twelve

I look like a bum.

Like the type of bum my old, Yiddish grandmother used to call out in her native language. "A schlump," she would tell me, "I did not raise a schlump!" I, obviously, never pointed out the fact that she didn't actually raise me.

Anyways, I look like a bum.

In flannel pajamas and a faded grey sweater, I walked from my hotel room down to Luke's room. The hotel was pretty quiet at 1 in the morning. Most people were asleep, I, although, seemed to never sleep.

Alex was asleep as well which meant he couldn't monitor the interview I'm supposed to be conducting. It'll be Luke and I in his hotel room alone and I'm not 100 percent sure I'm okay with that.

Luke is cool and all, but he is unpredictable. He's angry, he's sad, he's lonely. I'm never able to predict what he's going to be, I'm not sure anyone is. I doubt his own mother would be able to, I doubt his manager of ten years would be able to.

There's only one way, I tell myself as my fist knocks on the locked, wooden door of room 841.

Luke appeared seconds later, a bowl of cereal in his hands. "Hey, come in," he said quietly, his presence relaxed. He stepped aside, letting me step into the dimly lit suite. "I think we're wearing the same pajamas," Luke commented, closing and locking the door behind us.

I turned around, matching my navy blue flannel pjs to his own. "Target?" I asked, a smile on my lips.

He nodded and watched my plop down on the edge of his bed. I opened up my laptop, finding the several emails my boss has been spamming me with.

He sat down at the top of the bed, getting under the covers and getting comfortable. He made sure not to spill his almond milk-y cereal bowl. I watched him from the corner of my eyes, he was watching me, too.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, placing my phone in between us to record the session. I made sure he saw it, a silence agreement that we both knew we were being recorded.

He took a spoonful of his sugar-filled Fruit Loops, trying not to spit up as he answered, "Doing fine. Timezones fucking me over." I could see him crossing his feet underneath the covers, trying not to awkwardly touch me with his lean, long legs.

"Yeah," I responded with a laugh, "Me, too." I typed up some notes, trying to describe where we were.

In first grade, we were all required to take a writing workshop class. Abnormally small me (at the time) learned that the best way to describe a scene was to think of our five senses: Hearing, eyesight, taste, smell, and feel.

I hear Luke humming between bites of his one-in-the-morning-snack. I can hear his metal spoon hitting against the ceramic dish, I'm not sure where he got the bowl.

I can see my computer screen, it's too bright and it's hurting my tired eyes. I see him fidgeting in his seat, his own eyes wandering around the hotel room as if he hasn't been sitting in here since we got here at noon.

I taste my burnt tongue from an earlier coffee.

I smell Luke's cologne. Can he smell my cologne? Why can't I smell myself?

Feeling is something that always gets me caught up on. Do I feel with my hands or with my head? I feel the cushions of the hotel comforter as I try to get more comfortable, I feel a nervous-type of anxiety filling up in my chest. I don't know, I really don't know.

"So, you know my boss Jack?" I asked as I tried to wheel him into personal questions.

He nodded, "Tall, great eyelashes?"

I smiled, "Yes." I moved my computer closer to his feet and rolled over until I laid upon my belly. "He sends me questions every four seconds—I swear—and I figured we could start to answer some of them."

"I could try. I don't know what you need, though."

"There is no wrong answer. This whole issue is about you," I reminded him. "We can start with something fun, like music taste. I'm gonna walk out right now if you don't have at least a semi-good music taste."

Luke laughed.

I liked when he laughed. It made me feel like I'm doing something right. Luke didn't laugh a lot so every small accomplishment is a step.

He opened his mouth, dropping Vampire Weekend, The Front Bottoms, The Griswolds, and then the usual Blink-182, Green Day because he, at heart, will always be a 2000 emo punk. Even though he was a child in the 00s.

"What about your parents?" I asked, trying to type as fast as he was speaking. "Did they raise you with a pretty decent taste?

He dropped his bowl on the bedight table and crossed his arms. "We aren't going to talk about my parents," Luke firmly spoke.

I formed my lips into a straight line, trying to come up with something witty to say, to save my ass. "That's fine, I guess."

Luke and I are different.

I grew up family-oriented. I was the only kid in the house of my parents, one set of grandparents, and a few dogs. We had as many family dinners and breakfasts' we could fit into the month, we went into the city together on the weekends, we spent most evenings together as well.

I get bothered with my parents, but I love them. I can't imagine not being with them. Even now that I'm away, I talk to them constantly. I know that once I get home, I'll be in their house eating their Nutella until Mom yells at me.

From what I've gathered, Luke doesn't talk to his parents. He doesn't talk to his siblings. He doesn't talk to anyone in his family and that just seems weird to me.

I can't imagine dropping them like that.

"Are we going to move on or is that it?" He asked, his earlier lovely persona obviously gone.

"No," I sighed, seeing the clock reach closer to 2:20, "We've got more."

He sighed, as if his time was more valuable than my time.

4/20 blaze it !!!1!!! jk I work two jobs today!! not blazing anything but my bank account!! loL!! death!!

Anyways, thoughts on Michael's life with his family versus Luke's life with his family?

Why do you think Luke's family stopped talking to him? Or, do you think it's the other way around? Did Luke stop talking to his family?

Do you think Luke misses his family? Actual emotions?

Are you getting my notifications now? Cry.