oh shit, he said. Uh-huh. He’s done this before? Yup, he had the hots for his team leader, work gets close to done, he jacks with the controls, boom, the project screeches into limbo and they spend three extra weeks together trying to figure out what went wrong. How do you know this? I was there, Hatchet, I’m not stupid; I confronted him about it, made it clear I won’t put up with that high school musical shit; bush league shit. Holyshit. He’s stalling you.
Hatchet could sense she was evaluating him.
What’s your project?
I can’t tell you and you wouldn’t believe me if I did.
I’m so grateful we have this give and take relationship, Hatchet.
He wanted her parts and pieces wrapped around him, clutching him, synthesizing something new with him but even the full thrust of his typical volcanic approach would never have scratched the surface. No amount of his molten weaponry would ever burn her. She smiled at him, knowing that he was in deep speculation about her. What are you doing to me? he asked her abruptly. What are you doing to yourself? that’s the question you should be asking. I think you may be right. I am a scientist, Hatchet; I do know how to ask questions.
Edit 11.9.2018