Page 12 of Rhymes with Metaphor
“Hello, Juliet.Goodbye, Juliet,” said Reg, making a beeline for the stairs.
“While you’re up there, apologize to Juliet’s brother,” Martin called after him.
As he barged upstairs, Reg heard Martin effusively apologizing to Juliet.The bathroom was, thankfully, unoccupied.Reg opened the shower door and went in, pulling the Chinese menu and pencil out of his breast pocket.
As he couldn’t remember where on the shower wall he’d made his etchings, he pored over every inch of the glass, swearing under his breath all the while.
He eventually found what was left of his genius under the soap ledge, where the scum was thickest.But it was only legible if you already knew what it said.Which Reg didn’t.He never remembered his best lines—the ones that came specifically when he wasn’t ready to receive them and slipped through his fingers like minnows.All he could make out was “ginger ale.”
“Spiffing,” Reg hissed.
After ten more minutes of trying fruitlessly to translate his little grooves into words, he conceded defeat.On his way back to the stairs, he passed a bedroom door, slightly ajar.He pushed it open, tapping it lightly as he did.
The room was sparsely appointed and almost offensively immaculate.It looked like no one lived here—sterile and cool and containing nothing organic, apart from the granola on the desk, which was floating in a bowl of what was presumably nut milk, because that’s what people who ate granola generally inflicted upon themselves.
This was apparently Joel’s bedroom, as he was sitting in it, still wearing pyjamas, though he had changed into navy blue ones.He was situated at a desk, staring at a laptop screen.His posture, of course, was perfect, but he seemed strained and tense.That he was working at all made Reg resentful, as he’d been unable to write for weeks and had nothing to show for his little burst of genius the night before.
Joel turned and stared at him.He looked younger than Reg remembered, yet simultaneously more worn out, the bags under his eyes like dark bruises in his anaemic skin.He exhibited no surprise at seeing Reg, though he did seem annoyed.
“I don’t suppose you had a shower just now, did you?”said Reg.
“Last night,” said Joel.“Why?”That surprisingly big voice again, roughened by exhaustion.
“Did you happen to see any writing on the shower wall while you were in there?Under the soap ledge?”
“What?”
“It’s extremely important.Did you, while you wererinsing away my genius, happen to read what it said?”
“Why would there be anything written in the shower?”said Joel.
“Because I put it there.”
“If you wrote it, then you know what it said, so why are you asking me?”said Joel.“You’re not making any sense.”
“I am making perfect sense.You’re the one who’s being obtuse.Everything I do has a perfectly reasonable reason.”
“What were you doing with my sister’s lipstick last night?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You said that last night,” said Joel.“Try me.”
“I’m a poet.”
Most people Reg met were impressed when he told them he was a poet.Not Joel, apparently.
“And?”
Reg sighed.“I said you wouldn’t understand.Get some sleep.”
“I have.”
“Your bed doesn’t look slept in.”
“I can’t say the same for your clothes,” said Joel.
“Says the boy who’s wearing pyjamas.”
