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always-another-story-blog · 8 years ago

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Short Story: Ballad For a Fool With a Cigarette

BALLAD FOR A FOOL WITH A CIGARETTE From the outside, looking in, surely all that was visible was a three foot by three foot square window in a run of the mill cream painted plaster wall, curtained by heavy rain, with a backdrop of oppressing dark grey clouds and a line of miserable looking trees with half the leaves missing. Not that that particularly mattered, because the window was on the second floor and flanked by countless other identical windows. The difference being the view from the inside, and from the inside the three foot square window and the dreary sky beyond were the backdrop to the wide windowsill currently serving as a seat for the twenty-something inhabitant of the room, a half-smoked cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth. “Hey, sit there staring out into the rain long enough and some passing schmuck is gonna write a song about you,” the lightly teasing voice belonged to the inhabitant’s next door neighbour and friend Keane. The inhabitant himself was better known as Teague, or when his friends were feeling playful, just ‘T’. He removed his cigarette from between his lips and turned lazily towards his friend and smirked. “Just as long as it’s not a limerick,” Tucking the half done cigarette back between his teeth Teague turned back to the window, away from Keane’s eye-roll. But his concentration was broken now; he could no longer even remember what it had been that had had him so completely swathed in his own thoughts. Now all he could think of as he stared at the rivulets that barred his window was that the open window was leaving him with a substantial wet patch at the bottom of one leg of his jeans. He had been sitting sideways in the window, his head leaned back on the wall and his face tilted towards the damp and desperate view that was the campus. His left leg had hung, lifeless as that of a doll while the other had been propped on the window sill, and now that his reverie had been broken Teague was uncomfortably aware of the sodden state of his jeans. With a disapproving grunt he slid down, careful not to brush his rain washed leg against his bed as he descended from the high sill. Because this wasn’t the first time he’d gotten his clothes rained on just by sitting on his window sill he said nothing, expressing no complaint because he knew Keane would only tell him not to sit beside an open window in the rain. To which he would reply that he needed the window open if he was going to smoke. And then Keane would point out that he had a miscellaneous white plastic carrier bag secured around the smoke alarm with a hair band borrowed -permanently- from another friend anyway, so he couldn’t have set the alarm off if he’d stood on a bar stool and smoked his cigarettes directly below the thing. Keane often also pointed out that there was no guarantee these alarms, practically antiques, even worked anymore. He joked that some of them still had cave painting residue on their brittle plastic covers. And then of course Teague would offer the excuse that he would rather ‘dye all his clothes fluorescent pink than have his room reek of cigarette smoke’. Simply opening the window didn’t fully eradicate the problem, but a steady rotation of gel air fresheners and regular laundering of bed linens and vacuuming jobs meant Teague could successfully ignore the faint undertone of smoke in the air. Keane was relentless in his arguments against this, pointing out that Teague could either quit smoking, or go downstairs to smoke outside the front doors to the building like everyone else. The argument would end when Teague said with finality that ‘quitting’ was for addicts, and with his measly one, and only one, cigarette a day he had no need to quit and no need for the exertion involved in traversing two flights of stairs. Twice. Playing this conversation out in his head rather than chance it aloud in case Keane had recently come up with a rebuttal to tip the outcome in his favour, Teague yanked another pair of jeans from his chest of drawers and disappeared into the bathroom for about twelve seconds before emerging in a clean and dry pair of black jeans, tossing the damp ones onto a chair. Keane glanced up from where he sat at Teague’s tiny kitchen table. He occupied the flat next door, meaning it was identical in every way to Teague’s, except everything in there was the other way around. Keane and Teague had met two years previously, when both had been freshers. They hadn’t been in the same class, or even on the same course. Teague was taking a combined degree of Philosophy and Literature, with electives in Journalism and Accounting, which Keane still failed to fully believe he had kept up with passing grades for three years. Keane studied Architecture and Engineering. They had met through a mutual friend. Keane was diligently researching for his next project in Architecture. The book he had set on the table was thick enough to pass for one of the great blocks the pyramids had been constructed from but instead of give up on the mammoth reading task he had brought the book over to Teague’s room in the hopes that his friend and neighbour’s intellect would rub off. That or Teague would understand the book better and explain it to him. However, when he had knocked on his friend’s door he had found that, in anticipation of company, considering neither of them had a class that day, Teague had propped the door open so Keane could get in without a key. He found Teague ensconced in his daily ritual of a single cigarette. Never any more than that, and Keane had yet to witness Teague miss a day of this routine. Though he still didn’t know what purpose it had. Deliberately not catching Keane’s eye, knowing that the choice of conversations doing so would provoke were limited to either the fact that he had soaked his jeans with rain again or the building sized book on his kitchen table, Teague crossed to his desk. Keane followed his movements. He’d actually had a second agenda in coming over to Teague’s place this afternoon. Though it had slipped his mind until now, he had been intending to tell Teague that someone living on the same floor as them, who was also taking one of the same classes as Teague, was rumoured to have their eye on him. Who this person was, where exactly they lived and any other helpful details had yet to make their way to Keane’s ears, but he still wanted to tell Teague the story so far. In response Teague wordlessly retrieved his cigarette, which now only had about three viable millimetres left and stood below his window, leaning his elbows on the sill and staring at the window rather than out of it. Becoming entranced by the patterns the falling drops and rushing rivulets created on his window because of the slant it created when it was pushed open, Teague sucked on his cigarette again and sighed the smoke from his lungs. Keane regarded his friend’s slightly awkward position. There wasn’t much room between the bedside cabinet and the beginning of the L shaped desk that occupied an entire corner of the room, yet Teague had crammed himself into the space and didn’t look likely to move any time soon. The view of his from this angle, framed so perfectly by his rain spattered window put Keane in mind of a music video for a power ballad. He shook his head. “Honestly, it’s like you want to be immortalised in song,” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It was like a biblical miracle, it even made the feeding of the five thousand sound like an episode of Come Dine With Me. The sun was shining. And not a cloud in the sky. Well, perhaps one or two, way off in the corners, close to the horizon, where they wouldn’t get in the way of the enrapturing expanse of blue that blanketed the town. His daily cigarette propped in his mouth Teague laid on his back in the middle of the floor between his bed and his wardrobe, one arm flung over his eyes, willing the ash currently suspended above his lips not to fall before he was ready to muster the energy to move it. He frowned as a shadow…no…two shadows swam and swirled in the sliver of light that made its way beneath his arm and through his closed eyelids. “Do you guys mind? You’re blocking the light,” he mumbled, still without moving, the ash miraculously clinging on. A playful chuckle made its way to him from somewhere close to the window. “What light? Your eyes are closed and your arm’s covering them up,” Teague sighed, removed his arm, raised his torso slightly and took a drag of his cigarette before opening one eye in order to reach over and accurately tap the ash into a saucer beside his hip. He didn’t bother to even consider explaining to James that even with his eyes closed he could see that light was streaming into his room, that the rare sunlight warmed his face and cast a hot orange glow over his eyelids. Behind them there were contours of shadow and glow, according to the shape of his eyelids as they covered his eyes. He’d never bother trying to describe the moving shapes and patterns he could see with his eyes closed because of the way his eyes worked constantly, blood flowing, atoms shifting, signals firing. In the pools of deep orange inside his eyelids there were the faintest pale gold rings that shrunk upon themselves endlessly like ripples on the surface of a pond when a stone is skipped over it, but played in reverse. Teague registered the disappearance of one of the interfering shadows a split second before he felt the presence of another body beside his on the floor. He kept his eyes closed and didn’t move, letting his sense of touch reach out and detect the movements of the other body, quiet, light shifting against the thin scratchy carpet. The body was small, skinny. Definitely not James. Keane glanced at his neighbour and friend before folding his hands beneath his head and closing his own eyes. Keane didn’t see the gold ripples, he wasn’t looking for them, but he saw the orange glow, like a bonfire against a clear night sky, and smiled. “James, go sit down or something,” he mumbled. Unseen by either of his friends James made a face that made him look comically and devastatingly like a child before sitting heavily on Teague’s bed. Keane winced at the agonised groan of the aging springs. Teague did not. James shifted a little, folding his arms, and then unfolding them because a visual representation of his indignation was pointless when the only other two people in the room had their eyes closed. “Anyway T,” he said purposefully. Teague held his breath for a moment, knowing what was coming. Ever since Keane had told him about his ‘interested party’ the previous evening, he’d found himself lapsing into thought about it every so often, and then of course Keane had mentioned it to James when he came over because Keane told James everything, no matter how often he regretted it for whatever reason, his trust in his friend remained steadfast. Teague had always found this touching if not a little heart-breaking. “I suppose you don’t want to know who it is.” Teague opened one eye again and raised his cigarette, mildly pleased to find there was still enough of it left to take a few drags. “I’m not even sure this is more than a baseless rumour,” Keane opened one eye in order to shoot Teague a scathing look with, but his friend’s face was still covered by his arm and his look missed its target. He sighed and closed his eye again. “Why would you think that? It’s not exactly a hard story to swallow,” Teague shifted his arm enough to regard Keane questioningly with his left eye. “Why?” Keane gave a short laugh and moved his hands from beneath his head to his stomach. “Come on Teague, people are always interested in you,” James nodded in agreement for a moment before realising again that no one could see him and he stopped. He chose instead to verbally put forward his agreement. “Keane’s right T, you have half the department intrigued by you most of the time,” Finding himself in a rare position – not knowing what was going on or what people were talking about – Teague removed his arm from his face, wrinkling his nose at the odd sensation sudden freedom gave it, and sat up, taking the last drag of his cigarette with him before crushing it out in the saucer. “Why would you say that?” James laughed and threw his hands up. “Seriously! Is this a teen movie or something? You’re the quiet genius who hardly reacts to anything or anyone. You turn up, you ace tests, you don’t really interact with anyone, then you leave, not hard on the eyes either,” Teague blinked and turned his head on one side like a puppy and glanced at Keane, who, as if sensing his gaze, backed up James’ words. “True, you’re kind of an enigma, a lot of people are attracted to that sort of thing,” he opened his eyes and leant up on his elbows. “Honestly, don’t you at least want to know if it’s a guy or a girl?” Teague sighed. As if it mattered. He’d had enough of this conversation already. He lay back down with a muffled thump and threw both his arms over his eyes, paused, and then moved his arms enough that the light from the window could hit his eyelids again. Then he frowned and sighed. His orange glow seemed to have dimmed to a brown smudge. “It’s started raining again hasn’t it?” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The night sky was shrouded in a thick layer of cloud that caught the world’s extensive array of artificial light, turning the heavens a somewhat sickening mix of purple, grey and orange that no matter how long he stared at it, Teague couldn’t get his eyes to comprehend. This nauseating swirl of colour spewed forth a dismal spattering of very light rain. Too light to really bother Teague where he sat, once again, beside his open window, back pressed flush against the wall, one leg swinging while the other was propped beside the open air. Besides, he wasn’t wearing jeans, he had opted instead for sweat pants with elasticised cuffs that came to a stop just below his knees, and his feet were bare. Via the open window five feet to the right of Teague’s came the heavy bass line of the playlist James and Mal had set up on Keane’s laptop. And if he strained his ears the low hum of idle conversation was just barely detectable beneath the music. Teague wondered vaguely if Keane was already regretting agreeing to James and Mal holding a party in his flat. Teague had refused before Mal had even finished the question. Mal was another classmate and friend, one whom Teague usually associated with rational decisions and thinking, especially where James’ outlandish ideas were concerned, but this time logic seemed to have abandoned him. He was sure Keane too would have refused had Mal been the one to ask, but because it had been James he had eventually agreed. He could never refuse James. They had always been close and Keane seemed to see their close friendship as something closer to a family tie, this affection leading him to be unable to refuse anything James asked of him. When Teague had expressed his disbelief in the form of a raised eyebrow paired with a mildly amused smirk Keane had averted his gaze and pointed out that other than himself, James and Mal only a small handful of people would even be there. Despite his refusal to host the ‘get together’ as Mal was describing it, Teague had taken pity on Keane’s position and agreed to help him make James help him clean up the next day, along with leaving his door propped open for quick escapes and a secondary bathroom option. The second anyone threw up in his bathroom however, his door would close. Teague blew his fringe out of his eyes, frowning briefly when it simply fell back into exactly the same place as before, and raised his cigarette to his mouth, staring down at the street and pondering what Keane had said the previous day about being seen as an ‘enigma’. He’d never for a second thought such a thing might be true, but now that it had been brought to his attention he wondered if there was something he should do about it. After all, he wasn’t as enigmatic as people thought; there was nothing special or exceptional about him. He got good grades, mostly due to being fairly well read and being good at studying, and wasn’t particularly talkative. Never until university had that been synonymous with ‘enigmatic’. Taking another drag and blowing the smoke through the gap between the window and the frame he tossed his head in a second, and equally futile, attempt to clear his hair from his eyes, and decided that whatever the other members of his classes wanted to think ultimately had nothing to do with him. It would be fruitless, and an abysmal waste of energy to even begin to consider changing the minds of his classmates. Not to mention, it was of no consequence what his classmates thought of him, or what misconceptions they had. A year from now he would probably have seen the last of them, and even if he hadn’t, their opinions of him had no effect on him or his life anyway. Teague had only just taken another drag of his cigarette, noting that he had only a puff or two of it left before it started to burn his fingers and closing a door marked ‘Settled’ on his previous train of thought, when the soft padding scrape of shoes caught his attention, and as he looked up in reflex, looking for the sound, he saw that he had a visitor. The sound was one he was somewhat familiar with, almost everyone he knew owned at least one pair of All Stars, and if ever they dragged their feet even slightly on the scratchy, worn carpet tile that was standard in all the rooms of the building, they all made roughly the same sound. The only difference was most likely down to their differing height and weight. His visitor, whose name he was having trouble retrieving from the depths of his mind, was indeed wearing sneakers, dark blue ones, with jeans, a t-shirt and a cardigan. What Teague often stated was ‘standard university student uniform’ not least because he himself, and a few friends and acquaintances, were wont to wear the same kinds of outfits. Teague lazily raised his eyes from the sneakers, to the rest of the outfit, skipping the face in favour of the hair when it was tossed to one side in a head flick that seemed like an equal mix of resolution and nerves. It was kind of wavy, and utterly black, completely absorbing the only light in the room, which happened to currently be coming from the light above the stove. Shrugging off the distraction of black hair with the kind of wave that reminded him of a rough collie’s fur, Teague met his visitor’s eyes as the yellow stove light glinted across their convex surface. He noted that in the dimness of the room they too appeared to be black. Big, dark, fathomless and trained steadily on him. Teague sat absolutely still on the window ledge, one leg still hanging, the other propped up, knee supporting his right hand, between the index and middle fingers of which still hung the last drag or two of his cigarette. The delicate wisps and curls of smoke undulated upwards only to be snatched out of the window over and over again by the crisp night air. The time elapsed between the moment he had first glimpsed his visitor, and his visitor’s almost impossibly black hair, and the moment his visitor’s sneakers came to a stop in front of the bedside cabinet that served as more of a stepping stool up to the window than a cabinet, struck Teague as having lasted a lot longer than the mere ten or so seconds he gathered it must have. “I figured you wouldn’t be next door,” was offered in place of a greeting, and Teague would be hard pressed to say he wasn’t at least slightly surprised. He got over it quite quickly though. Instead of replying straight away Teague took a short drag of his cigarette and, considering that this person may not appreciate the smoke, tipped his head back and to the side slightly to aim his exhalation through the gap of his open window and out into the night. The angle of his head then prevented him from noting the way those fathomless eyes traced over his neck as it moved, almost caressing it, taking in every movement. By the time Teague turned back those eyes had resumed their previous position and met his again. “You were looking for me?” this gave his visitor pause. It was, after all, not a particularly Teague-like question. He didn’t like to waste time with questions he already knew the answer to. But this time, it was exactly how the answer would be given and to what extent that Teague was interested in. This person knew enough about him to know he wouldn’t be at the ‘gathering’ next door. Just that small sliver of information told Teague this person was at least more knowledgeable about him that the majority of his classmates, and maybe even some acquaintances. It betrayed interest, real interest. Proper interest. Was he an enigma to his person too? Teague mentally shook off his thoughts and noted that the eyes that had seemed black from a distance were actually brown, simply brown. Running a hand through that perplexingly black hair Teague’s still unnamed visitor sighed. “Looking for implies so much uncertainty, I don’t like uncertainty,” A few second of silence heavy enough to make the floor creak passed as the two of them held each other’s gaze. Finally Teague blinked slowly and took his last short drag, crushing the stub out in the saucer beside his ankle. “I’d be lying to both of us if I feigned ignorance so I won’t go there, I’ll only say this: don’t expect anything of me,” the veil of serious determination finally lifted and Teague was graced with a small smile. More of a smirk actually. The sound of rubber soles on rough carpet tile scratched gently at the air. Teague was aware not of the warmth of the hands braced against the windowsill beside his leg, but by the sense of mere existence that emanated from them as those simple brown eyes, still holding his own, advanced on him again. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?” The kiss tasted like cigarettes and coffee ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “You are so wrong I cannot even begin to describe how wrong you are!” “How am I wrong?” “Where do I start?” “Keane!” “Teague, will you please help me out here?” “Ah! No fair! Teague, will you help me instead?” “You both know the answer to that,” “Teague!” Tipping his head back over the back of his desk chair, his left hand rubbing his eyes, his right lightly gripping a barely touched cigarette, Teague tried very hard to filter out the sounds of Keane and James’ argument, without much luck. The sound of a soft chuckle prompted him to slide his hand far enough off his eyes to see the figure sitting on the bed and leaning against the wall, another cigarette pressed between slightly pale lips, since both hands were occupied with a large hardcover. Teague sighed and removed his hand from his face entirely to check his watch. He cursed under his breath as he realised he only had a few minutes before he needed to leave in order to be on time for his afternoon lecture. Taking a long drag he surveyed his room briefly before leaning his head back, exhaling the smoke in the direction of the open window. Once the smoke was fully expelled he turned once again to his room at large. Keane and James were sprawled on the floor arguing about lord knows what, probably either a book or a sports team. Leaning against the wardrobe, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands was a skinny looking individual with the kind of soft and round features and curly blond hair that gave people the impression he was a high school adolescent, rather than a twenty-one year old working on a dissertation. His name was Fintan and he was as close, if not a little closer, to Teague as Keane was. And of course there was the visitor who could probably no longer really be called a visitor, though rather than be called by a name, James and Fintan had come up with a nickname: Ninja, in honour of the ability demonstrated the previous night in getting past Keane’s open door without being seen by the ten or so people beyond it. Teague sighed and commanded himself not to dwell on whether or not he had set himself up for complications there. After a couple of long and deep drags that left him mildly light headed Teague regarded his half smoked cigarette, hesitating to crush it out. He didn’t really want to put it back in the packet half smoked because having only half a cigarette tomorrow would probably annoy him if only in principle. But he couldn’t walk out of the building with it because he wasn’t technically supposed to be smoking indoors anyway. He could always crush it out and light it again once he was outside and smoke it on the way to class, but he didn’t like to smoke and walk… With a final sigh he leant forward in his chair, leaning his left elbow on his knee and extending his right arm towards James, effectively cutting him off mid-stream in the argument that Teague realised was still going on. Honestly, ‘married couple’ wasn’t even a sufficient description for the two of them. “Here, I have to go. Be careful, if you burn my carpet you’re paying for it,” James beamed like an idiot as he accepted the cigarette. As Teague stood from his chair, casting his eyes around for the notebook he’d need for the lecture a voice rose lazily from his bed. “Hey, what’s your number?” There was a brief moment of silence as the other three people in the room, who knew Teague far better, absorbed the question before returning to their own devices. Teague, without even glancing towards his bed, located his notebook, picked up his bag from the floor beside his chair, and inserting the notebook, stepped over James’ legs as he made for the door. “I am fairly certain I told you not to expect anything from me,” he said flatly, picking his keys up off the tiny kitchen table. “I was unaware an expectation and a phone number were the same thing,” Teague paused as he pushed his keys into his pocket, frowning slightly when the key ring caught for a second on the lining of his pocket. Without turning around he approached the door and grasped the door handle, that simple gesture sending a ripple of finality through the room like a ripple on the surface of something much thicker than water. “You guys can stay or leave, whatever, just don’t make a mess,” he said as he left. For a few seconds the room was so compressed with silence it seemed as though the roof might collapse, until Keane sighed and rolled his eyes. “So stand-offish, yet so popular, like the plot of a prime time drama,” he muttered. The mattress creaked slightly under the shifting weight of a moving body that finally settled onto its stomach, cigarette now balanced between ever so slightly nicotine stained fingers. “Is a phone number an expectation?” Keane tipped his head over his shoulder to offer the only clueless member of the room a reassuring smile. “Only to Teague,” James leaned back on one hand, turning the cigarette this way and that in the other as though making sure nothing untoward had been done to it before taking a drag. “I think the three of us are the only people who have his number, not even Mal has it,” Fintan took a sip of his coffee before holding the mug in his lap, staring at the contents before bringing it back to his lips and taking a long drink, emptying it. He rose to his knees to be able to reach up and rest the empty mug on the countertop beside the sink. Sitting heavily back down, his back connecting with the wardrobe with a muffled, hollow thud, he regarded James with a raised eyebrow. “James, the only reason you have Teague’s number is because you took it from Keane’s phone without asking,” James shot him a sulky glare before making a point of turning away and taking another drag of Teague’s cigarette. “Why is that though?” the question was quiet, slightly muffled by bed linen, almost as if it wasn’t supposed to have been asked aloud. Teague’s three friends glanced at each other as though each hoping one of the others had the answer to this question. None of them did, at least, not a complete or concrete answer. They all knew Teague was somewhat reclusive. He wasn’t particularly social and was anything but talkative; it was part of what made him intriguing to some people. He was quiet and didn’t waste much energy on talking if it wasn’t necessary, he also didn’t waste energy on extraneous or superfluous movement. As far as they were aware he didn’t even like to tire himself thinking about things he didn’t need to think about. In slight contrast to all of this however, he wasn’t totally averse to socialisation as long as it didn’t cost him unnecessary time or effort. Though if they really thought on it, none of them could think of a time when he’d done anything remotely social in a group bigger than the accumulation them and Mal. It wasn’t because Teague disliked people or social situations as such, simply that he wasn’t particularly interested, and saw no need to pretend otherwise. As for his number, perhaps that was a matter of not wanting to be held in any way responsible for any kind of relationship with another human being when he wasn’t the type to be interested in social relationships in the first place. Then again, all they could do was speculate, if they asked Teague himself there was no guarantee they’d even be able to fully understand his answer. If he gave them one at all. “I guess if he gives someone his number, he’s agreeing to answer when they call him,” Keane said slowly, tapping his lips with his index finger and gazing into the middle distance. “And he doesn’t want to?” “Maybe he doesn’t want to have to make that promise,” “Or he knows he probably can’t,” Fintan suggested quietly. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The sinking afternoon sun cast tired orange light across the city at an almost horizontal angle, resulting in a wide parallelogram shaped block of light to stand out obnoxiously on Teague’s wall above his desk where he lay, ankles crossed, right hand resting on his chest, memorizing the sensation of his chest as it rose and fell, and swelled whenever he sucked on the cigarette in his left hand. Staring at the block of light on his wall, wondering if he could keep watching it long enough to be able to see its progress down the wall as the sun continued to set, Teague was acutely aware of the existence of another human being lying beside him on the desk. Not because it was any profound or arousing existence, but because it kept shifting and if the feet, ankles crossed just like his, continued to tip about the way they were doing, he was liable to get hurt. Teague sighed and shifted slightly closer to the wall in lazy self defence. “James, if you keep fidgeting I will not hesitate to push you off the desk,” he said in a voice that lacked the necessary venom to accompany his threatening words. Nonetheless, James’ movements reduced greatly, though they didn’t stop completely. After a moment James shifted slightly again, but before Teague could either snap at him or push him off the desk, or even decide which of these things he would rather do, James leant up on one elbow to pose a suggestion. “Play a game with me T, I’m bored,” Teague let his attention slide from the sunlight on his wall to the ceiling. “What game?” he asked, wondering if he should be entertaining James’ idea, it had invited disastrous results in the past. “This or that,” Teague frowned. He wanted to sit up and see if James was being serious, and to ask what the hell he was talking about, but he wasn’t particularly willing to expend the necessary energy. “James, what are you talking about?” “You know, this or that, the game,” Not the most helpful of responses. “You mean, would I rather do one thing or the other?” Teague asked, bringing his cigarette to his lips. “No, I mean, I give you two options and you pick the one you like better,” “Isn’t that what I just said?” “No, like…coffee or tea,” James said, finally supplying Teague with sufficient information to decode his simple friend’s even simpler suggestion. James was not stupid, as such, in fact his grades were consistently good, but one would never guess this from a conversation with him. Teague sighed, breathing out a small cloud of smoke, before returning the cigarette to his mouth again. “Fine,” he said around it “you start,” James thought for a moment, taking a drag from his own cigarette before he settled on a question. “Hiking or cycling,” Teague made a face, he wasn’t partial to either of those things, but if he had to choose… “Cycling,” “Really? I’m surprised. Okay, your turn,” “Chicken or fish?” “Chicken,” was James’ instant response. The game soon became quick-fire. “Car or train?” “Train. Pen or pencil?” “Pencil. Cake or cookies?” “Cake. Beer or Cider?” “Beer. Rain or Wind?” “Rain. Spring or Autumn?” “Spring. Thriller or Action?” “Thriller. Pub or club?” “Pub. Sex or Affection?” “James!” “Wasn’t an option,” Teague sat up, feeling thoroughly irritated. His irritation only increased when he realised that, on some level, maybe subconsciously, he had known this kind of conversation was likely to come up, and he had walked straight into it. “For Christ’s sake James, why would you ask me that?” “Why does it bother you?” Teague narrowed his eyes in a glare. “Do not mess me around James,” James’ usual carefree, oblivious expression had been replaced with a very severe and serious expression that did not suit him. Not that the scowl and narrowed eyes Teague was sporting suited him any better. “Why are you suddenly questioning the way I run my life? Why does it bother you?” “Why are you so adverse to handing out a simple phone number? Keane thinks it’s because you don’t want to be expected to answer if someone calls you, but that doesn’t make any sense to me,” Teague sighed and flopped back down on the desk, wincing as his shoulder blade hit the wood. To distract himself from both the pain in his back and the discomfort of James’ question he took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the resulting plume of smoke high above his head, watching the grey tendrils curls before disappearing. “What makes even less sense to me is why you suddenly give a crap, I haven’t changed recently, I have always had the same standpoint on this subject: I do not want any kind of involvement,” James sat halfway up and propped himself precariously on one elbow, keeping half an eye on how close he was to the edge of the desk. “Besides physical involvement?” Teague sighed. “It’s not ‘involvement’. This is why there is a difference between the terms ‘sex’ and ‘making love’,” James nodded slowly, stilling his head for a second to draw on his own cigarette. Hearing his friend’s ensuing exhalation Teague took another drag and sighed away the smoke. “I can’t say I disagree, there is a definite difference, and I also have to admit that if you make it clear which you’re going for beforehand, it’s not really your fault if the other person gets the wrong idea, you can’t say ‘no strings attached’ and then change your mind after the fact,” Teague swivelled his gaze to his friend’s face. It was comfortingly less serious now, but he sensed a ‘but’ on its way. “However,” James started, prompting Teague to quietly groan and screw up his eyes. “In a situation where both parties are perfectly aware and excepting of the ‘no strings’ rule, how is a phone number a problem?” Sitting up fully and scooting back until he could lean against the wall Teague rubbed his face with his left hand before raising his right to his mouth and propping his cigarette between his lips, taking small puffs for a moment whilst sitting with folded arms. After a moment he spoke around the cigarette, his voice faintly muffled. “I don’t like giving out my phone number at all, and agreeing on ‘no strings’ and then looking for some semblance of friendship is just as bad as if they’d suddenly decided they wanted a relationship, maybe worse,” James seemed to mull this over for a moment, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke in the direction of the window. Teague plucked his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the short column of ash off into the saucer beside his knee. Instead of taking another drag he propped the heel of his hand against the leg and watched lazy swirls of smoke spill from the faintly glowing end, curl around his fingers like snake tongues, and slowly, almost hesitantly, dissipate. Finally James returned his gaze to Teague and nodded. “I can see where you’re coming from I guess,” for a split second Teague considered sighing in relief, but his reprieve was short lived. “Still don’t quite understand why only three people outside your family and your doctor have your number though,” Teague groaned and tipped his head back against the wall. “For the love of god James, the only reason you have my number is because you stole it,” he rubbed his face again and shut his eyes for a moment. Honestly, dealing with James was like dealing with a petulant child, and Teague was not a big fan of children in the first place. “No one else needs my number, no one else needs to call me, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone else to call me,” James tipped his head on one side for a second, and Teague began to brace himself for another argument, but instead a somewhat triumphant grin spread across his face. “That means Keane was right! About why you don’t like giving out your number!” Teague was about to ask James why this fact excited him so much, but was deprived the chance when, in the midst of his excitement, James’ elbow slid across the couple of inches to the edge of the desk and then over it, taking the rest of James’ body with it, and the space Teague had intended to fill with his question was instead taken up by his laughter. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ While he shifted into as comfortable position as possible on the rigid chair at his tiny kitchen table and propped his cigarette between his lips , moving the chair about until he figured out where he wanted it, Teague actively worked not to notice Fintan’s pointed gaze from the seat opposite. They were waiting for Keane and James to return with the food they had ordered. A call had come to say their order had arrived and was waiting outside the building’s main entrance, but that had been over ten minutes previous. Surely it didn’t take that long to walk down, hand over some cash and walk back up. Unless James had decided to steal all the food for himself and Keane was desperately trying to thwart his efforts. It wasn’t a particularly implausible idea. Finally, putting the chair down, propping his elbows on the table and slipping the cigarette from his mouth without dragging on it, Teague met Fintan’s gaze. “What, Fin?” “I hear James pissed you off,” Teague sighed and let his head fall forward for a second before raising it to the cigarette still balanced between his fingers. He took his drag as slowly as possible to delay the conversation he suspected Fintan was about to have with him. “I had to forgive him after he almost broke his arm though. I hope you’re not aiming to do the same,” Fintan gifted him with one of his pretty smiles that made him look even younger than he already did. “Of course not, I’m not mentally deficient,” Teague had to smile at that, it was always fun to poke a little harmless fun at James and his chronic lack of common sense. “Seriously though, why are you all suddenly so curious about the way I live my life?” Teague asked, resting his head on his left palm and bringing his cigarette to his lips again. “Not the way you live your life as such, just the way you think I guess,” Fintan shrugged and leant back in his seat, folding his arms and raising his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s always pretty much impossible to guess what you’re thinking, but it’s not like you deliberately made up this ‘enigma’ image, I mean, Keane said you didn’t even realise, so I wondered what it was that set your mindset and ours so far apart, though I can’t really speak for anyone else,” Teague sighed and slowly tipped his body to the left until his shoulder collided gently with the wall. He shuddered a little at the initial contact, the wall was cold. “I didn’t think my mindset was so different, except for the fact that I could care less about social interaction in general,” Fintan raised one eyebrow at him and smirked. “Should I feel honoured?” instead of answering right away Teague gently kicked his ankle under the table. Whatever his feelings on social interaction in general Fintan never failed to evoke a protective compulsion in him. Fintan and Keane both spurred a sense of brotherly affection from him, and though it had somewhat confused and disturbed him at first, he had soon grown accustomed to it, especially since the two of them were so easy for him to get along with. And, miraculously he thought, neither of them seemed interested in urging him to change his ways. Though their newfound intrigue was a little unnerving if he was honest. Teague sat up straight as he attempted to come up with a simple explanation to placate his friend. “I don’t feel the need to make asinine small-talk with strangers; I don’t feel the need to waste energy pretending to be a social being. You guys know me, you accept the way I am, and I know and accept you in return, good setup, right?” Fintan smiled again and Teague returned it before tapping the ash off his cigarette and taking another drag. “Although, you know, there are still a lot of people around here who know of you, but don’t know you,” Teague eyed Fintan warily across the table as he took a further drag. Only a few millimetres left now. “Yeah, so?” “Your last…guest,” Teague took a breath. “The one I refused to give my number to?” Fintan nodded. “Yeah, that didn’t go down too well, I mean, we tried to explain, but there’s some talk going around now,” Teague rolled his eyes and swivelled in his seat so he could lean back against the wall. Crossing his right leg over his left he folded one arm across his midriff and held his cigarette up beside his head. “And?” “Well, most people are just seeing it as another tally to the ‘enigma’ score, but some of things people are saying…if this were two hundred years ago, your reputation would be filthy, never mind ‘sullied’,” to Fintan’s mild surprise Teague laughed, the sound vibrating low in his throat and dispersing almost as soon as it met the air. “You don’t care?” “Not really,” Fintan relaxed and smiled. “Good, I wasn’t sure if you’d be indifferent or be annoyed people were making assumptions,” Teague shook his head. “People can think what they want, their opinions aren’t important, not to me at least,” The two of them sat in silence for a few more comfortable seconds before Fintan suddenly sat up. “Where the hell are Keane and James?” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Just as Teague had suspected the period of mild weather was short lived and no sooner had he begun to get used to blue skies and patches of sunlight etching themselves into his carpet did the sky don a grey shroud that made him think of dirty cotton wool and enough water to drown Cuba descended in sheets. With all the lights in the little studio flat switched off and the only light mostly hidden from view by storm clouds Teague knelt on his bedside cabinet, his head resting in his folded arms which in turn rested on his window ledge. He held his cigarette above his left elbow, careful not to drop ash on the sleeve of his jumper. Ignoring the steadily lengthening pillar of ash Teague cast his mind back over the past week. Enigma. Never in his life had he associated the word with anything outside historical references to code-breaking. Yet it had been mentioned more times in the space of a week than in the entire duration of his GCSE History studies. Really, he should count himself exponentially lucky that he had managed to happen across friends who would so readily accept his admittedly lazy approach to social situations. Honestly, opting out of social situations in university was no great issue. In the grand scheme of things, it was more important that he attend classes and complete assignments satisfactorily than to make friends. Fintan had been right though, even if they knew him, the rest of the world wasn’t so knowledgeable, and in no reality would it pander to him even if it was. Teague smiled into his arm. In the grand scheme of things maybe it was foolish to think his current standpoint on life was something he wouldn’t eventually have to revise if he wanted to exist and function within society. And as much as he’d rather not waste the extra energy, he was too logical of mind to be able to delude himself into thinking that was an option. As he shook off these thoughts he turned his attention the rain, falling so hard and fast the world appeared to be decked in thin grey stripes. If he concentrated only on the falling rain it became truly difficult to see the city beyond it, it blurred out of focus like a cheap backdrop in a portrait studio. The city faded into the background and the only sound to be heard was the relentless hammering of the rain against the concrete of the pavement. As he stared at the dismal yet sadly pretty weather Teague was suddenly reminded of Keane’s joke almost a week ago. “Sit there staring out into the rain long enough and some passing schmuck is gonna write a song about you,” Teague’s laughter was muffled by his sleeve as he remembered and began, despite himself to think up names and lyrics. Rain and Cigarettes? Smoking in the Window? Finally raising his head Teague turned his attention to what was left of his cigarette, tapping off the substantial gathering of useless ash and pushing the remaining few millimetres between his lips. He gave a wry smile as he stared out at the rain, smoke curling from his mouth as he exhaled slowly and lazily, the fragile tendrils stretching toward the open window, only to be dragged down by the rain. Really though, what would you call a ballad for a fool with a cigarette?

#original fiction #short story #ballad for a fool with a cigarette

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