Objects
by Lasse Saillard
i
Throwing things, throwing things, throwing things. Nat is in the kitchen and Jess, he’s in the room next to the kitchen, the only other room, and he’s not yelling, he’s receiving the objects.
“Drastic!” he says to her, voice raised but he’s not yelling at her; she’s too precious to him. The room’s in San Francisco, a carpeted room, and maybe it is too small for the two of them. She’s threatening to leave for New York. He walks down the hallway—the building was a hotel once, and not even a luxury hotel—the same red carpet—he walks over it, down the hallway, down the flights of stairs, he stands by the entrance in the old lobby where there are mailboxes and he’s just standing there to think about her. She’s upstairs still.
ii
“I’ve been trying to convince you since day one.”
“Of what?”
There’s no answer to this. On a park bench. Actually not, it’s just a curb, to be honest about the moment. The two were sitting on a curb in one of the strips between two street lanes, one of these New York City parks. His hand is fidgeting around in one pocket and she rubs a foot against her left pantleg, leaving a greyish mark. When this girl feels this way she bites her top teeth over her bottom lip, and the marks in between her eyebrows on her forehead. The emotion almost looks faked, too dramatic. A stampede of stags in transit down the West-bound lane surprises nobody in these times.
iii
Just long enough to leave a pile of our clothes there. Neither had sense enough to pick them up, pack up, head on. She accused herself of “Colette-ing” the whole affair. She meant that she stopped believing in love.