Page 103 of Napkins and Other Distractions
My mind clouds with pieces clicking, Kent’s voice, and Geoff’s face—less than 500 gigs. My head spins with uncertainty. Is it greater or less than 500 gigs that we need compression? Greater than. Geoff told me this—more than once. My head grapples with the information when a cacophony of bricks, plates, tiles, and joiner pieces engulfs the room, joined by Kent’s scream. “Fuck!”
As I turn to see what’s happening, the entire baseplate, holding the Louvre and the surrounding buildings, crashes to the floor and shatters. Hundreds of pieces fly in every direction, plinking and clanking against wood and walls. Adrenaline shoots through my entire body. My heart slams into overdrive—less than 500 gigs. The room spins. I quickly hit NO and sprint over.
“I’m so sorry,” Kent says. He’s on the floor, surrounded by elements. Hours of work ruined.
“What happened?” I grab a bowl to gather pieces. My breath quickens. Dark clouds gather in my head as a storm brews in the distance.
“I don’t know. I got distracted. Talking with you. Thinking about the error.”
“It’s fine. I handled it.”
“The pieces were so small. And my hand slipped, and then I tried to catch myself and made it worse, and then, and then … ” He motions to the disaster, littering the floor. Tears dust his eyes, and my heart sinks.
“We’ll fix this,” I say. “Now.”
Sweat begins on my brow. My heart reverberates in my chest cavity. Every element. Found. Retrieved. Sorted. Rebuilt. I need to restore this—all of it. Finish. Now. My fingers twitch, and I get to work.
CHAPTER 34
Kent
Why am I so clumsy? SO FUCKING CLUMSY. Sometimes, my brain and body run on different tracks at different speeds, constantly attempting to calibrate and sync up. Talking with Vincent. The tapping on his keyboard. An error. Hopscotch. The school’s reputation. Dr. Cutler. The school board. My job. I’m lightheaded. Weakness creeps over me. I’m about to unravel—I’m usually able to keep the stress caused by living my life and doing my job at bay. Now, it crashes down like the shiny, smooth tiles slipping from my grasp, conjuring a LEGO nightmare.
Paris. Shattered. At least half of the sprawling city flung into the air and destroyed. Sure, they made LEGO to withstand children’s rough-and-tumble play, but not an out-of-shape fifty-two-year-old man slamming into them, sending them across the room like projectile missiles. And not with such intricate, small, delicate pieces so carefully planned and placed. By Vincent. Sweet Vincent. He finally sees what a complete disaster I am and will surely hightail it out of my life. Who needs this kind of chaos? I’m the epitome of a schlemiel.
Vincent’s already moved into action. On the floor, surrounded by broken buildings, elements scattered everywhere. I grab a bowl and collect pieces.
“I’ve got it,” he says flatly, not making eye contact. My stomach churns with nausea.
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I need to do it. Myself.”
My cheeks burn, and I take a chair from the table and slide it toward the corner of the room. I cringe and shake my head in my hands, knowing I’ve done this to him.
“Maybe I should go,” I say.
Vincent’s head shakes briskly as he quickly sorts pieces into white bowls.
“Don’t.” There’s a furious symphony of pieces plinking. “Please.”
So I watch. And apologize. Vincent’s furrowed brow and set jaw offer some relief. As I watch him work, swiftly selecting, snapping, and securing pieces with precision, it dawns on me. He’s not upset. He’s determined. Fixated. Obsessed. He’s fallen into an episode. Because of me.
I’m seated about five feet away from him. He’s standing now, plugging away at the rebuild. Some of the larger sections attached to baseplates weren’t totaled. There’s at least a semblance of a foundation. And with no directions, seemingly from memory, he’s snapping and clicking things into place.
“Vincent. I’m right here,” I say. “I’m not leaving.”
There’s no answer. He works. And works. He focuses on one structure at a time, quickly returning each to its original pre-Kent-disaster glory. Not hampered by my greenness and ignorance, he works rapidly. Fingers move. Pieces snap. His hands move so swiftly, at times, they become a blur. He’s a man on a mission to build. Toiling into the night, Vincent is relentless. Quiet. Focused.
I ponder asking him to stop and go to bed. But there’s no way. He needs to do this. Finish.
“Smoothie, do you need a drink?”
He shakes his head, and I carefully place a glass of water on an open area of the table.
At some point, I walk over, softly kiss his neck, and settle into the sofa. Pulling myself into a ball, I lie, watching, hypnotized by the sound of Vincent’s building. Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I whisper, “I love you,” and doze off.
I wake up groggy, unsure where I am for a moment or what time it is. The rising sun slowly pierces the darkness outside. At the other end of the couch, Vincent lies. He’s in the fetal position, his head on a throw pillow, softly sleeping. Socked feet poke at my thighs, and I’m tempted to reach down and caress them. He’s safe. Near. I’m not sure he needed me to stay, but him lying so close makes me glad I did. I move toward him and kiss the top of his beautiful head. If he senses my lips, he doesn’t show it. He’s out. Breathing deeply.
