Page 6 of Rhymes with Metaphor
Reg sniffed the drink.In the boy’s defence, it did smell of ginger ale.“I’ll overlook it this once.”He proffered the glass.
“I don’t want it now,” said the boy.“You put your nose in it.”And he walked out of the kitchen, leaving Reg feeling like he was the one who’d been told off.
Abigail entered the kitchen.“There you are.Want to help with the cake?”She opened the fridge, took out a large, white cake, and handed Reg a box of birthday candles.
“I didn’t know they were letting kids into this party,” said Reg.
“What kid?”said Abigail.
“The one in the green pyjamas.I assume someone brought him.”
“That’s Juliet’s little brother, Joel.”
“How old is he?Twelve?”
“Eighteen.He’s a first year in pre-med.”
“Why did Juliet bring him?”
“He lives here,” said Abigail.She lit the candles with her cigarette lighter, then counted them.“...twenty-two, twenty-three.Should I stick another one in and give her a conniption?”
“Is she liable to connipt?”said Reg distractedly.
“Let’s find out.”Abigail inserted another candle.“You bring it in.I’ll get the plates and forks.”
Reg carried the cake, and Abigail followed him, singing “Happy Birthday.”Reg set the cake on the dining room table, and everyone joined in the singing, Reg last of all, after Martin elbowed him.
Juliet did not have a conniption, but she did extract the extra candle.
The cake was cut, and pieces were handed round.It was a bland, grocery store cake that attempted to pass as vanilla solely on the basis of being white, not because it had any actual flavour.Reg set his plate down, closed his eyes, and remembered the soft slap of the freezer door shutting and that kid looking at him.A door opened inside Reg, and words that had been evading him for months came flooding out.Words that were decidedlynotshit.They were, in fact, fucking brilliant.
He shot out of his chair, frisking himself for his phone.But he had left it at home.That, and his little Moleskine notebook—his portable brain—and, of course, his pen.He looked frantically at Martin, but he was deeply absorbed in conversation with Juliet.Reg rushed into the kitchen, reciting the words in his head so he wouldn’t lose them.Kitchen.Everyone’s kitchens had paper and pens for writing lists.Except for this kitchen.This kitchen featured magnetic fridge poetry, which mocked him.
He went upstairs looking for some sort of implement to write with and found himself at the end of a long hallway with an open door in front of him.
Bathroom.Paper!He grasped the end of the toilet roll and pulled it out along the top of the vanity.Pen?Something to write with.Anything.Hurry.Before the words go.
Vanity.Drawers.Open.Shut.Open.Shut.Open.Aha!Pencil...eyebrow pencil.Close enough.
He wrote down the words tumbling out of his head.The toilet paper tore instantly.He swore, rummaged in the vanity drawer, and found a golden tube.Lipstick!His attempt to form a single letter ended when the beige stick bent in the middle, leaving a large smudge on the toilet paper.
Fuck.
Reg looked wildly around.Shower stall.He stepped inside.The glass walls of the stall were opaque with soap scum.He scraped it with his thumbnail, leaving a line.It would do.He scored the scum hastily.Little shavings curled off, landing on the shower floor.The delay had proved disastrous.The words were dissipating faster than he could inscribe them in scum.He was able to catch and hold only a precious few before he was left empty and bereft.He waited for more, like waiting for a vomit encore, but despite vigorous, mental retching, nothing came up.Just as he had been before the party, he was blocked.
A quiet tapping sounded on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute,” said Reg.He stepped out of the shower and opened the door.
Joel stood in the hallway.“The guest bathroom is downstairs.”
Again, Reg felt like he’d been reprimanded.Which, given Reg was six years older and at least five inches taller, was ridiculous.
“It was an emergency,” said Reg.
“You didn’t wash your hands,” said Joel.
“I didn’t need to.”
