Tag Archives: Dylan

Rainbow Connection; chapter three

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Break of dawn, I am up again.  At least I don’t have to be shaken awake because I’m screaming, so I am thankful for small favors.  I lie in bed, wondering if I should try to sleep more or if this is one of those days where nothing can entice me back into unconsciousness.  I can usually tell if I can coax an hour or two more out of my body, but today is neutral.  There are none of the obvious signs either way, so I decide to give it a go.  I obligingly close my eyes and start breathing deeply.  I know from experience that if I do not fall asleep within twenty minutes, I will not fall asleep at all.  I feel the minutes ticking away as I lie there.  I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s no use.  Not more than ten minutes have passed before I know it’s going to be one of those days.  I sigh and get up, shoving my feet in my slippers.  I pull my robe around me and make my way to the bathroom.  One of the perks about waking up at this time is I can take as long a shower as I like because no one is waiting in line.

After the shower, I go to see what I can scrounge up in the kitchen.  Paris’s fabulous brunch won’t be for at least four more hours, so I will have to make do with what I find.  I am one of those people who needs to fuel up the first thing in the morning or I’m dragging for the rest of the day.  Not coffee, but food.  Some herbal tea would be nice as well.  I put the kettle on the stove, hoping I won’t forget about it.  I have burned three kettles in the last month because of absentmindedness.  I pop a couple slices of bread in the toaster and wait for them to toast.  I rummage in the cupboards for something to put on the toast.  It’s been so long since I’ve made something for myself, I don’t know what we have and what we don’t.  I find some peanut butter and to my surprise, some mini-marshmallows.  That reminds me of the sandwiches I made as a kid, and I do the same now.  One piping hot piece of toast slathered with peanut butter; marshmallows firmly pressed into the peanut butter; I have the last-minute inspiration of adding chocolate and find an unopened bag of semi-sweet morsels, melt them and drizzle the concoction over my sandwich.  Just as the chocolate is running down the sides of the sandwich, I mash the other piece of toast on top of it all.  I pour myself a glass of milk and sit down to enjoy.  After the first bite, however, my stomach growls in protest.  It doesn’t want this combination, as tasty as it is, lodged inside it.

“Shit!”  I throw the sandwich across the room, dissolving into tears.  “Fuck!”  The glass of milk soon follows.  A stream of obscenities escape my lips, gathering a life of their own.  By the time I hit full stride, I am screaming at the top of my lungs.  I sit down and thump the table with my fists.  I am not meant to live this way—I cannot tolerate it for much longer.  I am weeping so hard, I don’t hear Paris enter the room until he is right behind me.  “Careful,” I sigh wearily.  “There’s glass.”  I’ve broken things before so Paris isn’t too fazed by that, although Lyle looks wary.  Paris silently grabs the mop and hands it to Lyle who begins cleaning up the milk.  Paris grabs the sandwich, the plate (which, miraculously, hasn’t broken) and shards of glass.  I watch them dispassionately, feeling a slight twinge of guilt that I am not helping.  I am acutely aware that I have not been carrying my own weight for quite some time.  Paris has been a saint, but it has to be grating on his nerves.  He wasn’t unaffected by what happened, and yet, he has had to be the strong one.  Lyle finishes mopping and places the mop back in the corner.

“Why don’t I cook something for you?”  Lyle offers, turning to the stove.

“Oh, no,” I protest automatically.  “It’s too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”  Nothing I say will dissuade him, so I allow him free reign of the kitchen.  I am curious to see what he’ll make and if it’ll live up to Paris’s cooking—a hard act to follow.  Lyle grabs some eggs out of the fridge and gets to work.  In the meantime, the kettle has boiled away to almost nothing, but there is enough left for one cup of tea.  Paris throws some green tea leaves into a mug and pours the boiling water over the leaves.  He knows I like loose tea leaves better than tea in a bag, especially that dreadful Lipton—which seems to be the only tea most restaurants serve.

“When does that group you’re trying out meet?”  Paris asks the question casually as he sets the mug in front of me, but I can see the anxiety in his eyes.

“Tuesday,” I say softly, sipping the tea.  “Tuesday night.”  Paris nods, but doesn’t say anything.  He doesn’t have to; I know what he’s thinking.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter five, part one

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“So, what happened?”  I greet Paris eagerly when I get home from work the next day.  The reporters have given up on us, so I don’t have to dodge them any more.  A pity, really.  I had come up with some pretty creative ways to evade them, and I rather enjoyed myself doing so.  “Did Inspector Robinson royally ream Max out for withholding information?”  I guiltily admit to myself that I am looking forward to hearing the gory details about the dressing down of Max.

“She was pretty pissed,” Paris admits.  “She got that look in her eye, you know the one that says, ‘I’m disgusted with you.’  I think she cultivated it on purpose to make people talk.”  I know the look he is referring to, and it certainly works on me.  “Her voice got really low.”  Here, he imitates Inspector Robinson.  “Ms. Bowers.  This is a murder investigation.  That means we investigate.  In order to do so, we need information.  I should think you of all people would want us to be successful.”  He reverts to his normal voice.  “If she looked at me the way she looked at Max, I would have spilled the beans for sure.”

“Did you get to sit in on the interrogation?”  I doubt the inspector would allow that, but I  can always hope.

“No.  After Max blurted out the thing about someone coming out of Moira’s room, the inspector took her away.  I had to wait nearly an hour for her.  I took Max to a diner after so we could talk about it.”

They both ordered coffee as it was between mealtimes.  The whole time Paris was talking to Max, he had the feeling that something else was going on.  There was a subtext that he wasn’t getting, but he didn’t like it whatever it was.  Max would say something, then pause and look at Paris significantly, but he didn’t know why.  It pisses me off that Max is playing such games with Paris because I hate seeing him upset.  After an inordinate amount of lead-in time, Max finally got to the meat of the interrogation.  She told the inspector everything she had told Paris, and Inspector Robinson got excited and rushed away, most likely to have another chat with Ms. Fullerton.  As Paris is talking, he’s walks into the kitchen to make himself a hero sandwich.  I must look woebegone enough because he offers to make one for me as well.  I accept with alacrity.  In college, Paris was famous for his hoagie sandwiches.

I watch, mouth watering, as Paris slathers zesty honey mustard onto a hoagie bun.  He starts piling fixings and trimmings as if there is no end to his hunger.  He tells me that the inspector let slip that Moira was gagged after she was killed.  Paris doesn’t know the significance of this, but I make a guess.  I think it means that she was a willing participant in the bondage game because she would have been screaming her head off if someone had tied her up against her will.  By this time, Paris is done building up the hoagie.  He cuts it in two, plates it and hands it to me.  I happily start munching as he prepares another one.  As Paris makes a sandwich for himself, he points out that if Moira was drugged, she wouldn’t have made noise.  I protest that drugging her didn’t make as much sense as her playing games with someone she trusted, someone who quickly shot, then gagged her.

“Why would someone gag her after?”  Paris protests, cutting his own sandwich in half.  He pours us each a coke.  We set our sandwiches on plates and take our food to the living room which is where we do most of our eating.  I don’t know why we even bother having a table in the kitchen as we rarely eat there.  We are silent for a few minutes as we make serious dents in our food.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter three, part two

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I do the dishes—this is our deal.  When one person cooks, the other does the dishes.  Consequently, I do a lot of dishes around the house.  I am more than happy to do that in payment for the fabulous meals that Paris cooks for me.  After the kitchen is clean, I start making the cakes.  I usually make two of whatever I’m baking because I know Paris will want one.  He has a tremendous sweet-tooth which he has yet to tame.  It’s another reason he works out religiously.  He always says if he’s going to play, he has to pay, and for him, it’s a worthwhile trade-off.  Me, I eat my chocolate whether I work out or not because I’m not as obsessed with my body.  That’s another reason Paris and I couldn’t date.  He has too many body issues that would drive me nuts.  That’s why he tends to date models because they understand his issues and actively support him in them.  I don’t think that’s the best mentality for his well-being, but who am I to judge?

My thoughts wander to Inspector Robinson.  I wonder what her first name is and if she dates men or women or both.  She looks straight, but I only have a spot-on gaydar for men.  For some reason, I can’t tell when a woman is queer.  I think it’s because women are more fluid than men are.  I know more gay and bisexual men who have known since they were very young that they liked boys than I do women who knew at an early age that they were interested in girls.  Women have closer friendships to begin with which can easily cross over into the physical.  I would never presume that a woman is interested until she tells me she is, unlike men.  I can always tell when a man wants to get to know me better and not just in a friendship way.  Then again, I think most guys would jump my bones if I give them the indication that I am so inclined.  It’s endearing in a way—so touchingly simple and straightforward.  Not like the manipulative minds of woman.

Inspector Robinson is a mystery, however.  There are moments when I felt a frisson of tension between us, but I can easily convince myself that I am making it up because it’s what I want to happen.  She is not my usual type—I don’t like blonds—but I’m willing to make an exception for her.  I like the way she sits so still, it’s as if she isn’t even there.  I wonder if she’s taken any martial arts or studied Buddhism.  That would explain the alert look despite her relaxed body.  She is quite intelligent, too, which is one of my requirements in a bedmate, unlike my not-so-picky roommate.  I realize that I’m talking myself into a huge crush on the good inspector, so I force myself to stop idolizing her.  The last time I fell for someone before really knowing her, I ended up having to get a restraining order against her.  She did not take rejection well at all.  Finally, from what I heard, she started dating someone else and is currently happily stalking her.  Not to be mean, but better her than me.  It’s every gal for herself.

“I’m out!”  Paris calls from the hallway.  “Make sure you save me some cake!”  That boy is a slave to the cacao bean.  Hm, maybe I can use it to lure him into my bed.  Just because we wouldn’t make good lifetime partners doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.  We have always been dynamic together in bed.  The cakes are coming along nicely, so I sit down to wait.  I don’t want to watch them as I know from experience that I can ruin things faster than a flash if I watch.  I tend to want to dabble instead of just patiently waiting for it to do its thing.  Come to think of it, that’s a good analogy for the way I deal with most things in my life.  When the cakes are done, I change into a black silk shirt and low-riding blue jeans.  Just as I’m about to leave, my cell phone rings.  I don’t want to answer it, but it’s probably important.  Very few people have access to my cell phone, and those who do know better than to call unless it’s important.

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