đ” đ đž đ« đ·đ¶ đ» (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-02-28 02:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, sherlock holmes |
Who: Sam and Elias
What: Art talk
Where: Avenue Eight
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: None
Sam woke early to see Clarissa off. The other woman was going on a day trip west to deliver some goods, and Sam didnât mind at all. It said something about the nature of their relationship that Sam didnât once worry Clarissa was going to sleep with someone in California, that she didnât worry the other woman would get caught with massive quantities of coke, that she might not come back. No, she was glad for the time alone and the reprieve from the constant fighting. She saw Clarissa off, and then she wandered into the kitchen wearing nothing but her skin and set a pot of bad coffee on. The coffee machine was cheap, old, and the apartment soon began to smell of over-burnt coffee beans and water cooked too long.
The shower she took was cold, as most of the showers in the Avenue Eight Studio Apartment were, not out of necessity but because the air conditioning didnât work in the shithole. Showering was the one reprieve from the desert heat that the residents of the apartment got, because the fans in all the open windows only circulated endless dry air and the smell of nearby takeout in the place. Despite the name, the apartment actually had two bedrooms. Clarissa and Sam shared one, and the other was littered with Samâs work. It was here that Sam went after she turned the shower off and poured herself a cup of black.
She set aside the screamer that Elias was coming over to see, but it was the gate that she spent her morning coffee thinking about. It would outgrow the apartment soon; stainless steel polished after welding to resemble hematite. It was smooth to the touch, cool in a world of unforgiving heat, and thoroughly modern in design. It was lattice, with tiny details in unexpected places, the kind of thing that would take hours of torch work - children, a bouncing ball, The Screamer (which was featuring in everything she did lately), the sun, music - It was six feet tall and, so far, four feet wide. She ran her fingers over it, finished her coffee, and went to put a note on the door nakedly, and with a messy (familiar) hand: Itâs open. Back room.
Sam was curvy, soft, unfashionably so. The magazines would call her chubby, but she didnât give a shit what she looked like; she never did, and after finding a pair of menâs pajama pants (ones that let her move easily) and a worn gray tank top, she set to work. Her long, dark hair was messily pulled away from her face, and the welderâs mask was pulled over it. Seconds later, the apartment sparked to life, the sound drowning on the loud hip-hop that was filtering in from the apartment next door.
Elias, eternal in his dark jeans and his increasingly dirty walking shoes, found his way to the right address with little trouble, especially considering that he was using a map and not a cellphone with GPS like the rest of the modern world. He was wearing an old faded t-shirt the color of an old bruise, and he wasnât in a hurry as he tipped forward onto his toes to read the note Sam had left for him on the door of the apartment. He stepped back afterward, inspecting the peeling plaster of the building, wondering exactly what kind of person this other artist was, but not caring as much as he would have if there hadnât been the art to take into account. Sherlock was annoyed at him, and heâd been silently thinking in the back of Eliasâ mind like a spoiled child. Elias was enjoying the silent treatment.
Elias pushed open the door, looking around at the cheap apartment without disgust, having both lived in and seen much worse. Elias even saw relative prosperity where others might see stains and mess, because the locks were good and the plumbing worked. He stopped in the kitchen and turned off the coffee machine, which was starting to burn the last few drops in the pot, and then he proceeded to the back room, ignoring Sherlockâs effusive observations about the occupation and habits of the occupant, none of which were flattering.
He didnât call out as he moved in, recognizing the sounds of someone at work and unwilling to interrupt. He pushed open the door and stood there, taking in the massive metal thing she was working on.
She didnât hear him, so much as sense him. She turned off the red EasyMig in the corner before slipping the welding mask off, and she set the welding torch (a delicate, modified Tingstun made for inert glass) atop the Mig. The welding gloves she never used fell on the floor as the torch came to rest against them, and she kicked them aside with steel-toed workmanâs boots that were unlaced. With the machine off, the hip hop was much louder, all bass and no melody or words carrying far enough to be heard. She picked up her coffee mug from the windowsill, and she took a sip as she looked him over in frank appraisal. Not what she was expecting, she decided. Sheâd been thinking older, white, gray hair and maybe a beard. Grandpa with a paintbrush. Huh.
âSorry the place is a mess,â she said, though her grin said she was teasing, that she didnât really give a shit about the state of the apartment, and she motioned to the The Screamer sculptures with her mug. âThatâs them,â she said, her accent thick New Jersey, all rounded things that went too round, ghetto, probably near the Latino areas, despite her very white skin and obvious lack of anything resembling an ethnic heritage.
Sherlock didnât know all that much about American accents, being a permanent (stubborn) inhabitant of London, and he set to work cataloging everything there was to know as quickly as possible, complaining the whole time about what a confusing backwater America was. Sherlock already knew about the welding equipment, and he was so irritating with the lecture that Elias refused to go further into the room where he could see more until he shut up. After a few moments for this battle of wills, Elias gave Sam an easy smile, pleased to find her without any of the signs or habits that Sherlock had been so quick to point out about the owner of the apartment. He stuck his tattooed hands in his pockets and strolled forward toward the sculptures. Not grandpa at all.
âThe metal is amazing. I canât imagine making it to go where you want. Paint is hell and itâs just paint.â Though charcoal was hell, too, and once it was in place... his mind wandered off to her technique, almost entirely drowning out Sherlock.
âItâs easy,â she said of metalwork. At its core, it was easy enough for any shop hand to do. âAnyone can seam a line,â she said, motioning to the gate and a spot where the seam was hidden behind the ornate carve worked into the metal. âItâs hiding the seam thatâs a challenge,â she said, and there was no sarcasm in it. When she was talking about her work, all that faded away, leaving behind only a raw appreciation for her medium. âI learned to weld when I was a teenager, all the rest was me being bored,â she admitted, stepping away from the gate again and moving close to the smaller Screamer sculptures. There was bench across from them, and she straddled it in the lose pajama pants and sat down. âThat stuff? Itâs cake,â she added. Now paint. Paintâs a bitch. I tried once. Told myself a brush was the same as a torch, but bullshit. Itâs not. A torch melts things into shapes. With paint, you have make it happen yourself. Completely different challenge.â She motioned to the other end of the bench, in case he wanted to sit. Her arms, bared in the shirt, were devoid of any bruises or track marks; she wasnât a user. Her eyes were too clear for it, her skin too unmarred. Now cigarettes? That was another story, and she pulled one off a nearby shelf with a long lean.
Elias eyed the seams without touching, nodding appreciation at the offer of the bench but not taking it, because he was busy looking at the silent screamers, and then at the gate with its beckoning details. Very impressive. Hands still in his pockets, he looked over from top to bottom, not hurried, just looking. Heâd seen his dad work with a lot of metal when he was young, even welding, but it was hazy in his memory as he had not spent many hours at the shop. Metal was not his field. It made him think of exhaust and immovable death. This was different, though. It wasnât useful, it was beautiful. Elias approved. âWe all have our own thing,â he said.
She lit the cigarette without asking if he minded, and she took a long inhale before speaking again. There was black beneath the edges of her blunt fingernails, and she balanced the coffee mug on the bench in front of her. âThat was the most noncommittal thing Iâve heard anyone say all day,â she said candidly, taking a sip of the coffee a second later. âSo, howâd you start?â she asked of his work, because all those tattoos and that tan skin? That didnât scream painter to her, not in any medium, unless it started out with handles on the sides of buildings, which she could totally buy. She kicked off one of the unlaced boots and propped her bare foot on the bench, where the coffee cup had been a moment earlier.
Elias didnât have the biggest vocabulary, but he watched the news. He smiled and moved away from the pieces, throwing a leg over the bench and winding one heel under the surface as he faced her. It was not the movement of someone that cared a lot about how he looked, too lazy, as if he took a mental note to eventually get to the bench and got there when he got there. âHowâd I start painting? First to make an impression. Stupid kid, that kind of thing. Then to stay alive.â It was a dramatic statement. He smiled, but it was still real, and didnât take much of an edge off the simplicity of the words. âWas I committed enough there for you?â
âBetter,â she agreed, turning the cigarette around and holding it out, in case he wanted a drag. âIt worked, huh?â she asked about surviving, because even those laid back clothes werenât Salvation Army issue. They hadnât been worn in different places by different body types, which meant he could afford them new, which was something where they came from. Oh, maybe not the same city, but close enough, and definitely the same world. As for being committal or noncommittal? She just laughed. âI spend a lot of time online.â She grinned. âBig words.â It was true, too. Since her Christine excursions online, sheâd gotten better at pretty much everything to do with writing. All her online time while her husband was at work in Jersey had helped too. âI hate it when people give me bullshit lines. You know, the ones in Hallmark cards.â We all have our own thing clearly ranked among those bullshit lines.
Elias appreciated the gesture and reached out to take the cigarette, another familiar gesture. He moved it in his fingers, the one with India yellow flat in the crease of his cuticle. âItâs probably a better idea to wonder why people like Hallmark cards enough to buy them when they canât think up what they want to say.â He wasnât shy about his opinion. He breathed out smoke from either side of his mouth. ââYouâre the best ever,ââ he said, in a false tone to illustrate the cards, though it wasnât sardonic. âDaughter, wife, sister, girlfriend... whatever. Nothing wrong with people feeling that. It doesnât have to be bullshit. Nobody ever got me a Hallmark card.â He took a last drag and then offered it back, one elbow on his knee.
She leaned forward at the waist to take the cigarette back, her arm around her knee as as she brought it back to her lips and inhaled with close-eyed pleasure. âSee, people arenât comfortable saying that stuff in real life. Most of us canât look someone in the eye-â here she did just that, held his dark gaze in her own, unapologetic light one, âand say: Beloved wife, you are the sunshine of my life. Even in darkness, you always light my way. Iâm so grateful to have found you.â She barely made it to the end without laughing, and when she did laugh it was an unguarded, husky laugh - too many teeth and sensual without trying. âCome on. Men donât say that shit, and if they do? They donât actually think it.â She didnât sound bitter about it; it was just life, the way she knew it. âIâd rather have a card that said, hey, baby, I love fucking you, because that? That would be something honest.â
Elias waited for a couple seconds and then rolled almost entirely onto one hip to fish out the squished pack of cigarettes he had in one pocket, and then he caught himself on one elbow to take a battered silver lighter from the opposite pocket. Righting himself, he took in Samâs face. He wanted to be careful with what he said; sometimes his opinions werenât welcome, and rightly so. A lot of men were not worth defending. âMaybe you just donât know the right men.â
She laughed, after watching the roll of hip and retrieval of the battered silver light, which she reached for after tucking her own cigarette between her lips again. âI like honest people. If you wonât say something to someoneâs face, why give them a card that says it?â she asked. âDonât tell me. Youâre a romantic?â Most artists were, even if they didnât look like him. She just wasnât like most artists and he, apparently, wasnât like most tattooed guys from the ghetto.
âNo, not really. I couldnât come up with that shit. That is why we need cards.â Elias smiled one of the little boy smiles that all men retained in their later years, as long as they smiled at all. He stuck the cigarette at one corner of his mouth, more important that it was there rather than the actual nicotine hit. âThe feeling is there. Not all of us can write poetry or paint pretty pictures.â Since that was exactly what Elias would do to get the girl. Like he could speak well or write poetry. You got to use what you have.
âI dunno. Iâd still rather someone be straight with me,â Sam said easily, putting the cigarette out in the now-cold, black coffee and setting the cup on the work table beside her. âIf they have to stumble all over crap to say it, I donât care, if itâs honest.â She shrugged. It was just her way of looking at things. She, personally, thought she might puke if someone started reading her poetry or, worse, making things all uncomfortable by declaring feelings about things. âI like things that I can see and feel. Words just screw you over,â she said. She leaned over, and she pushed her hand against his shoulder. âLike that? That was real.â She nudged his foot off the bench with her own bare toes. âAnd that.â She sat back again. âAnyone can say shit.â
Elias took the cigarette to one side and exhaled up at her ceiling, and then glanced aside at the screaming metal. He sat there, head tipped to one side, watching the metal as if it was speaking. He rolled forward with his weight almost as soon as she shoved at him, and he left his foot flat on the floor after she pushed that off. Such movements were tests, and he had a slight reaction at the edge of his eyes that was on the way to anger before it dissipated a second later. âNo, we canât. Some people are better at talking. But Iâm sure we can sit here and argue about it all day.â
âThat bothered you,â she said, and she didnât sound like she was troubled by it; she wasnât. She liked reactions, honest ones, and she liked pushing people to the point of giving them to her. She liked it in the same way she liked roller coasters and haunted houses. She took his lighter, which was still between her fingers, and she slid one leg over the bench and walked to her work desk. âDoes it have sentimental value?â she asked of the battered metal, assuming it did. She looked over her shoulder at him a second later, her smile warm and raw, probably unacceptable in a million ways. âYou donât like arguing? Calm, peaceful life, huh?â she asked, and though she didnât look at his tattoos when she asked, she did wonder how he got from there to here.
âYeah, it bothered me. I donât like it when people shove me, most people donât,â Elias said honestly, sucking on the cigarette again. âWhere I grew up you donât put hands on people unless youâre trying to start something, and usually itâs nothing good. Old habits, and thereâs a good reason to break them, yeah,â he added. He lifted one of the lined hands and flipped it up in a very small gesture. âOnly because Iâve had it for a while. Itâs not a Hallmark card.â He wondered why she would think he would allow her to take it if it was of real deep value to him. The smile was good, though, and successfully disarmed him. He smiled back.
She pulled a tiny Mig forward on the work table. It was no larger than a breadbox, and it was quiet when it hummed to life. The welding torch attached to it resembled a pencil, and she didnât bother with her helmet or the never-used gloves. It was small enough, the torch, that she didnât screw up with it very often. She kicked off the remaining, unlaced boot, and she set to smoothing the metal on the lighter (after removing the center). âWhere Iâm from, shoving is normal. Seven brothers,â she explained, grinning over at him as red-heat sparked on metal. âYou know, those families in sitcoms where the kids are all loud and donât have shoes? That was us. No one said Hallmark stuff crap, but we didnât need to.â
âSometimes you donât,â Elias agreed. âI get it.â Then he looked at the ceiling, thinking about that noncommittal thing, and then he laughed and leaned far over his knees to ash the cigarette into her mug. âOkay, maybe not. I kind of get it. No siblings on my end, so I donât really get it.â He watched what she was doing with the lighter, a little perplexed, eyebrows quirked. âAre you doing a design on there or something?â
She laughed, that same confident laugh. âYou know, you just managed to say absolutely nothing, right?â she asked, turning her attention back to the lighter a second later, only after giving him another one of those enigmatic smiles and refusing to answer his question. Her hand, the one holding the torch, moved as smoothly as if she was holding a paint brush, and she moved her hips slightly to the beat of the hip hop that wafted in the open window. The torch, even the small one, made the room hotter (unbelievably), and the metal melted under her touch. She stopped to melt another bit of metal into a container at the edge of the work table, something darker than the silver sheâd just smoothed out and re-layered on the lighter.
Elias thought heâd actually said a lot, and that heâd been both honest and, maybe, a little bit too personal with someone heâd just met. He didnât really understand why she would think the complete opposite, but he wasnât angry or offended. Elias put the cigarette out, the burn a little too much in his chest as the room started to heat up. He pushed his sleeves away from his wrist, revealing more long, parallel black lines over his skin, and letting the cloth bunch up at his elbows. He didnât complain, but he didnât come any closer as she worked.
She watched the movement out of the corner of her eye, letting her gaze skate over the black lines wordlessly. Her attention turned back to her work a moment later, and she didnât look up for five, long, hot minutes. To her, it was like only seconds had passed; she always lost track of time when she was working. She let the lighter cool, and she wiped the sweat away from her brow with fingers that were stained black. Once the metal was no longer glowing, she tucked the guts back inside, and she pulled up her tank and used the ends of the shirt to polish the still-hot metal. She walked back and straddled the bench as she polished, her too-soft stomach bare as the shirt rucked, and she held the lighter back out a second later. The Screamer was engraved in slight relief in the metal, and she poked at his arm after holding the lighter out. âWhy the lines?â she asked.
Elias just sat and watched for the first minute or so, but then he got up, unwilling to simply sit, and he toured the sculptures again, looking longer at the detail and this time venturing to run appreciative fingers over the metal, searching for the seams she mentioned, but finding none. She didnât look like someone capable of making such a thing, and he had to wonder about what kind of person could. It wasnât something he was willing to ask. He returned to the bench as she sat, liking how little she tried to impress him, and taking back his lighter. His expression was askew, and he examined the detail. âTheyâre not just lines,â he said, distracted. He turned the lighter to look at the engraving closer. It was definitely not something he would have chosen to carry around.
âThen what are they?â she asked, entertained by his expression. âToo not-Hallmark for you?â she asked, no offense in her voice. She nodded back toward the work table. âI can show you how to use it, if you want to try your hand on it instead,â she offered. Her feelings didnât get hurt easily. If they did, she would never have survived in a big family where insults were as caring as the occasional headlock or messy hair ruffling. She had noticed him wandering around while she worked, but only as white noise in the background of her life, and she looked at the metal collected everywhere now, as she remembered. âSo, whatâs the artistâs assessment?â she asked, not really caring. She didnât weld for other people; she did it for herself. âWhereâs your stuff on display?â
Elias turned his hand, running a thumb over he engraving, flipping it, and then repeating the movement. The engraving felt better than it looked. It didnât have to be screaming as he ran his fingers over it. âNot important. It would have been better to show you a workshop, but I havenât found space yet,â Elias said, seriously. There were many questions that she threw at him at once, but he skated over the others and focused on the one that seemed, to him, most important.
âWhat isnât important?â she asked, arching a brow. âYour assessment, or what the lines mean?â
âMy opinion. The lines are important to me, obviously, or they wouldnât be there.â He held up the lighter and the silver flickered. âThanks.â He put it away into one pocket.
She chuckled. âSo much non-information,â she said easily. âThe offer remains, if you want to melt it down. You might like the medium,â she said, but she knew heâd say no. âSo, since you donât have a workshop, whereâs your stuff on display?â she asked, dragging the conversation back to where it had been a few seconds before his non-responses. She wasnât dressed to go anywhere, and she stood and leaned back against the work table and pulled out another cigarette, lighting with a match struck against the table. âDoesnât have to be today,â she added.
Elias didnât want to show off his work. He was hardly ashamed of it, but he didnât necessarily think the art gallery at the Bellagio was the best place for it. Again, Elias thought he had told her a lot, and again, she thought it was nothing at all. He gave her a really puzzled look, all bent brows, but it cleared quickly, as it was never pivotal for Elias to achieve understanding in the people around him. âThe thing about that is that Iâd have to destroy it to make something of it,â he said. He was trying to talk to her, and he wondered if she knew how hard he was trying. He took a card out of a back pocket; he just had the one and it was pretty bent up. He handed it to her. It was the gallery and the exhibitâs promotion card, not his own. There was no description, it was just the Bellagio Art Gallery and his name as the exhibit.
She took the card, and she turned it over in her hand and felt the sharp corners with her fingers. She hadnât expected something so prominent, so mainstream, and the surprise showed on her face. It wasnât a bad kind of surprise, though. It was always good to see people who werenât middle class, white, college educated making it into the mainstream; she liked it. âCreating always involves destroying things,â she said, because in her work it was true. âEverything starts out as something else. Even your paints. No shame in it.â It was obvious she meant it, and she nodded toward her gate. âI melted down the metal for that, and someone will melt it down someday to make something else. Itâs just life, baby.â
Elias turned his head to follow her head to the gate. He lifted one hand to scrape the sweat off his forehead and into his hair, and then he scratched one cheek thoughtfully. âMaybe.â He turned back to look at her. âBut it wonât be me. I try not to destroy things. It gets me through.â He looked at her with a slightly edged look with one eye, expecting her to tell him that he wasnât saying anything again. When he started taking this stuff so seriously, he had no idea. â...Hopefully what the paints are made of arenât going to hurt anyone when they go missing for... paint.â He just tacked that on to say something that she would take as sense.
She smiled, and she walked past him to unplug the Mig in the corner. Her hand skimmed the small of his back as she moved, and she stretched up to whisper against his ear. âCalm down, man. Itâs no big,â she said, because he was being all serious about something, even if she didnât know what sheâd done to get him worked up. She unplugged the machine, and she leaned back against the open window, hands at either side of her hips on the sill, his business card between her fingers. âNothingâs getting hurt or destroyed. Weâre just talking. Toss me the lighter,â she added, reaching into her pocket for her pack, the old cigarette forgotten across the room.
He wasnât... not calm, and he gave her a strange look for saying it. She said all kinds of strange things, and he had no idea that a) he was so bad at reading people (Sherlock agreed) or that b) he was such a difficult read himself. He rubbed his forehead again and wiped the sweat on the front of his shirt. âYeah.â He was a little unwilling to give it up again, he was just getting used to it, but he dug it out and tossed it overhand across the room. âHere you go. God knows what the hell itâs going to come back as this time.â He grinned.
She used the lighter to light the cigarette she retrieved and, as predicted, she crossed the room to the Mig and tipped her head back as she thought. âSo, Screamer is too negative and not Hallmark enough,â she theorized, throwing him an entertained look over her shoulder as she looked him over. The look made it very clear that she expected exactly the opposite from someone like him. She chuckled at herself; she shouldnât judge a book by its cover, apparently. She lit the Mig, and she considered flowers.
âScreamer is negative. You havenât seen my stuff yet,â Elias said, soberly. âIt can scream too.â He lifted his hand and made a slow gesture across the room toward the lighter. âItâs just that... I smoke to relax and I donât want my lighter to scream in agony when Iâm trying to be a fucking addict about something.â He said it apologetically. âBut I like it when Iâm not wearing it. It feels.â He was dead serious, he pointed at the gate to illustrate his point, only momentarily distracted by Sherlock screaming about his utter boredom.
âYou assume itâs agony,â she said, already working on the lighter again, melting a layer of silver and tinting it a slate blue before working again. âScreaming can be all kinds of things, and I donât consider it agony. Even when it is, it isnât. Itâs liberating. Itâs a voice. Itâs not being quiet just because youâre supposed to be.â She layered the blue carefully with a small brush, and she set the torch on the lowest setting and went quiet. It took less time this time around, something simpler that she did without much thought, and she shut the machinery off again and repeated the polishing process before handing it over. It was perfectly smooth, slightly blue at the corners, the lines of slate reminiscent of flower petals, while still being only lines. She tossed it back at him with a smirk.
âI didnât assume. I interpreted. Iâm not allowed?â He was smiling again; it seemed to come easily to him, wide, pleasant smiles made of nothing more solid than the smoke and passing good whim. âIt felt good,â he started to say, but she was already wiping what sheâd done away, and he let out a small breath out of his nose, regretful for its loss. The flowers were elegant, however, and he took his time with those, again taking more time with the feel than with the look. Elias did not associate himself with flowers, but he was more willing to feel and see this than the Screamer, even if he preferred to think of it laughing. He knew what the smirk meant, but he wasnât offended or galvanized into irritation. He just smiled again. âThanks.â
âArt is always open to interpretation,â she said, which was the truth, and her lips went from smirk to smile, any insult taken quickly forgotten. It was something learned long ago, on the streets, not to be like glass that broke if someone said something thoughtless or hurtful. Now his comment about it feeling good, that she understood entirely. Touch was something she totally got, something she could appreciate. âDo I get to see the ritzy show today? Or is that for another time, when I havenât defaced your lighter?â She tugged on the hem of her tank, tugging it out, away from her skin to let some of the hot air beneath the fabric. They really needed to do something about that air conditioner before summer.
They still had a few weeks before summer, and cool spells came and went. âYou can go see it whenever you want.â He gave a little tip of one hand toward the card. He would have mentioned that students get in at a fraction of the price based on Samâs apparent age, but for once he listened to Sherlock and didnât suggest it. âItâs hotter than hell in here,â he said, while Sherlock complained about obvious comments and pointless observations. âYou need fans... and guys with big ice cubes.â He stretched up from the bench, the heat itching the along his spine where his t-shirt was wet against the skin. âBut I need water... a smoothie... or something. Unless youâre going to keep working?â
âThe fans just circulate more of the same shit around,â she said, motioning to one of the cheap, plastic $10 dollar deals in the window. âAnd my roommate doesnât like dick in the house. Remember?â As for water. âThe refrigerator is our temporary AC. There arenât any ice cubes in there, and there sure as hell isnât anything resembling cold water.â It was matter-of-fact. Neither she nor Clarissa spent enough time at home for that to matter, and they definitely didnât cook. âA smoothie?â she asked, her grin turning wide and entertained. âSure. You buying?â Because Sam definitely didnât spend money on frozen fruit and ice. Beer, sure. Fruit, no way. It made the flowery lighter all the more appropriate. âYou queer?â she asked, as she stepped back into her untied shoes.
Elias glanced back toward the kitchen where the refrigerator was, reflexively, and then he looked back at her. âYeah, Iâd offer to help, but Iâm shit at fixing things.â He raised his eyebrows up high at her last question, then he tipped his chin back, exposing a long length of rough throat, and he laughed outright. He laughed for several seconds. âNo. I canât fix your AC and I donât like welding things so Iâm gay?â He laughed again, shaking his head. âOr straight men canât like smoothies?â This was funny as hell, and he had to sit down again to laugh.
She watched him laugh, brow quirked and hands moving to her hips as she waited for him to get all the laughter out. Despite her stance, she was grinning widely, a sure thing of a smile, one that never thought she was being laughed at (or just didnât care if she was). âYou talk about Hallmark moments, like blue daisies better than angry, screaming faces, and you like smoothies. Get it right.â Another grin. âI didnât know you couldnât fix my AC until now, so that didnât factor in, and most people are scared of the welding gun. Iâll give you a pass there.â She liked his laughter, the unguarded column of his throat, and she wanted to screw the smoothie and crank up the Mig again to capture that laugh in metal, but she resisted.
Still chuckling, Elias rolled up off the bench. âYou definitely donât know the right kind of men. Sometimes we can just be nice, you know, Sam.â He wiped the sweat off his forehead and into his hair again, and then he turned away from the back room. âI promise if your roommate shows up, Iâll pretend to be here to fix your AC.â He grinned over his shoulder at her, and without waiting to see if she followed, headed back out through the apartment at a long lope.