Page 60 of Compassion

Chapter 13

Archer

The DMV is awful, but at least I get my license out of it. Paper for the time being yet knowing it’ll be mailed to Jaye’s house –our house– does fill me with a sense of…belonging. Having a place in this world again. And that is something I haven’t felt in far too long.

Between you and me, not completely comfortable calling it our house. Come on. Yeah, I live there and I fix shit and change shit and organize shit, but that doesn’t make it part mine, right? What? Why are you agreeing with her?

The cell store is somehowworsethan the fucking DMV. I’m not entirely sure if it’s because they seem extra smug when using tech terms, I’m unfamiliar with or because my girlfriend and I – fuck, I can’t believe I have a girlfriend again – not so quietly won’t stop arguing about my need for a stupid phone.

Do I need one? No. If she needs to reach me, she can call the house phone or email me on the tablet she’s practically given me. If there’s an emergency the landline works just fine. Would it be nice to text her or get texts? Sure. But it’s not fucking necessary no matter how hard she pouts that it is.

Leaving the store with the cheapest smart phone possible is the best compromise we manage to reach. She hates that it’s not something more recent while I hate having anything at all. We’re both unhappy; however, we’re still relieved the other person is somewhat satisfied.

Paying for an early dinner from Piggy Bank, a bacon themed food truck, and eating at a nearby picnic table lifts my spirits back the level they were before all the errands began. The ability to be able to buy her a meal – just one fucking meal – feels like a medal of honor has been pinned to my chest. Like an accommodation from the highest powers has been given. Maybe I can’t take her to fancy fucking wine bars or high-priced steak dinners, but I can dosomething.And being able to do something beats the fuck out of being able to do nothing.

I’ll look into other neighborhood shit to make a few quick bucks here and there while waiting for a real job to pan out. Walk dogs. Rake leaves. Build birdhouses. Whatever. Whatever it takes to start financially contributing to this relationship, I’ll do it. And let me just say one more time, fuck…I can’t believe how good it feels to be in one.

Sharing an ice cream swirl cone on our way to a local bookstore wipes out the last of my funds, which leads to Jaye insisting she’ll cover whatever we decide to buy in the shop, swearing she doesn’t mind.

She loves purchasing books.

For her.

For the students.

For random literary charities.

Me.

I hate that she spends her money on me. I really fucking do, but yeah, I like getting to pick what I read versus just what others don’t. Doesn’t matter to me if it’s new or used. It’s just so fucking nice to choose to read a mystery or fantasy or a sports scandal.

As we prepare to enter Crack That bookstore – located in Highland’s very trendy Cloud District – I momentarily halt our movements to inquire about the place next door. “Have you ever eaten there?”

Jaye’s head tilts up to read the quirky Little Soup of Horrors sign to herself. “That’s a negative.” She swings her stare back my direction. “Chris wasreallypicky about his soup. Taste. Texture.Temperature.I learnedpretty early onto just avoid places where that was the only thing they served.”

I slowly nod my understanding prior to asking, “Doyoulike soup?”

Confusion crinkles her brow.

It shouldn’t.

It was a simple fucking question.

I didn’t ask her to solveacalculus equation.

Fuck, I didn’t even ask if chowder is technically a soup, a definition challenge that would excite her because words always do.

No.

I merely asked did she like a certain food.

Something I know no one else has probably asked her.

It irks me that no one seems to put the time in to get to know this woman.

Almost as much as it pisses me off that she’s let herself just become a compilation of other people’s preferences over the years.

TherealJaye, though?

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