nicholassimonjakubowski

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

1 / 15 / 40

1 … First kiss?

“Ah, man. First real kiss?” It’s presented with a laugh and that iconic Simon far away look, considering, maybe even a bit embarrassed. “It was like... eighth grade, maybe? It was one of those uh... ‘experimentation’ things, I guess. I had a friend over for a sleepover and it was sorta like... fuck.” He laughed again, sort of exasperated that he was even talking about this. “We sorta pretended it wasn’t happening and then never talked about it again? I don’t know. It’s embarrassing. Let’s move on.”

15 … First heartbreak?

"That’s... a little tricky. ‘Cause there’s the first time I thought my heart was broken and there’s the first time I realized I had no idea what I was talking about the last time.” A considerate infliction, a brief pause. “The time I thought someone broke my heart was in high school with my girlfriend at the time, she broke up with my and had sex with my best friend which like... artificially devastated me and I listened to a lot of Eminem for two weeks. The first time it actually happened had to be Tyler. Sorta put things into perspective.”

40 … Last time you lied?

“My whole crew at work has been lying at work for like a week and a half, we’re getting paid double time to do this job that we already finished. The best part is they keep telling us how good we’re doing. I think we could probably keep it up ‘til Thanksgiving. The key is if you look busy — you are busy. At some point I just started carrying around random shit, ever seen a welder with a paintbrush?” 

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

SYDNEY QUIN.

   simon’s distaste should not make sid grin like that.  but there it is;  pink tongue caught up in her teeth,  all playful / childlike. none more than her round eyes,  the way they grow all the wider whenever he comes into the room.  “ you have two feet,  don’tcha?  well si, that’s good enough for me. “   they both know he lost the chance to back out the second her hand was taken.  “ besides, “ she lets it drop in the middle of the living room,  “ let yourself be humble;  it’s sexy. “   there’s a quick wink who acts like a full stop, separating a careless flirt from its consequences.     “  it also means you don’t have any bad habits to fix.  you wouldn’t believe how many of my kids try getting away with skipping stretching before class, just ‘cause their old teachers let 'em.  speaking of…  “   there’s a reason mention of it causes a collective groan.  it’s concentrated;  there’s nothing you do but feel the burn when you stretch.  still,  in uncharacteristic fashion:  sid takes this shit seriously.        naked palms are to the roof,  flat and flying in the air,  with feet aligned with her shoulders.   she gestures he follow suit,  and continues only when he does.  “ now,  you don’t have to touch the floor flat,  “  sid directs,  pressing into the space between her big toes.  “ just as far as you can reach—  and don’t let it get painful,  yeah?  “  this whole experience is probably painful.  before he can crack something similar,  sid settles on something fitting.  a classic.   “ alexa:   play i don’t feel like dancin'  by scissor sisters.“ 

.

“As long as it’s sexy.” He says with a dramatic sigh, his stance making him feel sort of like the kid standing close to the wall during prom waiting for someone to ask him to dance rather than a full grown man in his living room whos already been propositioned. He hasn’t really danced a day in his life unless you count copious club grinding in his twenties which he was sure Sid didn’t. He wasn’t clumsy, not necessarily two left feet, but that didn’t by any means make him graceful. He walked and functioned at the bare minimum to get the job done, his muscles and bones tense and creaky, his back an absolute graveyard from dollies at work, many nights spent lying stiff to avoid convulsing pulled muscles.

His eyebrows draw together at the mention of stretching and he worries that if he bends over like that he might not be able to get up again, but before he can say anything she’s already demonstrating and giving directions and, goddamn, he knows he wouldn’t be able to get a word in edge wise so, well — he tries it. Body sounding a bit like pop rocks he can’t really bend far past his knees without feeling a pull pretty much all over. The song choice doesn’t help, the timber of her voice calling out to Alexa makes him laugh ( when is he not laughing around her though, really? ) and lose his balance a bit. Embarrassingly uncoordinated, a horrible foreboding of how this activity was about to go. 

After a moment he straightens up a bit, feeling different, and says, “I really hope you’re banking on comedic relief and not expecting this to go well.” It’s said with a joking infliction but he actually really means it. If it were anyone else he would’ve shut the idea down with a nervous wave of his hand and settled as far into the couch as possible; but this is Sid, and she looks so happy that he agreed to attempt it he couldn’t bring himself to back out now. So he opted for half-hearted attempts to get her to give up, a pointless thing, really. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do it, but be prepared for me to accidentally absolutely demolish your toes.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEEOR WESTBROOK.

Leeor noticed the moments, like deciding if the lights flickered or if she merely blinked. His nerves peeked through, with a shift of his eyes or a twitch of his finger. His mind floated away from her. She noticed the moments, noting them for when he inevitably left her and she was alone laying in her bed. Her mind would replay the small moments over like a broken tape. She’d debate whether she was reading too far into them or if she was impressively in tune with this stranger. She’d wonder why. She’d wonder if it was her. She wouldn’t sleep. Sleep for her was rare - at night at least.

Her dark hues followed the curve of their knees. The juvenile posture they both held elicited a small smile. Leeor’s was more childlike now than she ever was in her entire childhood. She became more aware of this lately, with her excitement of the fair and her habit of putting her feet on the furniture, even at a booth in the diner. Her naivety felt refreshing to herself when she noticed it. Bringing home a stranger, asking him questions like they were children having a sleep over, it held innocence, surprised she possessed any.

Leeor thought. She thought with intention. She wanted to answer his question truthfully, genuinely. “First, a day in October.. must have been 2002 or..2003.” She began to recall. Her eyes dropped to her hands. Her mind pulling memories of New York to the forefront of her mind. “Nothing beats fall in New York. Unmatched really. It was one of those days where I could wear a light jacket. Well, it was my first day performing lead in the New York City Ballet. I didn’t.. it wasn’t my best performance, but I loved the feeling of the nerves mixing with the excitement and how backstage everyone seemed to be extra aware of me.. smiling at me or whispering a good luck.” Her eyes flickered up briefly. She wasn’t aware of the smile that crept onto her messily painted lips. 

She thought again. Why was it so hard to think of more? Something about ranking the moments in her life left her feeling pessimistic that she wouldn’t have very many more - more happy moments, more big moments. Leeor swallowed the lump building in her throat. “Their is this.. this moment, when it rains here.” Rain was rare here. It almost never rained. “Where the heat and the moisture mix together to create a certain smell. The air feels slightly cooler. That’s my second moment.” She nodded.

“I think I’m going to keep the third one to myself.” She nodded softly. Leeor felt her knee brush against his as she adjusted her seat. She wanted it for herself, all while unintentionally feeding into the mystery again. “I raise you the same question, but with a twist.. top three moments you felt most nervous..”

.

His answers feel too personal, wringing his mind for something surface level, nothing too deep because while this experience was unique, ( the appeal of stranger facing stranger, ) he tried to keep certain things lock and key. It wasn’t personal, it was more that his real answers were a little too grim for this conversation, too dark when compared to the vision of her happiness, the descriptors of rain in the city and the best moment of her life. He couldn’t be the one to tear the mood down, to ruin this new image of his, so carefully cultivated. Some of the real responses would sound something like;

‘When my phone rang and they asked if my name was Nicholas and what my relation was to Tyler.’ 

‘When I almost overdosed at a party and had to sit in an ice bath and find a God to pray to instead of going to the hospital because I didn’t have insurance.’

None of these were things that he could exactly throw on a stranger, none of these were things he had ever talked about before but they came front and center in his mind, lingering not quite at the tip of his tongue but instead the back of his throat. He knows she can see his hesitation, she has to, it’s written all over his face in drawn eyebrows and the sudden weakness of his posture, spine relaxed all the way into the couch almost as if he’ll somehow disappear into it. He finds his voice lost somewhere in his chest, a turn of his head, a sort of weak smile touched at the corner of his lips to detract from the difference in their questions. Happy moments he could answer freely, honestly, but things like ‘nervous’ or ‘sad’ or ‘anxious,’ these were words that tied together with some of the most drastic moments of his life as if haunting him.

He couldn’t cop out, though. She had answered his question, it was only right, so he looked closer to the surface, not digging deeper but instead digging himself up from the rock bottom his mind had defaulted to. “The most nervous, huh? That’s... a good one.” He sounds unsure, he hates his infliction, the tip off to his voice. He was always bad at hiding things, a terrible liar. His friends found it hilarious, him less so. “Okay, in no particular order, the first one I’d say was the day I moved out of my moms house. It was sort of rough around the edges, we didn’t leave off on good terms but there was something about moving into my first place on my own... I was so fucking nervous and excited, and sitting on the floor of this big empty apartment and feeling like an adult for the first time.” He pauses, feeling good about his answer. Positive nervous. He can do positive nervous.

“Another one has to be the classic first kiss... well, it wasn’t really a kiss. It was on the cheek but I think I was more nervous for that than my real first kiss. I was probably... eleven, give or take? Her name was Delilah and she had this bright red hair and I thought she was so pretty I spent all my time trying to impress her; I gave her all my notes, collected pretty rocks I thought she’d like, I read Dune because she was super into and I didn’t understand a word at the time I mean, what sixth grader is reading Dune?” He laughs a little bit. “But yeah, I don’t know I just worked up the courage and we were both super shy so it was awkward as fuck.” 

Another pause. A sprinkle of truth? A real one, maybe. Brown eyes into brown eyes, another one of those moments of full eye contact. What is it about her eyes? Hooded, thoughtful, almost a sort of wisdom embedded in them. They were just so familiar. He does it fast, this one he doesn’t elaborate on, straight to the point. “The last one has to be when my mom pulled me out of school early one time, her face was all blotchy like she’d been crying but she didn’t say a word the whole way home. I kept thinking it had to be something I did, maybe I was in trouble but, uh... that was when I found out my dad died. Sort of a rough break but, uh...” Then he’s clearing his throat, his eyes not meeting hers for a minute before he springs back, a different conversation, anything that’s not about himself he says, “You said you did ballet.” His mind wanders to Sid for a moment but then he snaps back, “Can I ask about it?”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

REMEMBER WHEN? YOUR FIRST TIMES AND LAST TIMES…

1 … First kiss?

2 … Last kiss?

3 … First thing you do when you wake up?

4 … Last thing you do before you go to bed?

5 … First thing you check when you open your phone?

6 … Last thing you check on your phone at the end of the day?

7 … First movie you ever watched?

8 … Last movie you watched?

9 … First show you remember binge watching?

10 … Last show you binged watched?

11 … First crush?

12 … Last crush?

13 … First person you had sex with?

14 … Last person you had sex with?

15 … First heartbreak?

16 … Last heartbreak?

17 … First relationship?

18 … Last relationship?

19 … First time  you fell in love?

20 … Last time you fell in love?

21 … First album you bought?

22 … Last album you bought?

23 … First broken bone?

24 … Last broken bone?

25 … First vacation?

26 … Last vacation?

27 … First heartbreak?

28 … Last heartbreak?

29 … First celebrity crush?

30 … Last celebrity crush?

31 … First job?

32 … Last job?

33 … First pet?

34 … Last pet?

35 … First time you got drunk?

36 … Last time you got drunk?

37 … First concert you attended?

38 … Last concert you attended?

39 … First time you lied?

40 … Last time you lied?

send a number and let your muse answer honestly. reminisce in the truth or torture yourself with a lie. give us a little insight while you answer these. remember — you are the only beholder to these secrets!

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

SYDNEY QUIN.

closed starter for @nicholassimonjakubowski​   

love is in the kitchen.  all heart poured into hands kneading dough,  the setting of a family table,  the worship of something fresh and something beautiful in a place we call home.  it isn’t an experience sid grew up with;  mother’s attention in the evening was her work,  which will keep a young girl alive—  but not warm.  the short few years of motherhood herself?   well, okay,  she practiced it,  but not enough to hone the skill.  besides.  it’s been eight years.

   so nimble hands mock confidence.  they also take three times as long as the average cook—  an effort that throws her off the sport  &.  stacks her uber  points up big time.   but not always.   sometimes,  on a night like tonight,  sid is inspired.

    and inspiration is something she cannot shake easily.  so why not share it?

   she’s up the night before marinading the butcher’s lamb,  and today is spent roasting the veges,  now stirring thick gravy in a pot.  sid is perhaps the only one in phoenix deciding to pour herself into a roast dinner this hot summer.  

   when simon offers his hand,  she gently slaps it away.  my project,  donning barely-worn apron for the novelty of it.  so he’s settled into the couch with sunny,  netflix blabbers from the speakers,  and sid is humming that tune of the dance she’s taught her girls all week.

    it starts with the humming,  then  ( perhaps because it’s starting to smell beautiful in this apartment,  which means they’re about thirty minutes away from dining,  which means he may or may not like her food soon )   well,  here comes the familiar outlet of her stress.   she’d like to dance.  apron comes off,  slung over the dining chair,  socked feet take her to the man’s second home:   her sofa.

     here,  an arm is extended,  palm up.   take it,  says her hand,  while her mouth is all,   “  c’mon,  we’re dancing.  right now,  you and me.  i won’t be taking no for an answer.  “

.

It’s spilled over the buzz of late night humidity and wine-colored throw pillows, glass doors cracked and the television playing at a low volume, his fingers carding through fur with a full weight on his lap, Sunny rolling around with closed eyes. The smell of food from the kitchen unfamiliar but welcoming; this is what being an adult is. It’s a feeling that comes in waves, hits the shore and compacts the sand once every five years or so with different things. He sat on the floor of his and Tyler’s apartment together the day they had moved in and he thought, ‘I’m an adult.’ Then again when they went to parties at Tyler’s school, and again when he sat in an ice bath the day of Tyler’s funeral because growing up is somehow miserable and refreshing in equal measure, the ambiance of a peaceful night with no parents asking when you’ll be home, no curfews even though work lingers closely in the early morning.

Then she wanders around the corner, all leisure clothes and flushed skin from hovering over a hot stove and extends a hand, and of course, he takes it before she even poses her statement, shuffling Sunny slowly and carefully off his lap, halfway up from the couch when the word ‘dance’ breaks to his ears and he releases a sigh. He knew from the moment she walked into the living room that he would be inclined to follow her heart’s desire, that ‘no’ wasn’t really a word that worked on her so he pretended to postulate, to at least give a moment’s hesitation for the sake of giving her a hard time. He squints, neck rolling back to focus his eyes on the ceiling as if debating his options.

“Weeeelll,” He starts with a long exaggeration, “you know, Sid, I’m not really built to be a dancer, I’m all limbs and no coordination.” He lets out another breath, a long exhale. “This is actually gunna be really embarrassing for me, but I don’t have much of a say in it, do I?”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

DANIELLE TYLER.

Every Sunday started with a generous breakfast buffet at the Tyler household whenever her grandparents called, and having stuffed her face with insane amount of pancakes and scrambled eggs with bacon, Dani was in desperate need of something to help keep her going. The warmth of the late summer sun dazed her, paired with the heaping amount of breakfast food, and she stifled a yawn as she waited for her order. A double espresso with her name on it was just what she needed, and when the barista called out some name that definitely wasn’t hers, she moved instinctively like it was meant for her or something. Eager for that first sip full of flavor, Dani tipped the paper cup, only to realize that something was missing. A frown pulled at her brows as she checked the name on the cup, like a fool that she was, realizing that she definitely was not Simon. “Wow. Sue me. I’m tired,” Dani grinned at the male, pointing at the cup in her hands hands. “Please no hate? I swear I’ll buy you another!”

WHO? ⇢ hey @nicholassimonjakubowski​ better late than never amirite?? WHERE? ⇢ azukar coffee shop.

He missed the exact way it all went own, at first sound of his name he moved to stand from where he leaned against the side of the big, wooden trash can but perhaps was a bit slow due to being distracted on his phone. Then by the time his eyes broke to meet to the coffee cup it was already home in someone else’s hand. At first he questioned himself, because he knew he was a bit unreliable when it came to certain things, but then, yeah, he saw his name printed in black on the side of the cup and wondered if it was somehow feasible her name was also Simon. Unlikely. However, she then noticed the mistake and spoke up, saving him the awkward conversation with the barista that likely would’ve sounded like ‘hey I think that woman took my coffee by accident but I’m too fuckin’ weird to say anything to her about it, can I get another one?’ It broke like a laugh, the itch of needing caffeine certainly still thin under veins but he wasn’t too worried about it. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it, mistakes happen, especially pre-coffee. My order’s good at least, I hope?”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

SYDNEY QUIN.

     “  wait i’m confused,  “  she does the pose,  all concentrated frown / finger on lip.  “ so… you’re saying i’m not your sugar mama?    shit,  i though the sponsor thing was just our front…  okay,  well then this changes everything.  “  seems sid opened the other eye just to wink at him.   it is true that she’ll grasp at any excuse to spoil her friends.   it’s not her fault they deserve the world  &.  she cannot take it as loosely as a metaphor.  consider it one of the few positive attributes trickled down from her mother.  hands put on this earth to give.   and mouth put on it to lie:   “ fine,  you can pay next time. “  

   so sid steps forward and gives their order to the server,  tucking receipt into back pocket when she makes it back to simon.  she wiggles her brows at him,  alluding to a secret’s harbour,  but is patient enough with it to wait ‘till they’re breathing the fresh air outside again.  fresh air when you get past the one cunt sat smoking at a family venue,  passing the cancer on to his loved ones and everyone in between.   but hey at least the music’s nice.   it also solves her dilemma:  nah,  let’s not sit and fidget and laugh too loud and draw eyes.  not that sid doesn’t love a bit of attention.

    “ for argument’s sake, if we raced to the end of that street,  “  she jogs down the steps,  pointing to where she means some three hundred meters away.

    “ i reckon i’d kick your ass.   not that i want to run down the road like a fucking maniac,  “   oh,  but she does,  “  i’m just sayin’ i’d so win and you’d lose–- terribly.  oh,  and the server was totally checking you out by the way.“

.

It’s greeted with yet another laugh — who needs to workout your stomach when you have Sid around? He quickly backpedals, all playful tone and a wave of hands, “Ah shit, wait, forget I said anything, mistress Sid.” 

Then his eyes are following hers down the sidewalk, a challenge falling free from her lips, absolute certainty in her tone. She knows exactly how to get him to do what she wants; not that he ever puts up much of a fight in the first place. "That’s a big challenge coming from such a small person, my leg span alone gives me an advantage.” Admittedly he has more muscle over speed, his average walking pace about half of Sydney’s on a good day but he couldn’t admit an obvious defeat in the face of competition. Besides, she loved kicking his ass at things and who was he to deny her the pleasure? 

Then his neck is craning to look behind him towards the big glass windows of the pizza shop as he says, “Wait, really? Who, which one? Should I go back, get a number?” He was sort of joking but also sort of serious, something he was sure Sid would pick up on so he raises his eyebrows and shrugs, gallon of lemonade swinging emotively in one hand when he says, “I’m in a bit of a dry spell and maybe if I find my future spouse in there I can get some fat fucking discounts, save us both some money, y’know?”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEEOR WESTBROOK.

Cute? Her apartment was organized chaos. Nothing had a place, but yet everything was in it’s place at the same time. There was no bookshelf, but instead piles of books she used as side tables. The ash tray on the window sill sat full of remnants. She noticed, when they walked in,  the white lace bra hanging over the side of the leather coach she’d had since she moved into this place. Clearly she wasn’t planning on guests.  Cute felt like a replacement word for small.

“Leeor.” She felt a small chuckle pass through her lips, low and could have been mistaken for a breath. Leeor placed two sandwiches on the pan she had heating up on the stove top. The sizzle of the butter filled the silence that fell between them. She kind of liked it - how little they’d said, the silences. Pressing the spatula against the bread, Leeor felt relaxed for the first time tonight. Cooking felt like a bit of a solace. Her relationship with food had grown since her training days, now that she wasn’t on a strict diet. She didn’t know how to make a fancy meal, but she’d gotten pretty good at making what she could afford. Leeor plated both, handing him one, before she lead him out of the kitchen to the living room.

As she passed the couch, she grabbed the bra laying on the arm, tossing it to the side out of sight. Leeor plopped down, kicking off her heels as she brought both legs up to sit criss cross. She bit into the sandwich as her eyes found his. “What do you want to know about me?” She asked, with no promise of answering any of his questions. He knew nothing, well beside her name now. He had to have been curious - or else he wouldn’t of followed her here. Or maybe he just thought he was going to get laid. She wanted to know… what he wanted to know. Turning her body, she faced him now. Her eyes danced across his face over and over waiting for his response. “What do you really want to know about me?”

.

It didn’t take long for her to intrigue him, the sort of damaged energy of someone who invites strangers into their home, who makes them food and asks what they want to know, as if looking for validation; wanting to meet or destroy expectations. She was just like Tyler off the bat and where it should’ve signaled his fight or flight it felt familiar in the very worst of ways, itched that awful part of his mind that sought to fill the void his best friend had left in his chest, the one that never healed instead merely scabbing over until he picked at it, making it bleed all over again. Now it poured out red and sticky in his chest, sliced open and oozing, infected. 

Well, at least he could feel something, right?

He sat opposite of her on the couch, facing her with the same position she had taken, criss cross, knees an inch away from each other, shoulder leaned back and into the couch to keep distance. His eyes narrowed almost playfully at her question as he bit into his sandwich and goddamn did it taste good. He contemplates it for a dramatically long time, head turning in an animated sort of consideration, swallowing before saying. “I didn’t really come with expectations. If I’m being honest, I kinda like the mystery.” Still, he wondered on, wracking his brain for any kind of question just to see what sort of responses he might get, whether they gave any real information or not. It felt almost like the beginning of a game, and he hated to only offer a cop out. A moment of prolonged eye contact passed, his own narrowed and searching, brown into brown, daring, thinking, building, before he blinks, breaking whatever energy had been enveloping the room when he says, “Okay, wait, I got one.”

He sits a bit straighter as if excited to pose the question in almost child-like way, serious eyes now hovering with a relaxed sort of mirth when he asks, “Top three days of your life. No, wait.” He pauses, “Moments, top three moments, that’s more broad. It could still be a whole day or three passing seconds, just some good memories. That’s what I really wanna know.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEAH WRIGHT.

Guilt, uncharacteristically, swallowed her whole. Her mind raced with what if’s and should haves. Most of her friends existed on a surface level, even those she held close to her heart. Leah found no one ever really asked her questions when she seemed like an open book. Tyler defeated those expectations quickly. From everyone else’s view point, she knew the two seemed like the type of friends who merely partied and went out together. Her mind washed over memory after memory of them sharing parts of themselves with each other. With that came the memories of her worry, her concern that she wrote off as misplaced. Her found Simon’s, noticing how different they felt, no longer down a rabbit hole together. I should of done more, Leah kept the thought to herself.

She nodded politely at his response, understanding that it most likely didn’t tell the full story. His next words left her a bit surprise. With fame came a lot of cons, but something she enjoyed about it was that people seemed to know what she had been up to. “You’ve read my work?” Leah tried to keep her eyes from widening in surprise. She had an understanding that most of her fans merely liked her life - her clothes, her ex, her lifestyle. Her followers on Instagram was always a much larger number than clicks she got on her writing. It was why her management pushed for a podcast. “Um, yeah, I’ve been all over. LA, New York, Italy, but I grew up here, so..” Sometimes she wished she was born somewhere more exciting. “I’m writing a book actually.” She said rather humbly, her normal confidence cast aside as she wondered if he liked what he’d read by her.

“Am I keeping you from someone..?” She asked as her eyes glanced around.

.

How awkward this felt, not only because by this point there where no more than strangers but because two people couldn’t really be more different. She had taken her party-girl lifestyle and made it something tangible, something successful, while he had taken his and made it a career in a different sense, a plummeting, drop of the stomach sort of aching existence. She was an entrepreneur in her own regards, she knew her limits, practiced self control, while Tyler and himself chose to rot away in a one bedroom apartment after subsequent drop-outs. Now he stands near her once again, across the country, with a weak smile and shaky hands, pretending to be someone else; pretending that the Simon she knew had never existed and dear god please don’t bring him up. Embarrassing. He didn’t think it would be an issue, however, both of them seamlessly skirting around the past, eyes holding a hidden hesitance, his name on both of their tongues swallowed down to avoid having to confront it as if to say, Tyler who?

Jet setting, creating, posting, book writing. She was influencing her space, he was merely inhabiting it. He wasn’t normally someone who was self conscious but suddenly, despite their actual size differences, he felt dwarfed. He nodded, made affirming sounds in the right places, well studied in the art of small talk. “That’s incredible, is it about your travels or...?” He asks politely, not to say he isn’t genuinely curious but it feels like the sort of thing someone says to keep the spotlight off of themselves, it feels ingenuine on his lips and he hopes it doesn’t translate in his tone. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, so he keeps turning the conversation to her more and more. She doesn’t seem to mind, which he’s grateful for.

Then she asks about his friends and his eyes scan the crowd half-heartedly. “Oh, no, yeah, I have some friends around here somewhere.” God, that sounds somehow fake and pathetic even though he’s telling the truth. Or does it? He’s paranoid, he's wading still water. He’s completely different; he’s exactly the same. He has to call Sid later. He pushes that forced little smile higher on his face, head turned just a little as he checks the time on his phone, looking for an excuse not because he doesn’t want to talk to her but because it’s freaking him the fuck out. It’s not you it’s me. “It’s getting late, huh? I should probably try to catch up with them so I don’t get stranded.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

SYDNEY QUIN.

   he gives her his hands,   she thinks,   to judge.   or in the very least to laugh at.  instead, one hand breaks away from the wheel.  soft fingertips meet solid ones,   examining in rich silence.  of course sid has seen them before.  taking their turns passing salt at the dinner table,   answering each other’s bare palm for high five,  and—- mostly on his doorstep,  and always in the middle of the night-– she���s seen this hand when she holds it.   it’s how sid knows his nails have grown shorter this week.      does the concern glow around her like an aura?  embers to a flame.  this damn job of his.   she’s quiet,  anyway,  deciding to tuck that half of it away.  as for the rest:   “  your hands are worthy of healing.  so  abso-fucking-lutely;  they’ll be fixed. “   they are beautiful hands that do beautiful things attached to a beautiful heart.     but anyway.   sid clears her throat,  allowing her friend his hand back now.        his enthusiasm is infectious.  she’s beaming grin too,  rolling car to a stop just so they can jump right out of it.  just as she’d entered it does she leave:  with a slam.     &.  with sid,  it’s about the little things.  fairy-lights are pinned on cobblestone,  a pianist is settling the patio crowd into their seats,  and her wide eyes look everywhere.   perhaps it’d be nice to sit and breathe in evening’s entry.  mind you,  a walk while they wait would be nice too; sid hasn’t been in the studio today which means all that pent up energy is hot-wired to a bouncing foot.       it’s true;  sid cannot sit still.  jiggly foot syndrome was cute as a kid,  but now her mother asks are you on drugs again, Sydney?      not anymore, mum.  just me.         “  excuse me while i read your mind,  “   stood in the queue,  one hand digs in her pocket for her purse   ( she’s paying — no argument )   &.  the other presses her temple.   sid closes her eyes, feigning concentrated expression before murmuring,  “ … meat lovers?  “  as though he doesn’t get the same thing every damn time just like her.  one eye blinks open— and it looks cheeky. “ am i right?  i’m right. aren’t i?  “ 

.

And there it was again; a moment of intimacy. Sydney was someone who loved in small bits and pieces, and he was someone who’d had very little love in his life the past few years, so these scraps he clung to, even if only able to enjoy them briefly before they passed. It was complicated with her in a way that wasn’t really complicated at all. Most of the time they were just shitheads together, absolutely having the time of their lives in jests and movie marathons but then sometimes ( over the coffee table in his living room, sat on the carpet or standing close to each other next to the sink doing dishes, the brush or clash of shoulders bumping into each other as he washes and she dries — or now sat in the car with his hands in hers as they park outside their favorite pizza place ) where he feels closer to her than he’s felt to anyone in a long time. Usually he handles these moments and takes them with a grain of salt because that’s what friends do, at least that’s what they do, but sometimes, for just a moment his mind wanders away from him.

Could there be something else here? It’s gone as soon as it comes, his mind and body just starving for intimacy, confused on what love means from different people. She’s his best friend, she’s his sponsor and things like that weren’t something that’s ever been hinted at, never expressed or intended in her actions. Their moments were outside the realm of platonic or romantic, sometimes familial and sometimes... well, he wasn’t sure. His eyes catch on her hand holding his, the brush of soft fingertips, the contrast of the sight alone alarming, the difference in color, size, and texture enough to assume they must be different species entirely but then she says something so nice about something so rough and horrible that even after she lets go and moves the conversation along he’s stuck in it for a second. 

How could that kind of love be meant in only just one way?

After a moment he shakes out of it with a, “What?” Followed by a clearing of his own throat, haze clearing from his eyes, as he unfolds himself out of the car, doing his very best to snap out of the jumbled mess of thoughts he’d surely have to untangle later, caught together like a thin silver chain. “Uh, duh? What other kind even is there?” His eyes falling to the wallet and he says, “I know the card-in-hand means I have no shot but next time? We’re taking the truck and I’m paying, I can’t feel like your sugar baby all the time.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEEOR WESTBROOK.

-

With his agreement, Leeor put out her cigarette on the brick wall behind her, placing it in the ashtray situated on top the trash can. She let her teeth dig into her bottom lip. Was she a bad person? She knew.. she knew that the way she lived could never be easy for anyone to be around, let alone an addict. Her existence was someone else’s vice.  Was she awful to want to spend time with him anyway? How ironic to yearn for a shot to wash away all of the chatter in her brain. All he could see was a small, almost sly smile. “This way.”

Based on her job, and the situations that left her bruised and battered, inviting a strange man back to her apartment perhaps wasn’t the smartest choice. Yet, because of those said things, Leeor really didn’t fear much anymore. She craved the feeling, truly. The walk to her shitty apartment only lasted a couple of minutes. A lot of the money she made continued to go towards medical expenses, repercussions of an injury ages ago. Spending money on a nice place seemed like a waste. She kind of liked her humble little place. Her hand pushed the door open as she pulled her key from the door.

“You hungry?” She asked heading towards her kitchen. Leeor moved around the small space, gathering the ingredients for a grilled cheese. “I haven’t eaten since before I left for my appointment.” Her words were vague out of habit, though she realized in this context they probably brought more questions. She turned her head so her eyes could trace him again. “What’s your name?”

.

There he was, following a stranger home with that same innocence that got him into trouble time after time. He knew, at least in some regard, that there was ill-intent within him, some voice in the back of his mind saying that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything about sobriety, the chance for a least a drink, nothing crazy, nothing heavy, just a drink. Even that told him that he was still vulnerable, the sort of intrusive thoughts that lead him to relapse over and over again before he made it where he was now. Still he ignored it, following her as he threw down his cigarette, perhaps less careful about littering filters than she was. Hell, he was a northerner at heart, they threw those fuckin’ things everywhere. Muscle memory, maybe, instinct.

Stepping into the small space of the apartment there was surprisingly a lot to take in. Once again the word ‘familiar’ flittered to mind, perhaps in a way that shouldn’t be comforting but was. He did, of course, wonder about her safety inviting him into her house; how often did she let strangers into her home? He could’ve even been worried for himself if not for his certainty that he could, God forbid, overpower her if it came down to it. He didn’t like to think about things like that, but it was survival, in New York you were just as likely to get stabbed as you were fed. What was the phrase? Dog eat dog.

His eyes continued to wander her apartment as he stepped out of his shoes and into the threshold, a natural courtesy, and he said, “You got a cute place.” Before following her towards the kitchen, relaxing slightly to lean on a countertop, shifting to keep out of her way in the tight space. “You know what? Yeah, I could probably eat, thank you.” He takes note of, but doesn’t ask, about what the appointment was. It was the sort of question he himself wouldn’t want to answer regardless what it was she referred to. 

“Oh, yeah," It comes with a sort of breathy laugh, the absurd thought that he was in this girl’s apartment without knowing each other’s name, very few words having been shared between them on the street before being allowed entrance to her home. Did she do this often? It wasn’t a judgmental thought, he’d done some heinous things himself, but merely a curious one. “I’m Simon, it’s nice to meet you...” He trails off, a silent askance of her name in return with a slight crook of his neck.

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEEOR WESTBROOK.

-

She wanted to be able to wipe the beauty away, like how she could smudge the lipstick. The feeling she knew she’d regret having one day, when she was older and people didn’t desire her the way they did now. Leeor wondered if she’d miss being desired one day, because now it felt all consuming. It wasn’t the club as much as it was the work she did behind close doors - the way she had to pretty herself up for it only to be melted, and kissed away. Her finger of her free hand rang along side the edge of her lip. It looks good. Would he think so if he knew why her lips were smudged?

Leeor’s dark hues scanned him as he spoke. She, herself, was not an addict, though she teetered on the edge at times. Her dependency would worry anyone. Lee knew a few addicts in her time - she’d never been good for them. She lived on a blurred line, wanting nothing but the best for others, but not being able to help being a temptation. Her lips parted to warn him. No words passed through. Her heels began to squeeze her feet. “Should we get out of here then?” It sounded presumptuous, and perhaps she meant it to sound that way even if her intentions were pure.

.

There were danger bells going off in his head, of course there were, but it was a sensation associated with adrenaline which, in his book, was almost as addictive as heroin. And that was saying something. He knew this was the sort of thing he was supposed to say no to, wandering off with strangers found on the street, disheveled and bold, something about her feeling as if she knows things he doesn’t. He always liked a mystery. His eyes travel slowly to the door of the bar, his coworkers drinking their asses off expecting him to drive them home. He tries not to let hesitation show on his face, instead perhaps more of a thoughtful look. Then his gaze meets the woman once again, eyes sort of narrowed, a touch of a curious smile. When was the last time he’d done something outside of working, sleeping, and smoking? When did he last do something unconventional?

Well, the answer was the very reason he avoided such things, but he was better now, right? He had passed hurdles he’d never expected to even reach, he could spare himself a little slack, a little freedom just this once. Right?

“Fuck it, they can Uber.” He says, an easy shrug of his shoulders, as if this wasn’t at all unusual, his mind wandering to familiar corners, the Simon that used to stumble into alleyways with strangers with bottle of Cîroc and cocaine showing an interest, peaking around the depths of his psyche, though he quickly tried to quell him. This was nothing out of the ordinary; he got lunch with people he didn’t know, walked his dog with random neighbors, ( a bar late on a Saturday, a girl with mystery and danger hanging off of her body like a well-worn jacket, this was not the same ) this was just the same. “What’re we getting up to?”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEAH WRIGHT.

-

Leah cursed Saison for roping her into coming, only to have lost him. She wouldn’t of been surprised if he was off flirting with some other girl in tiny jean shorts. In her mind, she debated if she should just leave at this point. Scanning the area once again, she looked for her friend. Would he be mad if she just left? Her attention was pulled.

Her eyes traced the man staring at her, before they dropped to the ground. Normally men didn’t recognize her, unless through her father. Most of her following were young women around her age. She glanced back up, thinking she misunderstood. Maybe he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes still rested on her as he stood. Her name passing through his lips caught her by surprise, before she began to put the puzzle pieces together. Tyler. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip. She’d heard what happened to the man she’d spent much of her twenties dancing on bars with. As the man approached, she felt her stomach sink slightly. “Simon, right?” She asked brows furrowing ever so slightly.

“What on earth brings you to Phoenix?” Leah was use to the small world cliche. She’d traveled all over, but running into a familiar face never seemed to get old. Her fingers pushed her phone into her back pocket, pulling a smile across her lips. She decided to keep the conversation light, to not even mention the boy she once knew.

.

There was something so identifiable about pity on another’s features — or maybe he was imagining it, maybe he was creating it within his own mind, the new feeling of unfamiliarity in the familiar. He hasn’t seen someone from his past in months, hasn’t seen someone who saw him as high as she had in maybe longer than that, always struggling to avoid those faces that drudged up fuzzy memories. Leah and Simon were never close, but for a stint her and Tyler were and therefore, they were often in the same room, the same parties. It would be so much easier to pretend his memory didn’t still hurt, wasn’t still a ghost that followed him from place to place even with the deleted photos, the trash bag full of clothes and stolen jackets buried in the far back corner of his closet, too valuable to have been thrown away in the move no matter how badly he had wanted to. Her face reminded him of his face and their stomachs sunk in tandem.

He nods because that’s his name still, right? Yeah, that’s me, Simon. He had a good feeling neither of them wanted this interaction to be happening, but this is what people did when they saw friends from the past, right? Even if things ended poorly? Silently? He hadn’t seen her since before Tyler passed, it was normal to say hi, expected even, right?

What brings him to Phoenix? Escape, starting over, sobriety, a new life; but he doesn’t say those things, instead he opting for, “I was just looking for a change of scenery, New Jersey’s too cold, wanted to see how the West coast lives.” Yeah, that’s a good answer, casual, not heavy, he avoided heavy, avoided deep. They weren’t friends, this was a polite encounter, nothing more. His hands wiped briefly over the thighs of his jeans, a nervous habit. He tries to keep it off of his face. “What about you? I saw some of your articles online awhile back, really cool. I’d think you’d be in LA or back in New York.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

LEEOR WESTBROOK.

-

She nodded, as to say thank you as he lit the cig hanging from her lips. Leeor inhaled deeply, trying to ignore how to smoke in her lungs provided instant relief.  Her lips pursed as she controlled the speed in which she blew out the smoke. The summer air felt thick. Their shared smoke only adding to the density around them. Her eyes traced over to him as he spoke. Leeor noticed his height, but too be fair, everyone seemed tall compared to her. The question floated around in her mind. It was one of those questions where people expected an easy answer. How are you? I’m good. It was routine. No one ever expected the truth. The truth was never I’m good. Leeor’s shoulder shrugged as she leaned against the wall behind her. “No.” Her voice was low, aloof, almost detached. She didn’t elaborate, giving him to opportunity to back out of the conversation if he wanted to. He probably expected the usual.

“How about you?” Her eyes traced back over to him. Leeor could guess that a man smoking outside of a bar, alone, talking to a perfect stranger wasn’t having the best night either. She turned to face him, letting her shoulder still rest on the brick wall. “Do I have lipstick all over my face?” She asked bluntly. Leeor was technically a whore, but that didn’t mean she wanted to walk around looking like a high schooler who just finished their 7 minutes in heaven in the closet.

.

He gets it, the low timber of her voice, careless, the lit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth — simple syllables, or perhaps only one. The no is clear and concise and he gets it. Maybe not the specifics, not what got her here; all smudged eyeliner, lipstick fading away at the edges, exhaustion ( irritation as well, maybe? ) evident. He’d been there before, the same chapped lip frown and hooded eyes. If he squinted he’d think she almost reminded him of —— well, nevermind. Some would think her body language, the roughness of her tone, means company isn’t wanted, but after the breath of silence she asks not one but two questions and he contemplates both, teeth rocking his cigarette to the crook of his lips as he fumbles to put the lighter back in his pocket. Only half his mouth moves when he says, “A little, but it looks good. Sort of a Courtney Love thing goin’ on.” It’s accompanied by a wave of his hand, a vague gesture to her person.

 It makes her look intimidating in a way, a dangerous pretty, but he keeps that to himself.

“As for my night.” He postulates since they were being honest with each other he might as well go for it and says, “Well, I’m an addict hanging out at a bar. Not that I’m drinking, but there’s still definitely something to be said for that, right?” His tone near matches hers but with an inherent friendliness, a sort of joking presence underneath his own aloofness. “But I’ve definitely had worse.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

OLIVER JACKSON COHEN World Without End, 2012

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

SYDNEY QUIN.

    her eyes are glistening with unshed tears.  “ i can’t with you,  “  but she can’t with herself either,  mind entertaining just how long they might be able to keep up these accents. together they could make a night of it;  whoever cracks first buys dinner,  a far softer alternative to the nudie laps of her youth.    why does she make it worse for herself?  ( but they could!  )   laughter simmers into giggles that settle into a hum.    “ as far as i’m concerned.  you’re the coolest person i know—-  after me of course.  so… basically fuck everyone else.  “      of sid’s many unfavourable traits is the unshakable urge to fill the synapses between syllables.   but what’s this?   her mouth is nothin’  but upturned.  settled despite a break in conversation.  and she doesn’t even notice.  probably for the best;  traffic this part of town is agony,  not a great match with waning attention.       “  i’m reading a subliminal cry for help here, simon,  “   she shakes her head,  smile ever-present.   and just as she offers her girl friends,  sid offers her only male friend the very same.   “ do we need a spa day? “    he’s been eager to fill her more outrageous requests,  but this one sid isn’t so sure.  he’s got a silly but sure internalised fixation on his masculinity, she’s come to notice.  where,  there’s sid who wonders:  who cares.  or,  again,  fuck everyone else.     they’re at the next stop-light,  but pizza heaven bistro’s road sign is glowing,  indicating they’re open– and close.  close enough for sid to mock orchestral choir.

.

“Right, fuck everyone else.” He agrees in a huffed laugh. She got that a lot from him — agreement, approval, all of the above, because, well, she was usually right. At least more right than he ever was. She could tell him that the cure to a bad cold was chugging a concoction of hot pickle juice and mayo and he’d probably do it, which was bad because she also loved to fuck with him and vice versa. She pretty much never bought anything he said, though, and he couldn’t really blame her. He didn’t think of himself as someone who wore his emotions on his sleeve but with her it seemed like she read every expression, even when he had something to hide.

One time he was convinced she was psychic when he was mid-breakdown at four am while getting ready for work and his phone pinged with her number. Spooky shit, but much appreciated. It was what made them such good friends, and her such a good sponsor. She always just knew.

Simon holds up two hands stained almost permanently grey from his profession, fingernails clipped short and rounded from biting them somehow even shorter and the beds of his fingers more callous than skin he says, “You think they could fix these?” All mock innocence and raised eyebrows. “Wait ‘til they see my toes, now that’s a real horror story.” His body was more or less a collection of rusty parts not deemed suitable to enter the world on any good, new person. He was sure they were functioning at one point, certain he was the one to blame for how everything works and feels now. 

Ah, the joys of aging and poor housekeeping.

When he hears the angel chorus he joins in, as is natural, the seatbelt already coming off and the car pinging in alarm as she pulls in, almost childishly excited when he says, “Alright, let’s go get the bitch.”

[nicholassimonjakubowski]

MIA MURRAY.

“No, I can just sense you aura. It’s kinda bad, but don’t worry – We can fix it!” She said a little to excitedly. To be fair, she needed something to keep her mind off of remembering too much, and thinking about the past. This was perfect, considering she felt as though she did it everyday when she was in Italy; helping lost souls as if she was some sort of guide in the in between world.

“Simon! He was my favorite chipmunk. I promise I won’t become a creepy internet stalker.” Mia couldn’t hold back the small laugh that escaped from her mouth. “So, what’s your story? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” She said, before taking a sip of the water she had in the cup in front of her. The way she said it, made it seem like trading past trauma’s were as easy as trading Pokémon cards - but at this point in life the blonde had realized it would eventually come out at some point in every relationship, friendship, etc. “Do you like yoga? Because it’s such a great place to start finding you zen.”

.

He can’t help but a laugh a little bit, almost thoughtful when he says, “Well as long as we can fix it.” From a pure belief standpoint he doesn’t really buy into in auras and energies as a concept. Honestly, he doesn’t believe in much, religion and spirituality never really his strong point or something he entertained himself with. It’s not say that he doesn’t think it’s possible or real, per say, it was more so that he could neither prove nor disprove the presence of an aura or the existence of a God, but he also wasn’t someone to tarnish or look down on someone else’s belief system. 

So... he supposed he has a shit aura. It actually sounded sorta accurate.

A smile quirked at his lips. “Actually when I was little I looked just like the chipmunk and my family didn’t let me forget it until I was like... fourteen and I grew out of it.” It’s more of a side comment, but if he had a dollar for every time that fuckin’ chipmunk came up he’d at least have a bigger apartment. His smile drops a bit, however, at the mention of yoga because... yikes. He can workouts and deadlifts and all that sorta stuff but, “I’m not really known for my flexibility, I’m pretty sure my bones have melded together to make it impossible for me to do anything but sit down and stand up.”