Thread: Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

Two staccato chirps rose up in the darkness and the parking lot was suddenly illuminated with the beams of Michael's headlights. He opened the driver side door of his truck and made as if to swing up into his seat, but he gave pause at the last moment. Slowly, as if the thing were made of glass, he slid the borrowed suit jacket off of his shoulders. It was one of Nicholas'. Michael gripped the jacket by the collar and held it out from him, as if it were contaminated with something hazardous to his health. He stared at it for a long moment--at least, it would seem long to an ignorant bystander, though Michael hardly noticed the passage of time, he was so absorbed in his thoughts. His thumb rubbed absent-minded little circles against the inside lining. Unbidden came the image of another of Nicholas' jackets - specifically the one now stained with bad memories and expensive Bordeaux. Nick's suits were unfailingly well tailored and crisp, but the wine had set into his collar and shirt with great speed, ruining the meticulous folds and, with them, a perfect white shirt. It beaded in his hair, too, and gathered at his temples until it rolled like a teardrop down the side of his neck and disappeared between flesh and fabric. Michael imagined the combined flavors of salt skin and finely matured wine would change his dubious opinion of the drink in just one taste. Abruptly, Michael's thoughtful expression crumpled into a scowl. Son of a bitch, he snapped to no one at all, and balled the garment up almost violently and threw it into the cab. It hit the opposite door and fell into a heap on the seat. Michael slammed the door when he got in and squealed the tires when he sped out of the lot. He fumed all the way to the golden arches and halfway through the drive-thru line before he got his mobile out and scrolled furiously through his list of contacts. The phone rang four times before he got an answer. There was tinkling laughter on the line and then, absently, Bianca said, Yes? We're best fucking friends, he said by way of salutation. Excuse me? I'm his best friend. We're supposed to hang out constantly. It's in the friggin' job description. There was a long pause and then Bianca, more alert now, said, Oh my God, Michael? Why are you even-- And for you to imply anything different is just- It's stupid, okay? And bitchy. And- Oh, hold up. Michael rolled his window down. Yeah, I'd like a Double Quarter Pounder Meal, large sized, with a Coke, thanks. You really are a complete neanderthal, aren't you? Hey, Michael snapped back, you shouldn't knock eating until you've tried it. I don't know why you're so bent out of shape about it. Just think, with me out of the way you can commence with your big, gay love affair. Nothing stopping you now. Michael's cheeks went suddenly hot and he spluttered audibly. What? You don't- you don't really think that he ... and I. That we're-- Bianca laughed. I'm joking, of course. Relax. His taste is far too good for that. There was a low voice in the background suddenly, and Bianca's own voice went quiet and distant for a moment as she said, Michael. He's my ex's hetero life partner. I'll explain later. Okay, she said, loud and clear once more. Why am I talking to you, again? Are you with a man? I'm hanging up now, Michael. Bianca! Is there a man-- The line went silent. ---------------------------- In retrospect, with his face flattened against the sidewalk and his arms wrenched painfully behind his back while a surprisingly solid she-cop slapped his wrists into cuffs, it was easy to see how driving over to Bianca's place was a mistake. But he had to see for himself if Bianca really was as big a whore as he thought. Turned out yes. Yes, she absolutely was. When she was finished cutting off his circulation, the officer yanked him into a sitting position. Sir, there's blood on your shirt. Have you been injured, as well? Michael looked down at his white t-shirt, blinked a couple of times, and looked back up at the cop. Just over her shoulder he could see Bianca's new boyfriend--new, as in two-months-new, the cheating bitch--with his head tilted back and a rag held against his freshly broken nose, trying to make a statement to another cop. Casanova was a bleeder. Michael clenched and relaxed his right hand with satisfaction. ... Sir? It's friggin' ketchup, okay! In the distance, he heard Bianca snort. --------------------------- See, it went like this. Michael wasn't actually planning to beat the shit out of Casanova. And, really, you couldn't even call three measly punches before getting clubbed over the head by the geriatric security guard beating the shit out of someone , but that was beside the point. The point was that things just sorta got out of hand and it wasn't entirely Michael's fault. Okay, admittedly, he did swing his Inferno red Dodge Ram 1500 balls-out through the guard station, over the curb, and onto the middle of Bianca's perfectly manicured lawn. And he did leap out of the cab with hellfire in his eyes, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. But he really only wanted to talk . To the floppy-haired, limp-wristed douche who was standing on the front step, pawing at the woman who, up until about forty-five minutes ago, had been his best friend's girl . And maybe pawing was too strong a word for a hand placed gently against the small of her back and the Harlequin-sweet kiss he was dropping on her forehead, and Michael was fully willing to admit to a minute element of over reaction on his part. Talk. He'd just wanted to talk. Specifically, Michael wanted to talk about feet, and where he'd be putting his , and how Casanova was going to be tasting shoe polish for the foreseeable future. That's when it got out of hand, and their cozy little chat escalated into a full on domestic dispute, and then Grandfather Time took a billy club to the back of Michael's head and then there was a lot of swearing and, yes, Michael would also own up to a few comments that could possibly be construed as ageist. To be fair, he was hallucinating stars and a three-dimensional Jessica Rabbit at the time. He could hardly be held liable. Mr. Jones, the lady cop cut in flatly, fixing him with a stare via the rear view mirror of the squad car. You really shouldn't be telling me this until you've talked with a lawyer. Michael shrugged. I'm just sayin'. ---------------------------- Hours later, when it came time for Michael's one call, he was dressed in his own jeans and one blazing orange t-shirt that read Rampart Community Detention Center across the back and smelled faintly of sanitizer. Despite his most fervent protestations, the arresting officer refused to believe that the red stain on his shirt was, in fact, ketchup, and she had demanded that he relinquish it as evidence. He called her a pervert for her troubles. It was with a greatly exaggerated sense of shame that he dialed the number to Nicholas' phone, but the truth was he simply had no one else to call. When the voice sounded on the other end, Michael spat out in one big rush, Hey, it's me. Could you maybe, uh, come bail me out of jail?