Hannah J. Flynn (hannah_flynn) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-11-14 20:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | connor reilly, hannah flynn |
Meeting Again for the First Time
He'd left the house because it was too quiet, left and walked down to the beach, where he looked out at the water like a man in a dream.The last time he'd seen the ocean this close up, it was under much less benign circumstances than this, but it still felt slightly ominous to him. Supposedly, this was his life, and yet it seemed as if everything had a film of unreality over it, like thin plastic sheeting. The Destroyer rubbed his brow, wondering if he was going to be nursing a headache later.
He'd ended up in Mallory Square, where he had lunch at an open-air hot dog stand. Mustard with lots of relish. That, at least was familiar, the taste of pickles mixed in with the tang of the yellow mustard. Connor threw away his trash, carried the cup of soda off with him. If he walked, something might start to make sense. The day wasn't hot, but the sun still felt good on his back and shoulders. Ice rattled against thin cardboard as he poked the straw in between the cubes.
What should he make of the women's clothes in the bathroom, especially the bra hanging from the shower rod? That, too, was familiar and yet not, a tickle in the back of his brain. He would go back to the house, just....later. Not now. Not until he was certain this wasn't a repeat of what had happened before.
How had he gotten here, anyway?
Hurricane Hannah's was a vendor on Mallory Square. When its owner first set up shop in 2006, it was only a folding table and a tent. She sold handmade crafts, the kind of cheap junk tourists loved to take home to family members. Nothing said 'sucks that you weren't here!' quite like a bottle of Key West sand. Eventually, profits allowed Hannah to rent a semi-permanent stand, sort-of like the newspaper ones in New York. She sat on a stool all day, drank lemonade, peddled her wares, and rolled down the metal door at sunset. On slow days, she click-clacked her latest story ideas on an ancient typewriter because it required no power. Electricity cost extra.
Okay, fine... She also liked the little 'ding!' noises. They made her feel accomplished.
Bored and fed up with her latest page, Hannah opened a Zip-lock baggy and tossed a handful of corn on the plaza. In another cart's direction, naturally. Within seconds, three chickens waddled over and pecked at the unexpected treat.
"Do you mind?"
The complaint came from Miles, a newcomer to the row of vendors. He sold the stupidest stuff, at least in her opinion. Who the hell bought a feather boa on vacation? This bitterness had nothing to do with competition for her hand-made leis, of course. "Sorr-yyyy," she called and made a sour face. Yeah, right.
He was basically just wandering by now, the cup having made its final journey into a trash barrel, and the caffeine in the soda seemed to have helped ward off the headache. The sky above was very blue. At last he felt awake and not in a half-dream state by now.
The clucking of chickens distracted him from his meandering walk, and he looked curiously at the feathered creatures as he dug through his pockets aimlessly. Maybe he should sit down someplace and try to collect his thoughts. If he called the house - the phone number was one of the things he could recall of this place - who would answer? Yeah, maybe he should sit down.
He chose a bench near the vendors, and one of the chickens edged closer to him as if more corn might be coming its way. Connor waved the bird away, tried to piece together exactly what he could remember last.
Hannah watched the chickens flock closer to the guy. He looked hungover, only nobody hungover sat under the afternoon sun without shades. A hand beneath her chin, she called, "Be nice to chickens. Especially that one, with half his tail feathers missing. That's Ernest. If you're mean to him, he craps all over your stuff. I'm just saying." Having dispensed her advice, she waved her palms and got back to the business of...
What exactly?
Inspecting the page of terrible story ideas. Book titles came to her first, the contents and characters afterwards, which was perhaps the reason Hannah would never be on the New York Times Best Seller List. She cranked the paper higher and stared at the current leader. Saddles and Sunsets: Forbidden Love on the Frontier.
Ernest. What a bizarre name for a chicken. Connor examined the bird's half-bald back end. "I'm not being mean, I just didn't want him thinking I was about to feed him." He spoke absently, running a hand through his already wind-tousled hair. "He isn't going to start pecking at my ankles, is he?"
The Destroyer looked over in the direction of the female voice, squinting against the sun where it reflected off of the metallic roof of the stall next to hers. He started, and then his fingers tightened on the edges of the bench on either side of him. A nervous chuckle escaped his throat, and he tried to slow his heartbeat down.
"Hannah." Then again, a question. "Hannah?"
The blonde leaned forward and looked up. Way up, to the overhang of her little vendor stand. There, on the metal, it said Hurricane Hannah's. She had commissioned a local artist to paint a swirly storm and a yellow-haired hula dancer, who resembled the proprietress, only more buxom. Once her point about it being obvious was made, she quirked her eyebrows at him. "That's my name, don't wear it out."
She picked up a pen and tapped her chin. "I'm tryin' to figure out where I know you from." She had definitely seen him around, but couldn't picture the context.
"Uhhhh...." And how did he tell her that the last time he'd seen her, he'd been carrying her in his arms to make an attempt to save her life? An attempt that had failed. Connor's fingers were white from the grip he had on the bench, and he made them relax a millimeter at the time. "I just moved here," he hazarded, because if she had seen him somewhere that meant that, in some weird way, he belonged here after all.
"Sorry if I'm a little off," he continued, getting up from his seat and being careful not to startle the temperamental Ernest. "I didn't get much sleep last night. The day's kind of getting away from me."
"I hear ya," she said, nodding. So she was on-target with the hangover. "I, too, know the agony of burning my candle at both ends." Balancing precariously on her stool, Hannah stretched for a blue backpack, which hung on a peg. She grabbed it by the strap. "Need some Tylenol? I think I've got some." She hauled it closer and opened up a zippered pocket. As she dug through the contents, a rattling sound reassured her that she packed the bottle of over-the-counter headache medicine, unless of course it was Midol... Whatever, that worked, too.
"Even if you are new, you're still familiar. It's the hair. Aha!" She extended the bottle. "Catch?"
He caught the little bottle, fumbled with the child-proof cap, then shook out two tablets into his hand. He didn't have anything to take them with, so he swallowed them dry, pushing them down his esophagus with a hard gulp. Even if it didn't clear up the biggest mystery, it might help his mind level out.
"Selling much?" He examined the colorful leis where they'd been hung near the front of the kiosk. "Guess with Thanksgiving so close, not many people are buying. You doing all right today?"
The corner of Hannah's mouth twisted. "Mmm...I sell enough." The leis weren't her biggest hit, even if she personally dyed and strung each flower on the string until her fingers bled. "You wanna know what I sell the most of? Here, I'll make you guess." After some quiet thinking, the blonde selected three items for his consideration: a foam flip-flip on a key ring, a seashell painted with a crude but cute landscape of palm trees and hammock, and a pair of earrings shaped like margarita glasses. "Okay, guess."
She crossed her arms and awaited the verdict. She wondered if he knew he was getting a slight sunburn. Either that, or his nose was naturally pink, like Rudolph only manlier.
Connor put the aspirin bottle down, then tucked his hands into his pockets as he looked at each item. It was a lot warmer than he remembered it being, especially for November, and somewhere behind him a scooter's horn beeped. His index finger escaped the confines of cloth, and he tapped the earrings, making the tiny plastic glasses rattle together slightly.
"I'd guess that, just 'cause this seems like a place for fruity drinks with crazy straws in them," he said, definitely feeling a little more himself now. At least the world hadn't slipped completely off its axis. "Do I get a prize if I get it right?"
"Yes, you do, and damnit." Hannah picked up the offending earrings. The green glasses swung to and fro. "Do you know this is the one item I get from a distributor? Everything else, I either make from scratch or buy a bunch of separate pieces and spruce 'em up. Stupid earrings!" With lips buttoned together tightly, she put them back on the display. It was clear that Hannah and the product shared a love-hate relationship. She spun the little rack in a circle, so they faced away from her, though not out of sight of the customers. "So. What would you like for a prize? Make it interesting, whatever-your-name-is."
"Heh, sorry. And the name is Connor." Moderately amused, he studied the rack. Necklaces strung with plastic beads, more seashell art, imitation shark teeth hung from narrow leather thongs. Callused fingers jostled the strands as he poked at the items, and something struck a spark of fresh memory when he touched it. The beads were amber-colored, small squares carefully aligned on the sturdy string, and the pad of one finger touched a blunted corner. The left corner of his mouth lifted.
"I think I'll take this." He lifted it a bit, looking at how it looked on his palm. If he was right, he already knew what he'd be doing with it. "Think you could box it up for me?"
"Hmmm. I guess, since you saw through my ruse so expertly." She took the necklace from his palm, careful not to touch him, only the beads dangling on the cord. Under the counter, an assortment of tissue paper, bags, and boxes waited. Most people crammed their purchases in plastic bags and went about their business, but some liked the element of surprise. Hannah appreciated that. She chose a plain box, folded up the tissue, and placed the necklace inside. "Heeeere ya go." She slipped it towards him. "A fine choice."
Hannah sipped a cup of lemonade. The ice had watered it down. "Can I ask where you moved from?"
"Chicago." He was looking at the unassuming little box, thinking that the universe couldn't be cruel enough to completely separate him from everything - everyone he knew. Now that he was more settled in his mind, he could go back to the house and poke around for some solid answers. Blue eyes met brown ones as Connor jingled the change in his pockets, quarters and dimes making muted noises in the small space. Fragments were coming back to him, his life as it was.
"I think I might like it better here, though. The weather's a lot nicer, for one thing."
"Couldn't agree more," she said. "I grew up in tornado alley." Hannah watched the chickens peck at the last kernels of corn. It wasn't a good idea to feed them, because it encouraged them to hang around like bums outside a liquor store. But she liked them. They were rustic. Hannah rested her elbows on her thighs. "I've never been to Chicago. Last year, I got an itch to tour the southwest, but..." She shrugged her shoulders. "I only have a scooter. Plus, it would make more sense to go someplace where it's not hot as Hades."
She smiled. "Besides, what about all the tourists? They need me. I provide a valuable service."
"Well, obviously," Connor said seriously, then returned the smile before giving his watch a quick check. Four-thirty. At this time of year, that meant it'd be getting dark in a couple of hours. If any more of those flashes came to him on his way back to the house he'd woken up in, he might stop off and pick up something to eat. This really was his life, apparently.
"Listen, I gotta go meet somebody, but I'll see you later, okay? I'll make sure to tell people about your handmade stuff. You'll be selling a lot more than those earrings real soon."
"Right. Awesome!" She gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Nice to meet you, Connor." When his back was to her, the winning smile went a bit flat, and then pitiful. "Because... locals just loooove my tourist junk." Hannah picked up a jar of beach sand, which she collected on the oceanfront and later learned the sand there may have been imported. Tipping the corked bottle back and forth revealed tiny shells and bits of coral. On the side, curly gold handwriting proclaimed it 'a little piece of paradise'.
"Ooh. Shades of Paradise!" She set the bottle down and hurriedly went to work on the typewriter.