9

Octavian parked the car. He felt a little guilty for driving back to Maple Ridge in that state even though he hadn't drunk much. He was not used to drinking, actually; he was comfortable with being sober while people around acted dumb. Helen on the other side was very dizzy, indeed. The numbers on her bill came saltier than she thought they would, she remembered Octavian saying to forget because he had already dealt with it. He helped her pay. He was a good man. What were those circles with numbers now? 5, 6, 3, 4, 1, 2... Oh, they were inside the elevator.

She pressed the button, she was faster.

Two was the right one. She remembered the exact day when Logan said in a whisper the number of their floor. "Two", he had said, "press 2." And that is, she thought, the number of little feet I want running around our house in a while...

Plim!

Neighbour pushed her arm slightly to leave the cubicle. "My memory is not so good, but your door is this one, heh?"

"Yes, and this is yours." She pointed at the brown door opposite hers. "I think we are neighbors."

"You think?" Octavian touched her hand so she could move to the side while he opened the door.

Helen gasped. The interior of Octavian's house was nothing like Ap2. It was somewhat dark. As they entered she realized they were in the kitchen. From where Helen stood she could only focus on the chaos and (strange as it sounds) sweetness of that place. It was uncommon, that's for sure. Having came out of the seven dwarfs tale, where dust and household items shared the same space. Some tiles were missing from the wall near the sink, shadowy illuminated by the street outside. The table occupied most of the kitchen, it was huge, with the perfect size for a wardrobe so that's why it had so many clothes and towels and hats and bras onto it, everything mixed in shapeless mounts of wraps. As they walked Helen counted 3 bowls of cereal lying on counters and more, many more hockey magazines sticking out of the T-shirt piles. Maybe the alcohol in Helen's veins was being very effective but if her vision was alright and she wasn't having hallucinations, Octavian's house was more interesting than the backstage of a grand theatre.

"Would you like something to eat? There's juice in the fridge." He said casually. Then corrected himself "... even though juice is not to eat."

She answered no thanks distractedly, looking over the place she had gotten into. She wished there was more light so she asked Octavian to turn on the lights, but he said no, he would show her the fireplace and turned right. It was a small room separated from the kitchen by a pile of chunks of wood, disposed in an L, occupying a considerable space of the room, by the way the space where it would make more sense to put a couch, right in the front of the fire. But what struck her the most was not the absence of a couch or the lots of wood imitating a couch, but the wall where the pile of wood would supposedly be leaning against, the wall separating the fireplace living room from the kitchen - if there was a wall there. As said before the thing that separated the rooms was the chunks of wood, because in between was what looked like the leftover of a wall.

It had been demolished, so the only thing left was the foundation, sticks vertically glued to the ground and some horizontally crossing over those, forming squares. The plaster which used to cap the foundation had fallen below on broken chunks. The house had dust and chunks everywhere. They were white, sometimes yellow, the predominant color there was yellow, from the light and warmth coming from the fireplace being fed by the blocks Octavian was now throwing there. They made clunck, clunck, tcho!

All the mess and dust gave the impression that Octavian was undergoing a house renovation, and for a long period of time because every dusty block seemed to be there for ages.

His biceps could be seen from under the shirt, he was more muscular than his skinny friend from the bar. Another thought about her considerably sick situation and she realized, with a kind of surprise, that Logan was not handsome at all and Octavian could beat him in a scale of 10 to 1. It is amazing how people's opinions can change over betrayals.

Clunk, tcho, clunk!  He tossed the wood into the fireplace. The colours were beautiful. She sat on a piece of firewood and crossed her legs indifferently, pretending she was in a park bench and forgetting any formality she could have as a stranger. He soon relaxed nearby, drinking something she didn't bother to glance. They both watched the fire.

🚪🎶🚪

His favorite playlist was on, so the air could be warmed for the ears instead of just for the skin. It was Downtown, from Macklemore & Ryan Lewis, something he was addicted to since the release date, 2015. The only other sound they could hear was the sound of the alcohol bubbles that swam out of the glasses up to the air, and by doing so, mixing with the music. She started talking about it. About Dowtown. It sounded like a good song and for most people, the best part of a city. Dowtown is the place people go to search for movement: ain't seen nothing yet until you're downtown! Running around the whole town, neighbors yelling at me like, you need to slow down... — Helen soon was on the floor dancing, with her hips she moved, with her legs she jumped, and with her hair she messed with Octavian's head.

She has her arms around your waist
With a balance that could keep us safe
Have you ever felt the warm embrace
Of the leather seat between your legs

He had never danced in his life, of course, as on parties he would usually be in some corner with some girlfriend while everybody was crazy with hands in the air. Helen tried the Hulla, and failed. She looked like a little chinchilla.

"HAHAH!"

"Stop laughing and come dance with me!"

"Not in a million years..!"

Downtown!

Helen threw herself on the couch (the real one, they were at the living room). "I think I am drunk." She wet her lips, that were dry because of the exercise; and this natural gesture seemed to him unbearably detailed. He saw Helen undress; first the purple dress, pulled up by the head, and then her bra, which he imagined drawn as a mosaic, made with black fibers. He saw Helen getting into his bathtub and washing herself with a red soap like a comercial model.

"Would you like one more cup of wine, bae?" His voice was like a sonorous guitar rhythm asking for permission to be played. Helen would like to play, as she always liked different music, and while a kid used to admire the keyboard. But part of her also knew that sometimes different kind of music can not be mixed. If she said yes, what type of person would she be turning into? The last time she said yes to someone, she was the one who got hurt.

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