#new 2019
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Just bringing this gem back.
The predator is still around and has done a lot of damage to our country since 2019.
Gloves off.
#kamala harris#vp harris#donald trump#sex predator#make america great again#fuck the gop#fuck republicans#fuck trump#the white house#u.s. politics#u.s. news#save america#america#own the libs#trump is a threat to democracy#letâs fucking go#year: 2019#sheâs going to bury him#vote democrat#vote blue#black tumblr#black women will save america#president harris 2024#2024 presidential election#president biden
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In class day dreams đđŠ
Iâm not sure how I got the idea of Goji being into storytelling/writing⊠but I like it đ
#digital art#drawing#illustration#fanart#artists on tumblr#fantasy#art#web comic#oc#legendary godzilla#Godzilla#godzilla 2019#godzilla king of the monsters#godzilla x kong the new empire#goji#godzilla kotm#Mothra#anthro mothra#mothra queen of the monsters#monstervese mothra#anthro godzilla#Godzilla au#godzilla x mothra#mothgoji#mothzilla
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don't talk to me i'm in my whatsapp aunty era
#my art#fallout#fallout new vegas#joshua graham#fnv#fonv#stupid memes#fallout tv series got me reinstall fnv#steam: last played 2019 260+ hours#hello mormon husband i am back
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#âI really don't like the end of this story so...â#theumbrellaacademy#tua#Mokolat#fanart#reginaldhargreeves#colm feore#abigaihargreeves#liisa repo-martell#the girl on the bike#birva pandya#spoiler#tua s4#tua s4 spoilers#So! I see TUA finale. I have no words.#I was đ¶#just đ¶#Anyway! I don't like to complain#And prefer to confort myself with my own ending!#And confort you too I hope â„#Take this as a post-post-credit scene#There was SO much potential to end this serie!#Let's solve this story by a#DEUS EX MACHINA#(~Or a Klaus journey on Lil' God's hat~)#If you have to rewatch TUA always remember there is a lil Godness somewhere â„#Also in my imagination the Lil' God's Marigold awake all the Hargreeves somewhere in 2019 or 2024#With their memories and famillies and missing peoples â„ and probably new silly troubles too~
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"logan is a boomer" this, "logan doesn't know what memes are" that.... logan saw jubilee dab on instagram and called her cringe for it
#images stolen from @/dailyjubilee on twitter#these are from fearless (2019) issue 3 apparently#never read it but this made me laugh#my personal hc is that logan is secretly totally up to date with new tech and feigns ignorance just to ruin one of the younger mutant's day#wolverine#jubilee#logan howlett#jubilation lee#x men#sparrows memes
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If I had a nickel everytime a cartoon series ending includes a gay couple opening a food stand/food truck ...
... i'd have 3 nickels, which isn't much but it's weird sweet that it happened three times
#I'd support their businesses#also hooraaay fionna and cake got renewed for a new season#fionna and cake#gumlee#garylee#marshall lee#gary prince#marshall x gary#carmen sandiego#carmen sandiego 2019#le chevre#el topo#le chevre x el topo#kipo#kipo and the age of wonderbeasts#benson x troy#kipo benson#kipo troy#mlm#mlm ship#gay#gay bois
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Sheâs so girlie pop. âšđđ
đ
#mothra#titanus mosura#Kaiju#kaijune2024#kaijune#godzilla king of the monsters#godzilla x kong: the new empire#mothra 2019#fanart#fan art#digutal art#sketch#digital sketch
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YAYY IT'S OFFICIALLY 2024!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!! I hope everyone's year will be filled with joy and good things!
I'm bringing back my tradition of drawing a New Year's drawing with the Dreemurr kids (almost) every year. I'm not super proud of the drawings from previous years, but I wanted to add them in under the Read More anyway.
(Bottom two are from 2022 and 2023.)
#the sillies :) I had a lot of fun drawing this#Chara's not actually that tall - they're standing on a chair#really happy with my art improvement/progress :) I think it's really cool. my same face syndrome was real bad in 2019.#my art#undertale#deltarune#chara#chara dreemurr#safeutdr#frisk#asriel#kris#kris dreemurr#asriel dreemurr#frisk dreemurr#happy new year#new year
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Courier six character !!!(1 of 4)
This is the guy Iâve been playing as for my wild card run, with some tweaks to make him a cool ocđ
Heâs like if a neurotic scientist and somebodyâs well meaning but maladjusted dad where the same person. He likes robots and fishing
You can date some of these doodles depending on my handwriting in it lmao
In terms of design most of my courier characters have one âuniqueâ more casual outfit I just bullshitted up, and an in game armor Iâm probably not drawing on model. My NCR courier Dan got first come first serve with the ranger fit so Gazer gets the stealth suit mk II because I crave individuality
#he has been Mistaken for Gordon Freeman on Multiple occasions now#Iâm not saying this is hlvraiâs fault but I am saying that this probably wouldnât happen if it didnât exist/j /lovingly#I donât draw him on model to his in game character at all and Iâm not sorryđ«¶#Dan however looks pretty accurate lmao#Iâll post Dan later but I need more pictures of her that arenât from 2019#courier oc#my art#courier six#fnv courier#fnv#fnv oc#fnv fanart#Gazer Valmorida#fallout arcade#arcade gannon#yes man#fallout yes man#fnv yes man#fnv arcade#fnv veronica#veronica santangelo#fallout new vegas#fallout nv#fallout#delroy kicklighter#Mantis Kicklighter
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Paranatural women and their sidekicks!
is it just me or so they have the same hairstyles?
#FBC coffee is disgusting actually#casey gets the uncool mug too#alan wake 2#saga anderson#alex casey#jesse faden#emily pope#control remedy#control 2019#control game#remedy games#remedy connected universe#artists on tumblr#my art#fan art#fanart#control game fanart#alan wake fanart#very excited for all the new technological advances Remedy is doing#that way they can finally have more than ponytails headbuns and whatever emily's and casey's haircut is called lmao
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A friend of mine who hasn't even watched godzilla would not believe me that godzilla and mothra are married. They'd ask me stupid questions like "what, did they have a giant monster wedding?? Did they have a monster officiant??" So I drew this to illustrate how exactly it happened
#godzilla#gojira#pebbles draws#godzilla fanart#mothra fanart#mothra#mosura#mosugoji#mothzilla#godzilla kotm#godzilla king of the monsters#godzilla 2019#mothra 2019#kong#king kong#godzilla x kong#godzilla vs kong#godzilla: king of the monsters#godzilla x kong: the new empire#gxk#gxk: the new empire#godzilla x mothra#mothra x godzilla#mothra 2024#godzilla 2024
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Scream King - Miguel A. Nuñez Jr.
#horror#horror movies#horror movie#gifs#gif#horror gifs#horror gif#my gif post#my gif#my gifs#horroredit#horror edit#Miguel A. Nuñez Jr.#scream king#screamking#the return of the living dead#return of the living dead#friday the 13th#friday the 13th a new beginning#ride scare#the pining 2019#the pining#leprechaun 4#leprechaun 4 in space#carnosaur 2#shadowzone 1990#shadowzone#the twilight zone#twilight zone#carnosaur 1993
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Itâs finales week next week and I have 6 projects to finish up. I just wanted to draw something for myself alright? T-T
#digital art#drawing#illustration#fanart#artists on tumblr#fantasy#art#web comic#oc#legendary godzilla#Godzilla#godzilla 2019#godzilla 2014#godzilla kotm#godzilla king of the monsters#godzilla kaiju#godzilla x kong the new empire#anthro mothra#anthro godzilla#Mothra#monstervese mothra#mothra queen of the monsters#godzilla x mothra#mothzilla#mothgoji#monstervese godzilla#legendary monsterverse#monsterverse
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magnuspilled archivemaxxer
#love digging thru someone's tma tag who has been here a while bc i find fun new posts to queue up from like 2019#im so fucking normal right now about this podcast. normalpilled milk#milk talks tma#tma
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blue-eyed son
(homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; tw themes of poverty; tw strangely intimate vaguely unnerving eating scene; maybe i got carried away with characterising the motel receptionist; but it was necessary; tw corporate ennui; tw scathing outlook on new rochelle; iâve never even been to new rochelle; there is a real prompt from the NYT mini crossword in here, and the answer was âachesâ but âzweigâ is also five letters; also maybe i got carried away with reworking the dialogue from the motel scene; but i maintained the essence of tragedy; in fact i enhanced it; tw enhanced essence of tragedy)
âNot too shabbyâŠâ
The blue light miasma permeating from the screen of your brickheavy, moltenhot company laptop casts taunting shadows across your visage as you stare at the subject line of the email from your boss. You drag your finger across the mousepad and click.
Just got off the phone with Mr Smith from Kanonda Corp., and they had some great things to say about our chat today. Kudos to you for handling that. Just a quick reminder, though, that your numbers aren't quite up to par this month, so let's work on ramping those up. Keep it up!
Cheers!
You find three things hilarious about this email: 1) the use of the words our chat when youâre pretty sure you endured those three hours of Mr Smithâs overt attempts to incite a clunky game of footsie under the wobbly table in the shitty steakhouse in bumfuck New Rochelle completely solo, 2) the notion that adding an exclamation mark to the phrase âkeep it upâ makes it read more like an encouraging pat on the back than a barked order, and 3) the use of the words your numbers when thereâs about five other assholes on your team who arenât in bumfuck New Rochelle, whose combined time spent sitting on their asses in the office, if harvested as energy, would be large enough to power up a small town for all four days of this wretched business trip.
Actually, the âkudos to youâ is also pretty funny. Your boss, the comedian.
You shut the lid of the computer, drawing your knees to your chest and ignoring how the sharp lump of an errant spring in the old mattress is digging straight up your ass. Youâre nursing a lukewarm can of Coors youâd snagged from this motel's halfway functional vending machine. Youâre trying to ignore the noise from the room next door, where some douchebag is doing his best impression of a broken washing machine in bed.
New Rochelle sucks. New Rochelle sucks dick. The weather sucks dick. The food sucks dick. Your job sucks dick. Sunny Skies Motel sucks dick. And youâre considering redownloading Hinge, and setting your radius to ten miles and your standards to hellishly low, just so that maybe you can suck a dick, too, because youâd hate to feel left out.
The company you work for so graciously comps the room in the seedy motel. Real nice. The room reeks of piss and potpourri, old cigarettes and beer, and looks like a relic from the 70s. As in, peeling, avocado-green wall, visibly stained motheaten carpets that are an alarming shade of brown, and an ancient CRT TV whose only available channels are reruns of sitcoms from the 90s. Everything about this place wails âtemporary,â but, to you, thereâs the stark, resigned misery of a lifetime sentence. The room is like your life, in a way: suffocating and stagnant, with no change in sight.
It's the kind of motel that no one would ever choose to stay at if they had a choice, or, perhaps, a modicum of selfrespect. But you, poor you, eyes going misty as you look out the window facing an alleyway, are beginning to contend with the fact that you have neither of those things.
Youâre lying supine on the bed, arms spread out like a crucifix effigy, and your back is learning every lump and valley of the shitty mattress. Youâve downed your beer, and itâs sloshing about in your belly, and thereâs a dampness gathering beneath the underwire of your bra.
You cast a glower to the thermostat, an old model with yellowed plastic and faded lettering. You note the temperature display.
â65, my ass.â
And who are you talking to? The roaches? Theyâre probably waiting for you to die of heatstroke so they can dine on your miserable, sweatstrewn flesh. The vent shudders droningly, spewing tepid air like bad breath, and you do consider just lying there. Sweating out your bitterness. But no. You need your bitterness. Your bitterness has always served you.
Like this, bitterly, you peel yourself off the bed, swinging your legs over the side.
You slip your tights-swathed toes into the firm leather of your kitten heels, tugging the hem of your skirt down your thighs, but choosing not to bother with the rolled cuffs or the top four unbound buttons of your button down, the dampness where the fabric clings to your back and armpits growing cool as you step out into the nighttime.
Youâre twentyeight, which is seventyfive in corporate years.
Youâre a wonder with a spreadsheet, and you work hard, and youâre reliable, but these are the sorts of things that only get you so far.
So they send you to New Rochelle. Fine. Hereâs their thinly veiled, lastditch attempt to motivate you, or something.
And everyoneâs probably sipping on fancy espresso in their cushy corner offices or having lunch in some upscale bistro back home. And youâre in sucksdick New Rochelle, wondering how many different ways a woman can feel disconnected and uninspired.
The Sunny Skies motel lobby is a hollow shell. It is lively as a morgue. The vending machine flickers with the weary lament of someone who is sick of dying. Not pained, or begging mercy. Just over it. Someone who wants to get the dying part of being dead over with.
Thereâs another roomtemp Coors can in there singing you siren songs, but youâre trying not to be tempted.
Youâre stood in front of one of the twin front desks, tapping your manicured nail against the countertop.
Youâre staring at a small sign behind the front desk, and trying to ignore the strange sort of aura of decay that seems to hang in the air. Sunny Skies knows her days are numbered, and it shows. Your eyes flick up to look at the clock as you hear footsteps approaching.
Enter Sally. Dear Sally. Sally and her jet black pixie cut and cold shoulder blouses and perennial disinterest. You identify with Sally on a deep, primordial level, because Sally has that soul-sucking look that only comes with years of forcing enthusiasm when you donât feel any, and you can only hope to one day wield with as much grace that distinct emanating air of exhaustion. Sally is your hero.
âCan I help you?â she asks flatly, casting you a bored, fleeting glance over her narrow pink rectangle rimmed spectacles.
God, itâs artistry.
âI think the air conditioning in my room is broken?â you say. You pull out your phone and flip open the cover, retrieving your key card, because you have one of those flip phone cases. âI need someone to come take a look at it. The last repair guy said heâd pass the message along and no oneâs come by yet.â
Sally takes the card and looks up at you sceptically.
âAre you sure itâs broken? Sometimes the thermostat just needs to be reset.â
You bristle a bit at the implication that you donât know how to work a thermostat. You respect Sally like a soldier respects a war general. Which is to say, do you particularly like the woman? Fuck no.
âYes, Iâm sure,â you say firmly. âI tried resetting it myself like the last guy told me to, but itâs still not working.â
Sally sighs and jots something down on a piece of paper.
âAlright, Iâll send someone up to take a look at it,â she says. âIs that all you need?â
You want to say no, that thatâs definitely not all you need, that you need to go home to your quiet, cozy, doesnât-smell-like-musty-carpets apartment, to lay on your comfortable bed and eat a warm meal.
You just nod curtly.
âYes, thatâs everything. Thank you.â
Sally turns away to pick up a phone receiver, but freezes for a moment, her head tilted in an odd direction. You follow her gaze, your eyes landing on a figure at the far end of the lobby.
The first thing you notice is that he is a total mess. His hair is sticking up in different directions, like a childâs hair after a windy day, and his clothes are rumpled and chaotic, as if heâs just woken up.
Youâre trying to determine if heâs extremely tall, or if it just looks that way because you can see his entire two legs with how short those shorts are.
Youâre trying, too, to determine why he strikes you as being somewhat out of place here.
You suppose harsh fluorescent lights can sort of warp a person. But there is something almost striking about him. His face is sharp and angular, all hollowedout cheekbones and fierce, saxe blue eyes that house the sort of selfloathing hunger you only see in Eastern European gay porn. And they are staring directly at you.
He approaches the counter, and comes to stop at an odd place, almost slightly behind you. And you can feel a splendid heat radiating from his body, and you shift uncomfortably to put some distance between you.
Sally, from behind the desk, has been watching the man with a wary sort of glare, but she looks at him now with the same flat, exhausted expression she had used with you. No bullshit Sally. Unaligned and unimpressed.
âHow can I help you?â she asks, monotone all the same.
This guy looks at her for a moment, still staring directly at you out of the corner of his eye, but then shifts his gaze to Sally completely.
âI need a room for the night,â he says. His voice is slightly hoarse, as if unused for a while.
Sally is already unconvinced.
âDo you have a credit card?â she asks, her fingers hovering over the chunky computer keys.
The man digs around in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulls out a wallet whose leather has long ago seen the best of its days. He rummages around in it for a moment before pulling out a credit card and handing it over.
Sally holds the card between two fingers and begins to type something, eyes narrowed at the monitor. She looks at a screen for a moment, then looks back at the man.
âThis card is declined,â she says matter-of-factly.
The manâs forehead creases up, a look of the defeated suffusing across his face.
âWhat? No, that canât be right,â he says, but he sounds like he thinks it probably can be right. âCan you try again?â
Sally sighs, but, for her part, types the number in again.
Then she waits.
And a moment later, she turns the computer monitor to show him the word DECLINED on the screen in angry crimson.
His expression swims somewhere toward frustration and he leans forward, his voice taking on a hint of desperation.
âThere has to be a mistake, thatâs my only card.â
Sally looks at him with an air of very mild irritation colouring her general apathy.
âSir,â says Sally, âI can see the balance on the card. Itâs declined. You donât have any other cards?â
The manâs face shifts againâhis face is really very expressiveânow bordering on despair.
âNo, no other cards,â he says. âIs there anything I can do? I really need a bed for tonight, Iâve been driving all day, Iâm exhaustedâŠâ
Andâwhat, is he gonna seduce Sally? The thought alone is so funny (not him seducing Sally, really, but rather Sally being seduced by him, or maybe just him trying and failing) and you pull out your phone to keep from laughing, or, at least, then you can blame Twitter, or something.
Sally holds up a hand to stop him, her bangles jingling.
âListen, sir. We donât give rooms out for free,â she says, tone all no-nonsense. âIf you want a bed for the night, you need to have a valid form of payment. Do you have cash?â
Now this manâs head is bowed, and he is visibly deflated. He looks up to meet Sallyâs gaze, sadness and helplessness doing a miserable pas de deux behind his eyes.
âNo, no cash either,â he says quietly. âI donât have anything. I just need somewhere to sleep tonight. Just one night. Please.â
And, at thatâat that, if my fleeting glance serves me correct, Sallyâs expression softens a little. I think Sally probably watches a lot of AGT. She clearly has a soft spot for a pathetic story, but her job is, of course, to keep the motel from going under. And Sally has no golden buzzer here.
âSir,â she says firmly, âI have bills to pay too. If I just gave away rooms without payment, weâd be a homeless shelter, not a business.â
Fuck, thatâs funny, too. In a way. Youâre actually not so tempted to laugh anymore, because this is all becoming a bit painful to witness.
The man lets out an exasperated sigh.
âCan I pay in the morning, then?â he asks, and you canât see from here, but his hands may be clasped together, because he certainly sounds like heâs pleading. âIâll have cash by then, I swear. Iâll sign something, give you my driverâs license, anything. I just need a place to stay. Please.â
Sally leans forward on the counter, her tone growing a little terse. Whatever softness sheâd started feeling now seems so far gone it may as well have never existed at all.
âSir, I canât do that either. If we let someone stay in a room without upfront payment, and you just disappear, then weâre out of a room and out of money. Iâm really sorry, but we donât make exceptions.â
And, to her credit, she does sound sorry, but sheâs certainly not budging.
The man is definitely practically begging now.
âI wonât disappear!â he stresses, âI swear, Iâ Listen, Iâm a tennis player. The tournament down the road. I just need a place to stay so I can rest before my match tomorrow. If I win, I get seven thousand dollars. I just need a bed for the night, thatâs all. Please, you have to help me.â
Yeah, no, this is really painful. Like, uncomfortably so. You have the cruel thought of just turning around and leaving, and going back to your hot room, to go about your ownânow considerably lesser seemingâwallowing, but an even crueler part of you regards this whole thing as a slow motion train wreck.
And, in your defense, youâre only halfway eavesdropping, because youâve now struck up a passive aggressive argument with a coworker over a Microsoft Teams chat.
Sally raises a brow.
âA tennis player?â she asks dubiously, eyeing his disheveled appearance.
The man nods urgently.
âYes, yes, I am! My name is Zweig, Patrick Zweig. You can look it up. I just need a bed, please, just one night. Iâll sign whatever you want, give you anything, just please.â
Sally now looks really unimpressed by his plea, her face betraying a hint of disdain.
âYeah, sure,â she says, her voice laden with sarcasm. âYouâre a tennis player. And Iâm BeyoncĂ©.â
And itâs funny again. Fucking Sally. You should try and ask her for a drink before you leave. Sheâll say no, but you should ask.
The manâs face contorts in abject sorrow and impatience.
âPlease, maâam, if you just look me upââ he begins, but Sally cuts him off before he can continue.
âSir, do you think I just have time to look up every person who comes in here claiming to be somebody?â she asks, her face growing increasingly pinched with annoyance.
It is then that Sally turns to face you, whose fingers are now really tapping away at your screen, because your coworkerâs a bitch, but then,
âMaâam, do you know who this man is?â Sally asks, gesturing a rednailed hand toward him as though presenting a case on Deal or No Deal.
And fuck if you hadnât halfway tuned out of the conversation, because youâre suddenly being put on the spot.
You look over at the man, who is fidgeting and biting his chapped upper lip, and his wide blue gaze is a mural of anxious anticipation and pleading hope, andâokay.
So you hadnât really been paying attention. But you now feel a palpable twinge of something resembling sympathy.
This guyâs face is so earnest and desperate, like an abandoned, infant monkey, or something equally as devastating, and there is something about⊠whatever heâs got going on that really compels you to give him the help he is so desperately seeking.
But thatâs the thing. You were so busy insisting to Deirdre over Teams that saying youâre so articulate is, in fact, a microaggression, that fuck. You really donât know who this man is.
But heâs looking at you, so desperate and pathetic, and his bottom lip may as well be jutted out and quivering, yet there is somethingâsomethingâabout him that intrigues you. In a stupid way. The way a kid may be intrigued by the mushrooms that have appeared between the wet grass after itâs rained.
Soâokayâyou give it a think. Because you do think he said it, his name, at some point. Your eyes flick over him. Your phone is still raised up to your face.
â⊠Peter Zeppelin?â you shrug, raising a brow.
And the guyâs eyes widen comically, and his face falls like the London Bridge, and Sally gives an amused sort of scoff. That seems to be the final nail in the coffin for her, and she holds up her hands in a resigned sort of there you go motion, going to turn back to the computer. And Peter Zeppelinâwho is not Peter Zeppelin apparentlyâall but throws himself over the counter, and now you do see his hands clasp together, with all the desperation of Jesus in Gethsemane.
âNo, no, no, come on, come on, that was close!â he says desperately, âPatrick Zweig, that was close, come on!â
But Sally seems done entertaining him, and the poor guyâs face twists with a dozen different alloys of disappointment and frustration and acceptance as he sees the conversation is over, and the gavel has been banged.
But despite his disappointmentâand there are veritable oceans of disappointment heâs working with hereâthere is a hint of something else in his expression, something almost like amusement.
He shoots you a sidelong glance, as if trying to understand you. And you cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger, but you quickly look away, feeling a scattering prickle of guilt cascade over you, and you almost shiver. And why should you feel guilty, if you were only honest? You canât be sure. Because you feel it all the same.
He lets out a sigh and gathers his things, wounded by the harsh blow of reality straight to his heart, it would seem. This was surely among the saddest interactions of his life.
But, as he turns to leave, he shoots another glance over his shoulder, his gaze once again finding you with magnetic haste.
It is a strange look he wears. A mixture of disappointment, curiosity, and something almost like⊠interest. You drop your arms, your phone hanging at your side, because thatâs enough for you to feel a jolt of something. Something. Something you quite literally try to shake off as soon as he has departed, like a crestfallen cartoon character with all his belongings in a bandana on a stick over his shoulder. But his image seems to linger in your mind. His plaintive eyes and disheveled mien causing an odd sort of sensation to rise up in your stomach. You think it may be nausea.
Or the guilt is really having its way with you.
And the door swings shut behind him with a loud thunk, and youâre feeling a pang of regret, even. And fucking Sally, of all people, is giving you an odd look, as if to say you couldnât have helped that poor man out a little more?
And you want to say hey, you mythic shrew, I donât even know him, which is true, because you donât.
And even if you had, would that have made Sally drop to her knees and throw him a room key? Who are you, arbiter of fame? You want to ask her. If you were less of a masochist, you probably would ask her. But the guilt makes a funny little home in your tummy, and you start to think itâs what you deserve.
You think, at some point, you were generous. In some tender, faraway time in your life, you housed a massive soft spot for anyone who needed help, you couldnât help it. Youâd grown up in a household with a Methodist and a Social Worker, and compassion and kindness were espoused with breakfast in the mornings. And now that youâre working in a cutthroat office full of bloodthirsty Type-Aâs, youâve been made hard as granite. Great.
Youâre walking through the parking lot towards your room, and you spot a beat up Honda, its park job beyond redemption.
And who should you see slumped in the backseat, looking utterly dejected, but Peter fucking Zeppelin. He is staring at something on his phone, the glow illuminating his face in the darkness. And youâre holding another Coors from the vending machine like a world class capitalist shit stain.
Seeing him like that, so defeated and alone, makes the spot of guilt youâre nursing in your belly stand up and do a little jig.
And is it your fault? No. Kind of? Either way, you feel the tug of responsibility, and an unfamiliar need to make amends.
You reach your room. You unlock the door with your keycard. You do not walk in. You linger, of course, staring across the parking lot at the man sitting in his car. He hasnât moved, still slumped down, head bowed over his phone. Your guilt seems to metamorphose into something more discomfiting, and its jig becomes a stomp.
Why refuse to help him?
It is so unlike you, that coldness.
You stand there for what tires you like an eternity, more than a little torn. But, ultimately, the image of his big blue pleading eyes, and the way they had laved you in abject despair, wins out. Youâll see them in your nightmares if you donât do something. You canât leave him like this, alone and dejected in his car. You certainly want to. Youâd love to go back into your too warm room and drink your too warm beer and hope for Sally to have a come to Jesus moment. But you really canât.
With a weary, longsuffering sigh, you gather your courage and make your way across the parking lot towards the car, your heels clicking against the tar.
You knock the knuckle of your index against the window, âOi! Zeppelin!â
And the manâs head jerks up.
He looks⊠surprised to see you standing there. But thereâs a gleam of expectation in his eyes.
The door is locked when he first goes to open it, whichâgood. At least he has a sense of selfpreservation. And then he unlocks it and takes off his grey track jacket and scrambles out of the car with a disoriented sort of grace, stepping out and straightening up to his full height.
So, yes, he actually is very tall. Much taller than youâd realised, actually, and you have to crane your neck to look at him. The light from the motel sign illuminates his face, accentuating his pallor and the tired lines around his eyes.
He is standing very close, this homeless stranger, and it suddenly occurs to you not to let your softness get the better of you. You look him up and down.
You wait for him to speak.
You want to see how heâll react. And a furtive little part of you hopes that heâll be a little angry, a little annoyed, at your still getting his name wrong. Because then you get to keep your guard up and maintain your distance, because even Mother Theresa knew the implications of standing alone with a large man in the middle of a motel parking lot in bumfuck New Rochelle.
His eyes, weary, harden just a fraction, the dim apparition of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
âItâs Zweig,â he corrects, his voice frayed at its edges but firm. âPatrick.â
He isnât quite angry, but thereâs a glimmer of irritation there, just enough to give you the satisfaction you hadnât realised youâd been craving, and a strange sense of triumph tingles through you.
Oh, how much easier to be cold and standoffish when you have something to work with.
âRight, right, sorry about that,â you say, your voice dancing almost imperceptibly with sarcasm.
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him, as though⊠assessing.
And then Peterânot Peter, Patrickâlooks at you for a moment, his weary eyes registering your defensive stance and your rigid gaze.
He seems to recognise something. Something. A need to maintain something. To push him away and make a run for it before itâs too late. And yet, he doesnât quite seem offended. Or even irritated, anymore. More amused, really, as he gives you a slow, crooked smile.
âDonât worry about it,â he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an odd, charming, almost absolute sort of way. Like heâs smiling, and thatâs all he could be doing. Even as the smile itself has all sorts of nuanced implications. âIâve heard worse,â he says.
The way he is looking at you, that easy grin, makes the guilt in your tummy flutter and still and wait. It does feel like he is seeing something, and, of course, that isnât nice.
You feel a growing unease at his active refusal to react the way you expect him to, and maybe want him to. You work in white collar. Thereâs nothing easier to delineate than an angry guy. A guy frustrated by your callousness. But this guy seems almost entertained by your standoffishness. It is unsettling. Maybe strangely captivating. But mostly unsettling.
âYou look exhausted,â you say, and you make sure any detectable concern is ostensibly feigned.
âYeah, thanks for noticing.â
Simple. Dry. A note of humour.
He reaches up and runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement drawing your eye to his long, lean arm, the way it strains against the fabric of his helplessly rumpled T-shirt.
So you start feeling irritated again. Uneasy, unsettled, annoyed, these are easy things to start feeling, and you start feeling them. But not for this guy himself. Not necessarily. No, more by the way he is making you feel. And you think, fuck, has it been so long since Iâve had a beer that I canât hold it down? And maybe thatâs it. Or, maybe, you canât help but find him marginally attractive. The fabric of his shirt, worn to gossamer, brushing over and revealing a glimpse of a toned, hirsute chest. His athletic shorts, which seem laughably short now, or maybe his legs seem laughably long. And strong. Maybe he should run for money, thatâs a thing, right?
So anyway, youâre unsettled. And you find yourself growing even colder in response.
âNo, you look really exhausted. Like medically. You look like youâre about to pass out. You look like you just crawled out from under a freeway overpass,â you say, and the words come out a tad sharper than intended, which was already quite sharp anyway. âAre you sure youâre not just some bum pretending to be a worldclass tennis player?â
This time, his smile turns into a fullblown toothy smirk.
âOh, Iâm a bum alright,â he says, leaning against the side of his car as he regards you with that flaying sort of intensity. âA real loser, actually. The kind of guy who ends up sleeping in his car in a motel parking lot because heâs too broke to even get a room for the night.â
The guilt in your tummyâremember that guilt?âyeah, well, it feels uncertain if it should even be there any more. If it shouldnât be replaced with something more commensurate with the dense thump of your heart. But you donât want to let him see how much his self-deprecating attitude has affected you. And you donât want to let yourself see his reaction, if you were to give into a very strange sudden compulsion to tell him he isnât a loser.
Instead, you roll your eyes.
âYouâre really laying it on thick, arenât you?â you say, a wry hoist of your brows. You press your face against his car window, cupping your hands around your eyes so you can see in through the tint. âWhereâs your guitar? Are you gonna start singing an acoustic version of âHallelujahâ and begging for change?â
He chuckles at this, eyes lingering on the little patch of fog left by your mouth on the glass. âAh, did you miss it?â he says, feigning sympathy, but his smile is still so wide, âI was strumming like a beast over on that street corner earlier. Gave my strings to this other homeless guy, though, in the end, figured he needed it more than me. Not âHallelujahâ, though. Dylanâs what really gets peoplesâ hands in their pockets.â
âRigh⊠t.â You hesitate. You hesitate, becauseâwellâheâs singing.
Yeah, no, heâs definitely singing. Heâs closing his eyes and leaning against his car and singing Bob Dylan.
âOh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? Iâve stumbled on the side of ten thousand graveyards.â
Andâokayâthose are the wrong lyrics, but the song choice certainly feels relevant to his current situation.
âItâs a hardââ Heâs still singing. ââitâs a hard, itâs a hard rainâs a-gonnaââ
âO-kay,â you say, and he opens his eyes and for all their fatigue they are glimmering with mirth.
You try to remain expressionless, but his undeniable charm and abiding levity considering his obvious predicament make it difficult for you to justify being mean.
âYou seem awfully comfortable with your circumstances,â you observe, a vein of scepticism threaded through your voice. âMost people would be freaking out right now, you know.â
He shrugs, hands in his pockets now, and makes an ambivalent sort of noise. âWell, what good would that do?â he says. âWonât magically make the cash appear in my account.â
He pulls a hand from his pocket, the nylon rustling, and runs it through his hair again. You find yourself watching the movement, watching his hands now, which you think look oddly large. Youâre unsettled again. Or maybe youâve been unsettled the whole time, and youâre just still unsettled.
âSo, youâre just gonna sit there in your car all night and hope a miracle happens?â you ask, a strange tremor in your voice that even you cannot presently put a name to. âYou donât have any⊠I don't know, friends you can call? Or parents you can beg money off of?â
And his expression seems to go dour at that, a noticeable trickle of humour draining from his eyes. âParents are out,â he says bluntly. Pauses. Gives a humourless laugh.
Doesnât mention friends, you note. But then youâve never had many either.
Your guilt seems to settle again, deciding it is needed, and it is accompanied by whatever had had your voice tremoring seconds ago. You cannot help it. This is fucking sad. The way his selfdeprecating remarks have suddenly turned into selfdeprecating revelations. Itâs fucking sad. And you donât realise youâre staring into the middle distance all sadly until heâs ducking down into your field of vision, eyes searching your face, vaguely bemused, but sort of disgruntled.
âYou feel sorry for me,â he saysâsays, not asks.
And then he straightens, and you think heâs gotten taller.
âWell, youâve got no friends, no family, no money, and nowhere to go,â you say, trying to keep your voice neutral, despite the fact that, yes, you find you are feeling quite sorry for him. âIt sounds like youâre in a pretty shitty situation, Patrick.â
And where he could probably break down into tearsâand maybe he should; youâre willing to give him your lukewarm beer and rub his shoulder a bitâa glimmer finds his eye. A fissure in his nonchalance. A look of surprise, and what almost seems like hope. He doesnât even try to disguise it, and his smile is coming back, with the ease of something never departed.
âHey! Look who remembered my name,â he says, and his voice has suddenly gone weird and tender, and the change sort of makes you shudder.
âAh, shit, did I?â you say, looking down, rolling the beer can in your palm and letting it flick off your fingers and land in the other hand. You toss it back and forth like that a few times, and youâre trying to be⊠not too much of anything. You try to be Sally, unaligned and unimpressed.
It's hard, though, with the way he smiles like he knows something you don't. Like he's in on some kind of secret. Youâve always had a weird suspicion that everyone is keeping something from you. No one could surprise you, as a child.
Patrickâfuck, there you goâhas the impish simper on his lips of a cat whoâs just seized and maimed the canary.
âYou did,â he confirms, voice still strange and heavy, like itâs laden with something.
You try to keep your gaze focused on the canâleft, right, left, rightâand the metal makes a little tck noise each time it hits your palm, the liquid inside sort of singing as it moves. But your eyes meander up to his legs, where a small patch of bright red road rash is visible on his knee. The guilt in your belly is up and dancing again, but it seems to have invited a whole bevy of other emotions alongside it. Stupid stuff, like sympathy, and shyness, and lots of other somethings of various discomfort.
And then you say, âWell, donât get used to it,â and the can slips from your palm and onto the ground.
âOkay,â he says, stopping the can from rolling away with his foot.
And then heâs bending down to pick it up, and then heâs freezing, crouched down, like his whole body is wincing, and he makes a noise, like a guilty sort of noise, and he looks up at you, and says,
âFuck,â
And stands up and sighs, shakes his head like heâs made a mistake, and shrugs his shoulders and says, âIâm used to it,â with a rueful sort of smile.
âOh, are you?â You hold your hand out for the can, but he doesnât give it to you.
He makes a tsking sort of noise, his elbow raising to rest on the top of the car, âI think I am,â he says, like it pains him, âI think youâre just gonna have to keep remembering my name.â
âWell, I wonât.â
âBut you did.â He parrots your intonation.
Everything suddenly seems very loud. The sound of crickets chirping, the buzzing of the neon signs, the nylon swipe of his tiny shorts as he moves. He keeps moving.
âBecause I feel sorry for you,â you say, and things seem quiet at that, as if for that, âYouâre right, I feel sorry for you.â
He sort of kisses his teeth, nodding slowly and glancing off to the side in thought. And when he looks at you again, itâs with a gleam of vulnerability, like heâs conveying a silent message that you cannot quite decipher.
It is disconcerting.
His vulnerability is like a gaping black hole, something that will suck you into oblivion. You donât really know what to do with your hands now. You wipe your palm off down the side of your pencil skirt.
âYouâre not gonna spend the night in your car, are you?â you ask, like, maybe, if you ask, heâll come up with a new plan of action.
But no. No plans. Only questions. He suspects you have a plan.
âWhy?â he asks, âAre you offering me a place to crash?â
His smirk is returning, though it doesnât reach his eyes. He is clearly a seasoned scholar in deflection, but he bears the cross quite poorly, and his words send a shiver down your stilldamp spine.
Sunny Skies is the kind of place you'd expect a scene out of a thriller to take place.
You can picture the headline now: Woman found murdered in cheap motel room, career dead in the water long before.
You hesitate for a moment, torn between your better instincts and your uncanny appetite to help this man.
You know what you should do; you should tell him no, leave him with the beer, and walk away. Keep yourself safe from getting involved in his mess of a life, and potentially being found days from now with a racket jutting out your abdomen, long since festered in a pool of your own blood because the damn air conditioning still wonât be fixed. Fuck, Deirdre would love that.
But the way heâs looking at you, that deep dark supernova vulnerability youâd spied in his eyes just moments ago, it makes you hesitate.
âIâŠâ you start to speak, then stop, sighing as you fiddle with your nails. âI'm gonna ask you something.â
Patrick's smirk falters slightly. He seems to sense that something significant is about to happen, and he tenses, as though bracing himself for an impact.
âShoot,â he says, a thinly veiled wariness in his tone.
âWhy the tennis?â you ask, your eyes on his, flickering, searching, like a bloodhound. âWhy are you still doing something thatâs clearly not working out for you? Why not give up and do something different? Something that pays, for one.â
And, now, you really do steel yourself for anger, but, to your surprise, anger doesnât come. Nor do defensiveness or hostility.
Instead, heâs letting out a cynical, protracted sort of pfft noise. âYou think I havenât asked myself that a million times?â he says, his voice cloistered in irony. âThereâs only tennis. Since forever. Maybe I fucked up with that, but thatâs what I did, and now itâs all there is. Iâm not exactly standing before you with too many marketable skills. I can run, I can hit a ball, not much else.â
And youâre frowning at that, at the resignation in his voice. You want to say something, some platitude about not giving up, about trying harder, but you know he wonât appreciate it. Instead, you ask another question.
You ask, âIf you had a choice, what would you do instead?â
Again, Patrick surprises you. He doesnât scoff or obfuscate. He actually just thinks about it for a moment, his whole face turning introspective.
âI donât know,â he says eventually, his voice low. âI guess I never really thought about what else I might be good at.â He runs a hand through his hair again, letting out a soft sigh. âItâs hard to imagine another life when this is the only one youâve ever known.â
And that just makes you frown harder. You really want to say something now. But you donât. Because you canât. Because what would it be?
Heâs an almost-has-been whoâs fallen from the top of the ladder and is now scraping the bottom.
He'd once had it all, and now he has nothing.
How do you comfort someone like that?
You look at him for a moment, his lingering charm swirling like a wandering bee around you, pulling on your senses. You think about Ted Bundy, and how he lured women to demise by strumming their heartstrings like Bob Dylan. But then you suppose that any man trying to victimise a woman is not first going to try their luck on Sally, so. Well. You make a decision.
You make a decision, and take a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye. âI have a deal for you.â
He chuckles at that, his eyes dragging downward, a slow descent. He looks at your dishevelled working girl get up, and you realise, with a passing breeze that wafts the acrid, musky, but vaguely not unpleasant scent of him toward you, that your shirt is still half open, and your cleavage has been on exhibition this whole time, but youâre only realising now, because heâs only looking now, and he wasnât looking before, and he says,
âIâm sure you do,â and he says, âYou got a contract for me to sign?â
âMy room has a queen and a sofa pull out couch,â you say, not-so-furtively, furtively creeping your fingers up to pull your shirt closed, âYou can stay tonightââ
âI canât let you sleep on a sofa pullout couch in your own room,â he says, and heâs able to feign absolute concern for but a moment before his smile is back again.
ââyou can stay tonight,â you repeat, âon the couch, on one condition.â
He crosses his arms, the beer can slipping beneath his armpit, and you donât even want it anymore, not the least because itâs now probably undrinkably warm.
âLetâs hear it,â he says.
You pause before responding, to make sure you havenât been briefly possessed and given the suggestion by passing poltergeist, that itâs actually what you want. Maybe youâre tired, or charitable, or maybe itâs just whatever strange, striking quality he seems to have, but you say, âIâll let you stay in my room if you let me come to your match tomorrow.â
And now you have managed to shock him. Heâd been expecting some sort of request for a favour, or payment, but certainly not that.
âYouâŠâ his eyes are searching yours for sincerity, âïżœïżœ want to watch me play?â he asks.
âIâve never seen a tennis match before,â you admit, and, for a fleeting, ludicrous moment, you feel a flush of embarrassment at your confession. âIt might be interesting. AndâŠâ you steel herself, not sure youâre going to go through with sharing the next bit, âIâve had a really shitty time here. My meetings here were⊠horrific. I could use some entertainment.â
He lets out a soft laugh at that, though maybe itâs a scoff. âYou want me to entertain you?â he says, and his cadence is jesting, but there is something else there too, something in his eyes that makes your heart start thumping densely again. âYou realise tennis can be pretty boring unless you know the sport, right?â
You shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance. âHey, Iâm willing to give it a shot. I have one day left in New Rochelle, and a day at the courts is a lot better than another day stuck in a meeting from hell. At least with you Iâll be watching someone actually do something, instead of pretending to care about some idiotâs idea for a corporate wellness retreat.â
Patrickâs eyes house a genuine amusement, his smile wide. âCorporate wellness retreat,â he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. âYou in finance?â
âWorse. Way worse. Marketing,â you admit, like this is the most harrowing thing you can say. âBut itâs all the same, really. Itâs mostly idiots with big egos in boardrooms trying to outbullshit each other.â
âSo youâd rather watch idiots with big egos trying to outbullshit each other on a court,â he nods solemnly, but, in a way, heâs issuing a warning. A beat, then he asks, âYou always this sour?â
And you bristle for a moment, your pride affronted at his words. But you quickly relax as the irony of your current situation occurs to youâyouâre letting a practically homeless tennis player stay in your hotel room, and youâre letting him joke at your expense.
And you suppose, not for the first time, that you deserve it, to some extent.
âOh, no, usually Iâm a blast,â you say wryly, and then, smiling vaguely with an odd sense of honesty, âBut itâs been a long three days, and Iâm not exactly in the best mood.â
He spends a moment studying you, taking a thoughtful breath. âYou work too hard,â he says, as though coming to a profound conclusion.
âAnd you donât work at all,â you reply, âMaybe we should swap problems for a day.â
âYou got a house? Iâm in.â
âAn apartment, yeah,â you say, your voice lilting as though genuinely considering the prospect, âBut I donât have a car. Maybe we should just merge and form a symbiotic, corporate drone/middling athlete hybrid life.â
And thereâs a pause there, and everything sounds loud again. The vague nyoom of each passing car rattling your teeth, because, in a way, what youâre suggesting is intimacy. And itâs beginning to occur to you that, though perhaps in different ways, you and Peter Zeppelin are two unspeakably lonely people. And to suggest such a thing as beastly as to share whatâs tender, well⊠it feels a little unkind. A gentle brush against an open wound hurts the same way a slap does.Â
Patrick takes a moment.
Then, sucking in a contrite bit of air through his teeth, he shakes his head, âI couldnât wear a suit.â
âYou could wear a suit,â you respond, shaking your head, rolling your eyes like heâs being silly, like thatâs a silly thing to say. But now youâre picturing him in a suit which certainly feels like an untimely gust of air against that very same wound.
âI couldnât,â he insists, shaking his head like heâs resigned, âI couldnât, Iâd look ridiculous in a suit.â
âYouâd look great in a suit.â
âSo, itâs a deal then? I get a bed to fall into tonight, and you get a ticket to the Patrick Zweig extravaganza tomorrow?â
You laugh at that, a sharp, amused ha, because thatâs certainly some audacity heâs got on him.
âSlow down there, cowboy,â you say, and youâre smiling. âYou get a sofa pull out couch to fall into.â
Patrickâs face swims with feigned despair at your words, a mock-offended noise leaving his mouth. âI thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement,â he says, a picture of exaggerated disappointment. âI scratch your back, you scratch mine.â
You sputter a laugh. âIâm letting you stay in my room,â you remind him. âFree of charge, might I add. I think Iâm scratching your back plenty.â
His eyes widen. He gives a dramatic sigh. He says wow like he just canât believe it. He pretends to sulk. But the twinkle in his eyes ruthlessly betrays his amusement. âOkay,â he nods, like heâs doing something very big of himself, âOkay. Iâll take the couch. Iâll be good. Itâs just a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bed.â
Something hot definitely flares deep in your gut, burning away all the guilt and concern and embarrassment and whatever else. There is something to being called beautiful by a man who looks like⊠well, like him. Youâre not above admitting that he is becoming increasingly more handsome with passing time, like his face is blooming and ebbing and flowing before you. And that weird, vaguely unshowered musk is making your nostrils flare with something primordial.
âYouâll survive,â you say dryly, though your heart is back to thumping like a heavy fist.
The sound of the shower running is a vague cloud of pitterpattering, an ambient thrum, and you can hear the water rushing through the pipes behind the wall like a faraway steam engine.
Youâre sat against the headboard, your nuclear reactor of a work laptop balanced on your knees, the fan whirring, the bottom permeating your skin with a volcanic heat and probably giving you radiation poisoning. Youâre typing like a court stenographer, a sharp, erratic clacking of your nails against the keys, accompanied by the muted rush of waterflow from the next room over. Youâre traversing the minefield of your emails. The light of the computer screen casts a pale, eldritch glow on your features, your brows creasing in irritation as you quickly scan and delete all your accumulated unreads.
Youâre still in your tights, skirt, and button down, but now youâve untucked the button down as well. Youâre still sweating. The room is still a tepid rat hole. And itâs washed in the warm dingy glow of the beside lamp.
The only other light in the room comes from the ensuite bathroom, the door slightly ajar, leaking out a bright white beam that illuminates the swooping, swirling streams of mist that flow out.
You think the water pressure hereâs a bit aggressive, but Patrick nearly sheds a tear when the sharp stream of hot water thrashes against the aches and knots in his muscles.
His whole body is sore. He sometimes feels like an earthbound corpse. It isnât just the hours spent in his car, but itâs also the ardour of the matches, the unheard of notion of a good meal. The stress and toil of his lifestyle has taken its due toll on his flesh and bones, and here, in the shower, haloed by the thick fog of water vapour, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.
The water sluices through his hair, emulsifying with the soap and sweat, creating a slick, frothy, chalky-floral scented trail down his face, chest, and arms. He lathers himself everywhere with the little motel bar soap until it is the size of a coin.
He braces himself against the shower wall for a moment, jaw slack and breathing laboured, letting the water batter his shoulders, feeling the muscles there tighten and loosen simultaneously under the hot, cascading stream. The steam and the heat seem to soothe something inside of him, and, for the briefest moment, he feels something approaching peace.
So Patrick is having his spiritual awakening in the shower, and youâre at the mercy of your emails. Deleting messages from your boss about the meeting notes and potential follow ups.
And Patrick spends the first ten minutes in there making unholy sorts of noises, like his skin is being torn off, which is a little disconcerting, but you figure heâs not had a nice long shower in a while, so you leave him be. And the next five minutes are just heavy breathing. And then he starts singing.
âItâs a hard, itâs a hard, itâs a hard rainâs a-gonna fall!â
Which would be fine, but your irritationâs mounting; each new communication in your inbox serves as a needling reminder of the tragic, tedious day youâve just had. The tragic, tedious life you've been living.
You rub your temples, and Patrickâs singing the guitar refrain of the song, and youâre trying to ease your burgeoning headache, but itâs proving stubborn. The more you read, the more you just want to thwack something. Or scream. Or both.
And so it is bad timing when Patrick emerges from the bathroom.
Youâd been expecting an awkward moment. He seems the type to wear his towels irredeemably low on his waist and you werenât particularly keen on knowing the intimate distribution of all his body hair.
But Patrick walks out in something else.
Patrick walks out in a baby blue Hello Kitty robe.
Patrick walks out in your baby blue Hello Kitty robe.
And youâre pretty sure your blood turns molten.
Your eyes widen like saucers, and your lips part softly. It is certainly both the most absurd and, perhaps, endearing thing youâve ever seen, and you feel almost strange and lightheaded at the sight. Youâd been imagining all sorts of stilted scenarios in your head, but this⊠this is beyond any of those.
âWhat⊠the hell are you wearing?â you manage to sputter, your chest kindling with both embarrassment and amusement.
Patrick glances down at the robe.
Youâve had it since you were nineteen, is the thing, and it only just fits you now, so, naturally, it looks absolutely comical on him. The sleeves come up to his midforearm. The hem is immodest, to say the least, rivalling his shorts in that regard. And the plush belt only just about encircles his waist, but he had the decency to tie a tiny knot at the front.
He looks back up at you. He seems remarkably nonchalant.
âAh, this?â he says. âI thought it was, like, a complimentary thing. Yâknow, like the little shampoo bottles?â
And he has the nerve to add a little shrug for effect, though, when you look closer, you can see the corners of his mouth are twitching slightly with suppressed laughter.
You donât know whether to laugh or cry. A possessive part of youâwell, the possessive part of youâwants to incinerate the robe with him in it, because heâs definitely naked under there. You can see the damp hair on his chest peeking out from the neckline, and water runs in rivulets down his legs, dripping on the carpet, and heâs getting your robe wet.
But the image of him raiding the bathroom, thinking heâd found some sort of freebie, is so strange and amusing.
You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.
âYou thought the motelâthis motel, Sunny Skies motelâgives out Hello Kitty robes as complimentary items?â
Patrick grins in response. He is utterly thrilled with the effect he is having on you.
âHey, Hello Kitty is a timeless icon,â he says.
And your eye twitches. You feel a little deranged.
âYeah,â you say, enunciating sharply, eyes still a little wide, and you slowly move the laptop from off your knees, âThatâs why I bought the robe.â
âYou know, youâre not a very generous hostess,â he says, like heâs been sitting on the grievance for a while.
You release a laugh that is halfway a winded breath, âOh, really?â because heâs not exactly getting a five star guest review on AirBnB either.
Patrick he tsks and nods slowly like heâs sad to break the news. And he saunters around the poky room, hands hiked high in the pockets of the robe.
He gives an exaggerated onceover, inspecting the room, before his gaze settles on you. You are now cross legged, leaning forward, your laptop immolating in front of you as your fingers fly across the keyboard.
"Can't believe this place actually has a TV," he muses, walking over to the small, ancient box. He glances at the remote, lifts it, and turns the TV on. A bright red screen flashes No Signal.
"Nevermind." He flops down on the edge of the bed next to you. "Whatâre you doing?â
You suppress an eyeroll, or violent screech, or spontaneous second degree murder at his question.
He knows what you're doing, but he's clearly itching for some sort of attention, a stray pawing at the restaurant door in search of warmth. And you wonder how long itâs been since heâs spent so much time with someone. You're a little hesitant to indulge him, partly because you're still processing your callously stolen garment and all the flesh with which itâs become familiar.
"Email," you say tersely. "Work stuff."
"Oh, right, right," Patrick nods and nods, as though only now realising that you're in the middle of a task.
He peers over your laptop screen, looking at the rows of email threads.
"Looks stressful," he comments.
You spare him a glance. His proximity is a tangible, intrusive thing, and robe gapes open, exposing a damp triangle of his chest and collarbone, his bare feet crossed at the ankles.
âYeah,â you say, not even bothering to sheathe the irritation in your voice. âIt is.â
For his part, he seems unfazed by your tone, or at least not willing to acknowledge it. He continues to peer at the screen, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
And you donât know why, but you feel a strange, singeing humiliation at his scrutiny. You and your stupid mire of spiritdecimating emails. You feel pathetic enough to belong in a museum. An abstract sculpture portraying modern melancholy.
âCan you not... stare, please?â you croak, then clear your throat, your fingers against the keys growing jerky and feverish, like the sputtering adrenaline of something soon to perish. âI need to finish this.â
âSure, sure.â
Patrick holds up his hands in surrender.
He looks around the room for a moment, as though contemplating his next move, and when he seizes beside you, like heâs just spotted a motion-activated grenade, it is so noticeable that it actually makes you stop typing and look up. He is facing away from you, is the thing.
There's a moment of silence. You watch his back. It looks like heâs not even breathing. The hum of the laptop fan and the low drone of the TV and the thick, tepid waft of the ventilation system compete with each other.
Slowly, slowly, as though you, too, have spotted the bomb, and youâre bracing yourself for flakspray, you look over his shoulder. And oh. Oh.
You see what has arrested his attention.
On the bedside table is a little black cardboard to-go box, Meyerâs Butcher & Grill printed atop in block lettering.
You blink. You had forgotten about the box completely. A relic of a day you hope will be extracted irrevocably from the flesh of your cerebral matter via some sort of alien abduction or government experiment.
But Patrickâwellâhe hadnât been tightly shutting his legs as the polished toe of a hoary businessman conspicuously crept up his shin. He didnât have to feign interest in golf for three hours while a cracked leather seat scraped the back of his knee.
No, Patrick is looking at that box like it houses nirvana. When he leans forward a bit, you can see how his throat moves involuntarily. He swallows. You see the muscles in his jaw flex with primal intensity.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The moment is heavy with tension, like the air before a storm.
And this seems to be an apt metaphor, because there is suddenly a deep noise, like the sky churning after thunder. And it is coming from his body. And it is such a loud, visceral noise of human urgency that you almost recoil.
A strange mix of shame and pity swell in your throat. The box, as it were, had filled you with such a strange sort of repulsed nostalgia that you really had let it slip your memory. You have no interest in its contents. But this manâs raw response rekindles the abject guilt in your tummy.
Patrick turns to you. He turns to you very slowly. And you can see how his eyes are almost glazed over. He wears the look of a man staring at the Holy Grail. A tentative shock, like heâs been marooned on a deserted island for a dozen years, and has just stumbled upon civilisation.
He opens his mouth. His jaw is slack and leaden. His tongue pools with saliva. And if a string of drool slips past his lip, itâs the least you can do not to mention it.
After a while, he manages thickly, âWhat⊠uh. What is that?â
âItâs, uh⊠steak. From the restaurant.â
He nods. He nods very slowly. As though heâs been rendered physically incapable of saying any more, though his words come suddenly, âSteak?â
âUh, yeah. Filet mignon, I think. The⊠fucking⊠guy ordered it, butâŠâ you feel, in a fleeting moment, a feral sort of fear, like a fawn caught alone by a wolf in the forest. And itâs silly, obviously, but thatâs how intense his gaze is right now. You clear your throat, âI mean, Iâm not hungry.â
Patrickâs breathing is growing increasingly laboured. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, the wet muscle glistening in the dim light.
A moment passes.
âYou can, uhâŠâ you hesitate, a bit transfixed by his carnal hunger, your voice sounding oddly fragile, âYou can have it⊠if you wantâŠâ
Patrick's eyes flicker almost imperceptibly at this. And youâre sitting there, and you expect him to just go ahead, and, maybe, in the background of your mind, you feel bad that the mealâs gone cold.
But heâs not eating. No, heâs suddenly become very still, as though waiting. As though trying to discern your sincerity.
"Are you sure⊠you donât want it?" he asks.
And there is something about his voice, small and corporeal. It sends a strange, hurtful waft of pity through your chest. It sounds like itâs been scraped over barbed wire. It is raw and vulnerable and painful.
And you have the sense that, even if you did say noâwhich you wouldnâtâhe has the look in his eye of someone who will definitely end up eating that steak, one way or another.
You shake your head, clearing your throat, âNo, no, of course not. Take it. Please. Itâll just go to waste.â And your voice is sort of coloured by the notion that youâre on the verge of tears.
For a moment, Patrick's reaction is oddly unreadable. It's as though he can't quite believe his luck. And then, he turns, scrambling for the box as though it may spontaneously disappear now that itâs his.
He tears the lid off and, from here, his face looks cast in strange shadows, a shimmer flickering past his face as the low lamplight catches the foil in the carton.
There is something about the instant greasy, bloody aroma that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Youâve never liked steak. But he's already reaching inside.
Patrick canât seem to chew quickly enough. He almost whines softly with each swallow.
Itâs an animalic scene of consumption.
You think of hyenas mauling their prey, but he also looks very small, and vulnerable, and certainly odd, because heâs still wearing your robe.
He devours the meat voraciously, and he doesnât even bother to wipe away the stream of red dribbling down his chin, but he has the decency to hold the box right under his chin so he doesnât make a mess.
His fingers are covered in blood and mashed potatoes. Thereâs a little plastic container of chimichurri in the corner of the box, but he seems content ignoring it.
You have a strange sense that this whole ordeal is something you shouldnât even be watching. And that, when a loud knock sounds at the door, you should be sort of embarrassed, but you donât know why.
âMaintenance.â The man at the door seems so bored as to be disgusted. He towers over you, and is peering down, arm resting against the doorframe. He is gnashing open mouthed upon a wad of gum.
You are suddenly conscious of your dishevelled appearance, and find yourself scrambling to button your shirt up.
âUm?â you say, skewing your face a bit confusedly as you slip the buttons closed.
You let your sleeves roll down, the rumpled flare of the open cuffs falling over your wrists.
âAir conditioning maintenance,â the man repeats, as though you are a bit dense. You notice, now, he has a friend behind him.
And, âOh!â you say, âRight, yeah, the air conditioning, the thermostats showing 60, but the airâs still hot.â
He blinks down at you, his head lolling to the side, and he tongues the inside of his cheek. His arms are big as boulders and tattoo strewn.
âYou try resetting it?â he says.
Your jaw clenches.
âYes,â you smile tightly. âItâs still not working.â
He harrumphs and then sort of coughs loudly and then sniffs, âYeah,â he drawls, âwe been getting a lot of complaints.â
âLotta complaints,â he friend chimes boredly, tugging up the sagging waistband of his comically oversized grease stained jeans. He is idly twirling a screwdriver.
And then the one in front, the larger one, flicks his gaze over you. And then over your shoulder. He seems vaguely disinterested, for his part, in the story behind your blowsy, tousled appearance, and the half naked man tearing into a steak takeout in a Hello Kitty robe behind you. You figure working in a motel begets much stranger sightings, but you cringe to think of the conclusions he may be drawing. A disillusioned businesswoman and her famished prostitute? Does he think the robe gets you going? You shake your head of the embarrassment.
"Ah... ma'am," he utters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded overalls. "You and... your friend need to vacate the room for about twenty minutes while we work on the unit."
Outside, Patrick strikes his chest two times and manages a distasteful burp.
A draught sweeps past and the hem of the robe heâs still wearing sways dangerously. You arenât even wearing your shoes. The soft soles of your feet lay flat against the warm tar through the thin gauze of your tights.
Youâre holding the Coors can, still unopened, warm to the touch between your fingers, and Patrickâs got a cigarette he bummed off one of the workers between his lips.
âNice outfit,â the guy had saidâthe shorter one, with the baggy jeans and crew cut and scar on his temple.
âThanks,â Patrick had grinned, unashamed.
âAre you supposed to be smoking?â you ask.
The night is sticky in the mouth, sultry and thin, like a yawn.
The candescent red pearl of the cigaretteâs end bobs with Patrickâs each inhale. The smoke curls past his lips like wisps of grey fog, the humid wind carrying them off like fragments of a weary conscience.
Patrick shrugs. Inhales deeply, his eyes trained lazily on the sky above.
Youâre far enough from him, now, that when you look at him, heâs a strange tableau all on his own. This boy not yet a man, scantily wrapped in vivid blue, his too long legs and too large feet and too farfetchedness. He stands against the hellscape of Sunny Skies. Sickly yelloworange streetlights casting looming shadows that writhe like living things on the ground.
His lips and fingers still glean with the greased detritus of his cold steak dinner.
âNight before a match?â you ask then, and you find yourself following his gaze heavenward. The sky is effectively starless, but you appreciate the deep shade of indigo. âDoesnât seem smart.â
âSmart,â he echoes.
He reaches up to pinch the cigarette, takes another drag before tugging it off his lips and flicking some ash off. You watch how the smouldering grey specks float down to the ground before dissolving into nothing.
When you look up at him he is looking at you.
âItâs not Wimbledon,â he says, like heâs breaking the news to you, a meandering coil of smoke swirling from his now halfway smirking mouth, the plume veiling the dim streetlight glow in an almost tender way. His voice is kind of loud, when heâs speaking to you now, because thereâs a few feet of parking lot between you, but itâs quiet enough that he could just talk normally, if he wanted. But he doesnât. He says, loudly, pointing at you with the brilliant orange end of the cigarette, âHelps me relax.â
He shrugs again, brings it to his lips again, and slowly turns around. And you think heâs hiding, but heâs made a full rotation by the time he exhales, the smoke streaming out his lazy smile and billowing all around his face, so you suppose not.
âItâs mostly a mental game,â he says, gesturing with the cig again, bringing it close to his temple in a way that makes your brows knot in slight concern, âTennis. I could be the most disciplined guy everââ
The concern in your furrowed brows turns to dubiousness. âCould you?â
ââcould cut out drinking, cut out smoking, eat all the green shit, sleep at nine. But if Iâm fuckinâ pulling my hair out about stepping onto a court, Iâm fucked.â
You think he has a point. You think you remember a therapist, at some point, saying something about compartmentalising. But you donât really know what that means. You stopped seeing her after three sessions, anyway, so who are you to cast judgement on discipline.
Still, âWhere did you say youâre ranked again?â
Patrick chuckles at that, a slight nod as if to say touché. He takes another deep drag, the ember smoldering bright for a moment before the smoke spills past his lips again.
âTwo hundred and one,â he says, and heâs ostensibly unwounded by this sentiment.
âNot exactly Federer or Djokovic,â you say, and it seems like heâs strolling towards you now.
âYou want a good show tomorrow?â he says, hiking a hand into the waisthigh pocket of the robe.
âOh, I expect one.â
He pauses, closer now. Cocks his head at the can in your hands.
âYou want that?â
You snort, hide it behind your back as though heâs got object impermanence.
âYou can have it if I see you win tomorrow.â
Patrick scrunches his nose up at this, like a kid whoâs smelled something nasty and doesnât know how to keep it off his face, but heâs really just considering, and maybe disgruntled at the dissipation of your giving mood. But he tilts his head to the side, raising his brows like heâs conceding.
Then, looking down at the robe.
âYou want this?â
You laugh, âYes?â you say, like itâs obvious.
But he seems surprised, âStill?â
âYes!â
âIâm naked!â
âIâll run it through wash twelve times. Itâs mine.â
He throws his head back, making a real show at being putout by this. A protracted groan of longsuffering leaves his lips.
And now youâre really laughing. âYou can buy your own with your prize money. Warm beer and a new robe, thatâs the height of luxury.â
He takes his hand out of the pocket, claps it hard against his chest as if wounded, and his lips shape around the cigarette in a way thatâs almost artful. He takes a long, terminal inbreathe. Drops the cig. Crushes it beneath the sole of his foot. Faces away, and all you see is a large, cascading cloud, swishing away from him and out into the night.
âFirst my beer,â he turns around, âThen my robe. What next? My car keys? Youâre gonna take my car keys and hold them hostage until I win.â
You make a face of sort of abject disbelief, though youâre still smiling.
âMy beer,â you say, slowly, like youâre speaking a different language, eyes still sort of manic with the shock of his gall, âAnd my robe.â
The robe in question is now halfway open, but then he seems unconcerned with modesty. The dark hair on his chest looks almost silver beneath the street lights, the faint glimmers of water still clinging to his skin catching aglow.
âThatâs a real shame,â he says, and heâs walking towards you, the hand he had slapped in his chest to show you how youâd spurned him now stroking the soft material of the robe with a carelessness that borders on intimacy, âI feel like it brings out my eyes. Donât you think it brings out my eyes?â
Your gaze flicks from the robe, to his eyes, and back again. Heâs standing in front of you now, and heâs sort of towering over you. He has an ease when he moves, like a stray cat or a rogue cowboy. Or something else. You suppose you canât think of it.
âYou can get another blue robe, Patrick.â
He shuts his eyes. Heâs savouring your saying his name, or mourning the robe, or both. But probably the latter with how his fingers caress the lapel.
âOne that fits, maybe. Definitely one with a higher thread cou⊠nt.â You hesitate. Because heâs singing again.
âOh, whatâll you do now, my blue-eyed son?â heâs doing something with his face; something like heâs trying to feign a compelling hurt, but heâs smiling too hard. âWhatâll you do now, my darling young one?â
You laugh, and heâs close enough to you that when your head falls forward it hits his shoulder, and your nose brushes against a plush outline of Hello Kitty, and he smells like cigarettes and motel soap andâwellâyou because of the robe.
âIâm going back out before the rain starts a falling! And itâs a hardââ
âOkay,â you say, because heâs getting louder, but youâre still laughing and grinning wildly.
âItâs a hardâsing it with meâitâs aâŠâ
He holds the note. His eyes are still closed. You roll your eyes and you donât step away from him, and youâre still holding the beer behind your back.
Your voice is low, but, âA hard rainâs gonna fall,â you supply grudginglyâwell, youâre still smilingâand he throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you against him and sings, loudly,
âItâs a hard rainâs a-gonna fall!â
âOkay,â you say again, pushing away from him, and having to sort of extricate yourself from his hold by slipping beneath his arm. âVery nice, you want some cash?â
âWhatever you can spare,â he says.
And youâre so intrigued by the way he looks at you. He has the sort of face that demands to be catalogued in intimate detail. His eyes crinkle at the corners now, in a way that makes them look almost wolfish.
âI love tennis,â he says, and he says it loudly, because youâre seven feet apart in an empty parking lot, and it makes it seem like heâs declaring something.
An empty Funyuns packet drifts by like a tumbleweed.
âWhat?â
âI love tennis. Thatâs why I do it.â He seems resentful, but resigned.
You hesitate, but when you open your mouth to speak again, he beats you to it,
âDoesnât love me back though,â heâs shaking his head, sporting a huge rueful smile that seems to coruscate in the night, âDoesnât love me back.â He huffs a sigh. âStory of my life.â
Across the lot, the two maintenance men emerge from your room.
Inside, the air conditioner blows frigid.
You're starting to think everything isn't half bad. You're a good person, letting a homeless man crash on the pull out couch in your dingy motel room, and you leave New Rochelle tomorrow. At this rate, you should extend an olive branch to Deirdre.
You brush your teeth. You change into your pyjamas, the satin of which Patrick is a little disappointed to see a lack of Hello Kitty printed on, but he doesnât mention it.
He himself is now wearing a T-shirt, and a pair of boxers, and if he quite literally kissed the robe goodbye when he gave it back to you, then you donât mention it.
And now heâs sprawled on the pull out couch, a thin sheet draped across his lower half. And youâre cross legged on the bed, the duvet gathered around you, and youâre doing your NYT word games because thatâs part of your nighttime routine, even though you tell people itâs tea or reading or yoga. This is kind of like reading. You have to think about stuff.
Whatâs a five letter word that means âhas a lingering sorenessâ?
Anyway, so, Patrick is sittingâkind of halfway layingâon the pull out couch. One arm behind his head and the other across his chest. And heâs wearing an expression thatâs both intense and a little vacant, like heâs trying to read your mind.
Or like heâs having a silent argument with himself.
Or heâs just tired.
Yes, definitely tired, you think. His eyelids flutter, like theyâre desperately trying to stay half open, and heâs sort of drifting in and out of awareness.
Heâs quiet for a while, staring wearily into the ceiling like it houses the solutions to all the worldâs problems.
And then he closes his eyes fully, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Your own gaze follows that hand, his right handâthe hand not behind his headâthe one that falls from his face back onto his chest, the one thatâs rubbing his sternum like he hasnât had a good sleep in years.
And he can tell that youâre staring. So he clears his throat and opens his eyes, catching yours. And you look away instantly. Maybe a little too quickly. Certainly a little too guiltily.
He smirks. He knows heâs caught you. And you keep your eyes averted, because you know that he knows. But you can feel his stare still on you. And you can sense a kind of curiosity in it.
Earlier when heâd said itâjust a shame such a beautiful woman will be sleeping all alone in a massive bedâyouâd laughed. Youâd laughed it off. And youâd taken a bit of pride in being the sort of strong, independent woman who cannot be charmed into sharing a bed with a stranger.
But that had been then, and now it isâwellânow, and the pull out couch, in retrospect, looks firm as stone. And here you are, sitting in this (comparatively, which must be emphasised) comfy bed, and, not for the first time, you feel like a heartless cow.
There are rings around his eyes, dark shadows like bruised flesh. And thereâs just this look to himâsomething weary, but not just in that way that says he hasnât been taking care of himself. Itâs more an aching kind of weariness thatâs sunk into the very marrow of his bones.
Patrick is watching you as your eyes flit from the bed, to him, and back to the bed. His eyes follow yours. The way he looks at you is vivid and penetrating. It makes you feel like heâs seeing all of you. But he still looks like heâs struggling to figure something out.
He lets his gaze linger for a moment longer, and then he sits up and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs.
Looking at the way his shoulders are hunched over and the way his neck kind of juts out when he cranes his head forward is kind of reminding you of a pigeon. Or maybe a falcon. No, probably a pigeon. But a handsome, scruffy, feral little pigeon, maybe. And youâre staring at him, trying not to focus too closely on any one part of him.
He rubs the back of his neck, lets his shoulders sag, and looks back at you, and now he has this kind of pleading look on his face.
And you canât tell if itâs genuine or if heâs faking it to get what he wants, but thereâs that veritable exhaustion in his eyes thatâs making him look so vulnerable.
And so you say, âGet in the bed, Patrick,â and you say it like heâs been sitting there begging you relentlessly, even though this is the quietest heâs been all night.
Heâs surprised. Surprised that youâve suggested it, but that it was more a statement than a question. And heâs studying you intently again, and heâs trying to figure you out, and youâre trying to figure him out, and thereâs a tension in the air that was there before but feels heavier now.
And he looks like heâs about to protest, like heâs going to put up some sort of token fight, but then he nods and says, âUh, yeah, thatâd be great, yeah,â and the relief in his voice is clear.
He scoots off the couch and walks towards you in these slow, silent strides, and when heâs standing in front of you, you look up at himâyou forget, whenever he recedes, that heâs quite so tallâand he looks down at you, and thereâs something expectant in his gaze, like heâs waiting for you to tell him that you were kidding, and heâs bracing himself for it.
His eyes flickering all over your face, you can see his individual lashes, and the freckle on his lip, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his nose is a little crooked, and you have to really look up at him, and that makes you feel a little small, a little vulnerable, and then he says,
âYouâre serious,â like he just doesnât believe you, like what he really wants to say is youâre shitting me, but heâs too tired not to be polite.
And you shrug. And you nod. Just once. A little nod, but itâs sincere. He can tell itâs sincere.
You do the stupid, twenty-year-old, wall-of-pillows thing. Because you refuse to go top-to-toe when heâs just been outside barefoot.
You peek your head over the pillows, like a child looking over the wall between two neighbouring gardens, and you look down at him. And he looks up at you.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose, but he doesnât break eye contact.
Youâre a little unnerved by how unblinking he is, but you donât look away either, and you both just sort of linger there silently for a few moments more.
âWhat time do you need to be there tomorrow?â
And he looks away a second and furrows his brow in thought.
âEight,â he says, and he looks back up at you, and you can tell that heâs trying to stay awake.
âIâll wake you up at six,â you tell him, playing with a loose thread on the pillow, and youâre whispering very quietly like you and he are the last two kids up at a sleepover, âMaybe six thirty. I wanna shower first. Then we can go get breakfast, we can get, likeâMcMuffins or something. Then weâll go to the country club.â
And he does something like a nod, though itâs a hardly discernible motion, and his blinks are getting longer with every beat. You donât know if you should say more, so you just wait a moment, and heâs still staring at you. Heâs still looking at you like that. His jaw a little bit slack. He looks a little less present each time he blinks, his eyes closing a little longer each time, and his eyelids are drooping.
But heâs got that look like heâs trying to read your mind. And then his brows sort of twitch.
And you give him a suspicious look and whisper, âWhat?â
But he just lets out a heavy breath of a laugh and gives a little shake of his head. And heâs got a small, amused smile on his face as his eyes fall shut, like heâs thinking, if you only knew.
#challengers#challengers fic#challengers 2024#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#patrick zweig apologist#âzweigâ is also five letters#patrick zweig and his dickensian grade poverty#he genuinely had it so grim#in fact i shed a tear#peter zeppelin#sally the motel receptionist#microsoft teams#hello kitty#bumfuck new rochelle#bitchy coworker deirdre#twitter is still canonically twitter because this is 2019
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the real treasure of the sierra madre (the head of the man who put a bomb collar on you)
#father elijah#courier six#dead money#fallout new vegas#fnv#moz#my art#i tried to draw this once before around 2019 and i didn't like how it came out then so i redrew it here :)#this is a reference to the hack that you can get all gold bars home if you stuff them into elijah's head and also to klimt's judith i hehe#tw blood#just in case#i hope the griminess of the villa and the shock-bright red of the toxic cloud came through in this piece....
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