inner Date by Rachael C. Preston I don’t know how long I’d been staring at my reflection, disembodied, in the darkened window, a sad shaft of street light picking amber from the crystal prisms, when I heard the key turn in the lock. “Hey, you, sitting in the dark. Been here long?” He reached behind me to turn on the desk lamp; quick, sharp movements that issued a charge of wanton energy, scattering the stillness of before. An unwelcome thought caught in my throat, briefly, as I squinted up at him. I pushed it away. It was surely, nothing more than the usual euphoria that enveloped the crew when a film shoot wrapped. It had been a long shoot and a relatively uneventful one, the story set in one room and centred on one old man’s memories and musings. The crew had sat around most of the time, reading. He’d read all of Kafka’s letters to a woman he never married. “Have you eaten yet? We can go to that little Hungarian restaurant, have some wine.” The words came quickly. I turned to look up at his face but was unable to see past his smile and the black pupils that had swallowed the blueness of his eyes. As I reached out from my chair to pull him to me I saw him stiffen. My head against his chest I felt confused, fright- ened by the mad, uncertain skittering of his heartbeat. CW. can help each other. We’ll take this thing and run with it. We'll stand together; we’ll write together.” It was what I wanted to hear. And I suppose he knew it. But not under these conditions, not with this paranoid delusion of saving me from the insidious clutches of my family. Another bottle of wine. “Have you got a copy of Rosencrantz?” he asked. “I’d like to read it before the shoot.” “No. But there’s a bookstore down the street that’s probably still open.” Hands moving. His wine glass toppled. A dirty yellow stain spread across the tablecloth. The people around us stopped talking. “Let’s get out of here.” His words, though still taut, were thicker now. The cold air outside hit me and realized how drunk I was, how unsteady Nathan was on his feet. The store was only a couple of blocks away. “Who the hell wrote Rosencrantz?!’ he snarled in my ear. There was an entire wall of plays. My vision was a little unfocused and the titles, sideways, danced and He pulled away and began talking about work. Talking rapidly. Suddenly I felt the room was too small to contain so many words. “T feel like getting bombed. I need to take the edge off.” The edge off? “Work. It’s over. I need to take the edge off work. Come on, grab your coat, let’s go.” I was hungry, but more than that, I felt unnerved by his pacing, by the way he kept thrusting his hands in his pockets, over and over, as if worried he’d forgotten something. Yes, there was definitely an edge. Maybe if we left it would dissipate in the open air of the city. “A bottle of white wine. French, please.” I gazed at the menu and across the tables to see what other people were eating. I didn’t care too much for the food here, too heavy. “So we can spend three weeks in Kitchener,” he was saying. “In a nice middle-class home,” he emphasized middle-class as if it were something alien to him; as if he hadn’t been raised with all its values, all its trappings. “There’ll be no-one to bother us, they’1l all be away at that family reunion. We can build log fires and read. My father has tons of books.” “T’ll take the schnitzel, thank-you.” “And then Rozencrantz starts shooting in January, and after that I’ll be able to pay my back taxes. Another shoot is all I need and then I can finish editing my film. No more pointing lights for someone else. Get it out there. Get started on the next one.” The wine was almost gone and he was peeling off the label on the bottle, bit by bit, his place mat filling with little pills of rolled up paper. I felt the couple at the next table glancing over, thinking, wondering. “Were you drinking at work?” Drink wasn’t the issue, I knew. There was something else, another question lurking behind, dragging its misshapen feet through my subconscious, only I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Hey, it’s over. Lighten up,” but he was looking away. Another bottle of wine arrived. There was a perceptible shaking in his hands as he poured, and the blue was coming back into his eyes. “T’ve been thinking about your father.” A change in the subject, always he pushed the focus away from his weaknesses, back onto mine. “I’ve been thinking this a long time. I just didn’t dare say anything because I didn’t know how you’d react.” I said nothing. I wasn’t about to let him draw me into another scene, another public unraveling of my protective cloaks. “Maybe something happened. Something terrible. When you were a kid I mean. Something you can’t even remember.” His voice seemed too loud. Other customers were looking now. “Nathan,” I reproached, and lit a cigarette, a smoke-screen to hide behind and collect my thought. “I want you out of there. I want to protect you. You should move in with me. We blurred, resisting recognition. I walked over to a man seated at a computer terminal. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead?” I smiled. The clerk seem confused, surprised by the fumes of raw alcohol I breathed in his face. I leaned over the keyboard with liquid courage and typed in the words. We both laughed. We both crouched by the bottom shelf. Tom Stoppard. There should have been two copies. Neither was there. “I’m leaving.” Nathan spat out behind me. I felt the venom of his words, the sense of finality I’d heard before, every time between love and hate that raged inside him. I stood up shakily but he had disappeared. I caught his arm down the street. “What’s wrong? What have I done?” “Let go.” Eyes with hatred, glaring. If only I wasn’t feeling so tight. The wine was acting as a buffer, preventing me from taking this seriously. I felt as if a part of me had stepped outside myself, and was raising my eyebrows at his delusions, his paranoia; treating the whole incident with a measure of contempt. “Stupid man,” my other self screamed inside my head. “Stupid, stupid man.” Yet I was running along beside him, pleading, refusing to let go. He needed me, we needed each other. Hadn’t the walls been broken down, finally? “Get away from me. Get out of my life. Run! Run! Can’t you hear me? I’m no good for you. Run!” He was kicking at garbage on the sidewalk. Boxes flew into the street. A car swerved to avoid them. “Please, please. What have I done?” The icy December air was beginning to sober me. Or was it the cold stone of fear? Pedestrians parted as we approached, seeking the safety of the walls. I flagged down a passing cab, desperate to avoid the pity, the contempt, in the eyes of those who were : beginning to stare. The back seat could not contain his anger, however. He pounded his fist on the door. The cab stopped. “Get out.” The driver’s voice was short, irritable. He’d witnessed this scene a hundred times before. “T’m sorry,” Nathan slurred. “I’m sorry, man. Keep driving.” “Get out!” It was worse now. He ran ahead and I let him go, praying he wouldn’t bolt the door. On eggshells I crept up on the stairs. Glass was breaking. The red-headed Renoir was on the floor, the frame shattered. The eerie Van Goghs, the steaming Picassos all askew, and he was reaching for the prisms. As the last was torn from the window he stopped, his breathing hard. Something in his eyes gave and they misted, big tears spilling down his face. “I gave in,” he crumpled to the floor amongst the shards of splintered glass, among the twisted and broken prints. He stretched out his hand towards me. I saw the empty vial, the traces of white. “T gave in,” he choked. A Dinner Date by Rachael C. Preston 1 don’t know how long I'd been staring at my reflection, disembodied, in the darkened window, a sad shaft of streetlight picking amber from the crystal prisms, ‘when I heard the key tur in the lock. “Hey, you, sitting in the dark. Been here lon He reached behind me to turn on the desk lamp; ‘quick, sharp movements that issued a charge of wanton energy, scattering the stilinss of before. An unwelcome thought caught in my throat, briefly, as I squinted up at him. T pushed it away. Tt was surely, nothing more than the usual euphoria that enveloped the crew when a film shoot wrapped. Ithad been a long shoot and a relatively ‘uneventful one, the story set in one room and centred on ‘one old man's memories and musings. The crew had sat ‘round most ofthe time, reading. He'dread all of Kafka's letters to a woman he never married. ‘Haye you eaten yet? We can go to that lite ‘Hungarian restaurant, have some wine.” ‘The words came quickly. I tured to look upat his face but was unable to see past his smile and the black ‘pupils that had swallowed the blueness of his eyes. AsT reached out from my chair to pull him to me I saw him stiffen. My bead against his chest I felt confused, fright- ened by the mad, uncertain skittering of his heartbeat. ‘can help each other. We'll take ths thing and run with it. We'll stand together, we'll write together.” 1 was what I wanted to hear. And I suppose he knew it, But not under these conditions, not with this paranoid delusion of saving me from the insidious clutches of my family Another botle of wine. “Have you got copy of Rosencrantz?” he asked. “T'd like to read it before the shoot.” “No, But there's @ bookstore down the street that's probably still open. Hands moving. His wine glass toppled. A dirty yellow stain spread across the tablecloth. The people around 1s stopped talking, “Let's get out of here." His words, bough still taut, were thicker now. ‘The cold air outside hit me and realized how drunk 1 was, how unsteady Nathan was on his feet. The store was only a couple of blocks away. ‘Who the hell wrote Rosencrantz?!" he snarled in my ‘There was an entice wall of plays, My vision was a lite unfocused and the tiles, sideways, danced and He pulled away and began talking about work. ‘Talking rapidly. Suddenly [felt the room was too small to contain so many words. “fee! like geting bombed. I need to take the edge of.” ‘The edge off? “Work. It's over. Inced to take the edge off work. Come on, grab your coat, let's fe Twas hungry, but more than that, I felt unnerved by his pacing, by the way he kept ‘thrusting his bands in his pockets, over and over, as if worried he'd forgotten something. Yes, there was definitely an edge. Maybe if we left it would dissipate in the open air of the city “A bottle of white wine, French, please.” [gazed atthe menu and across the tables to see what other people were eating. I ‘int care too much for the food here, too heavy. “So we can spend three weeks in Kitchener," he was saying. “In a nice middle-class home,” he emphasized middle-class as ift were something alien to im; a if he hadn't been raised with all its values, all ts trappings. “There'll be no-one to bother us, they'IL all be way at tat family reunion. We can build log fies and read. My father has tons of books.” “Tl take the sebritze, thank-you: “And then Rozencrant stats shooting in January, and after that Ill beable to pay ‘my back taxes, Another shoot is all need and then Ican finish editing my film. No more pointing lights for someone else. Get it out there. Get started on the next one.” ‘The wine was almost gone and he was peeling ff te label on the botle, bit by bit; his place mat filling with litle pills of rolled up paper. I fet the couple atthe next table -lancing over, thinking, wondering, “Were you drinking at work?” Drink wasn't the issue, Tknew. There was something else, another question lurking behind, dragging its misshapen fet through my subconscious, ‘only T couldn't put my finger on it “Hey, it's over. Lighten up," but be was looking away. ‘Another bottle of wine arrived. There was a perceptible shaking in his hands as he poured, and the blue was coming back into his eyes. “T've been thinking about your father.” A change in the subject, always he pushed the focus away from his weaknesses, back onto mine, “I've been thinking this along time. 1 just dida’t dare say anything because I didn’t know how you'd react.” I said nothing. I wasn’t about to let him draw me into another scene, another public ‘unraveling of my protective cloaks. “Maybe something happened. Something terrible. When you were a kid I mean. Something you can’t even remember.” His voice seemed too loud. Other customers were looking now. “Nathan,” reproached, and lita cigarette a smoke-sereen to hide bebind and collect ry thought. “Twant you out of there. I want to protect you. You should move in with me. We blurred, resisting recognition, I walked over to a man seated at a computer terminal “Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead?” I smiled The clerk seem confused, surprised by the fumes of raw aleohol I breathed in his face, [leaned over the keyboard with liquid courage and typed in the words. We both laughed. We both crouched by the bottom shelf. Tom Stoppard. There should have been ‘two copies. Neither was there “T'm leaving.” Nathan spat out behind me. I felt the venom of his words, the sense ‘of finality '4 heard before, every time between love and hate that raged inside him. T stood up shakily but he had disappeared. [Leaugbt is arm down the street. “What's wrong? What have I done?” “Let go." Byes with hatred, glaring If only I wasn’t feeling so tight. The wine was acting asa buffer, preventing me from taking this seriously. [felt s if a part of me had stepped outside myself, and was raising my eyebrows at his delusions, his paranoia; treating the whole incident with a measure of contempt. “Stupid man,” my other self screamed inside my head. “Stupid, stupid man.” Yet was running along beside him, pleading, refusing to let go. He needed me, we needed each other. Hadn't the walls been broken down, finally? “Get away from me. Get out of my life. Run! Run! Can't you hear me? I'm no {00d for you. Run!” He was kicking at garbage on the sidewalk. Boxes flew into the street. A car swerved to avoid them, “Please, please. What have I done?” The icy December air was beginning to sober ‘me, Or was it the cold stone of fear? Pedestrians parted as we approached, secking the safety ofthe walls. I flagged down 1 passing cab, desperate to avoid the pity, the contempt, inthe eyes of those who were beginning to stare, The back seat could not contain his anger, however. He pounded bis fist ‘on the door. The cab stopped. “Get out.” The driver's voice was short, irritable. He'd witnessed this scene a hundred times before. 'm sorry," Nathan slured. “I'm sorry, man. Keep driving.” "Get out!” 1 was worse now. He ran ahead and I let him go, praying he wouldn't bot the door. (On eggshells I crept up on the stairs. Glass was breaking. The red-beaded Renoir ‘was on the floor, the frame shattered, The eerie Van Goghs, the steaming Picassos all askew, ‘and he was reaching for the prisms. ‘As the lat was tom from the window he stopped, his breathing bard. Something in his eyes gave and they misted, big tears spilling down his face. “I gave in,” be crumpled tothe floor amongst the shards of splintered glass, among the twisted and broken prints. He stretched out his hand towards me. Tsaw the empty vial, the traces of white "he choked.