eighteen days later, thursday
the streetcar started again, lurching its way along the tracks, the wheels screeching as the passengers swayed back and forth. a child was crying for his father in the front. indie could hear his mother threatening to abandon him if he didn’t behave. indie felt for that child, wondering if he would turn out like her if he was abandoned. the streetcar stopped, swallowing more passengers as it regurgitated others. someone passed by her, smelling strongly of boss cologne. he chose to sit across to her, much to her annoyance. he kept looking at her; indie decided it was because of her face. finally she looked up to return his stare.
“i knew it was you! what happened to your face? no, don’t say it, i know you did it.” he burst, a gentle smile on his face. indie paled slightly as she stared into the face of an old ghost.
“nitroacid.” she whispered, not quite sure if she was in any mood to talk to anyone. “i thought you went back...”
“nah, decided to stay here. life’s better.” indie almost laughed at his cynicism. “hey, i heard about your miscarriage...” he continued, stopping abruptly.
“no, it’s alright. it’s okay, really.” indie said. it really was okay. it didn’t matter anymore that nitroacid had been the father of her child, the child that had miscarried and caused her pain and trouble. indie was beyond that; it wasn’t nitroacid’s fault anyway.
“so...i haven’t seen you since that ni...i mean, it’s been ages since i’ve seen you. what’ve you been doing?” he asked, trying to make pleasant small talk. it was obvious to both that their child was on their minds.
“nothing much; what about you? still around with orchid’s circle?”
“orchid? didn’t you hear? she left town a couple months ago, went down to somewhere like seattle or something. something that starts with an ‘s’, anyway. i’ve been working with this magazine thing lately, doing graphic design and layouts and articles and shit like that. it’s this weird ‘zine for the gothic culture, about death and vampyres and serial killers; it’s absolutely horrific, you’ve gotta see it. it’s doing pretty good; called “the blood rose chronicles”, ever heard of it?” nitroacid rambled on, filling in her silence. indie was glad that he did; it diverted her and uplifted her from her funk. besides, it saved her the trouble of making conversation. “hey, wanna go out for coffee? let’s see...you drink double tall mochas, right? my treat.” he grabbed her hand and pulled her off the streetcar, ushering her into a small dark cafe. the only other people in there were greasy men, playing billiards and smoking cigarillos. an asian waitress with bleach-blonde hair and too-red dollar-store lipstick took their orders, eyeing nitroacid and pointedly ignoring indie. indie bet she was wondering what someone like nitroacid was doing with a scarred girl like her. nitroacid was good-looking; not too good-looking to make him arrogant and the object of petty jealousy, but enough to make girls whisper about him as he walked by. he was smart too, able to carry on delicious conversations beyond a superficial level, and always a sweetheart. he could be quite affectionate, but he always seemed like he never needed anyone, warning others to keep their distance.
“what’re you doing for the day? please say nothing, cos i’d love to take you to see this exhibit at this art gallery, done by a friend of mine. she painted these canvases and when they were dry, she painted another layer on top. just as the second, top layer was drying, forming this skin, like soup skin, you know soup skin? i hate soup skin, don’t you? but anyway, she’d put cookie cutters and film canisters and anything that had an edge, on the canvas, and twist it. the skin would break and the colours underneath would show through. it’s beautiful, especially if you’ve got about six of them, all in different colours but with the same pattern. it’s like the same painting, but in different moods.” nitroacid chattered, doing his best to avoid the awkward silence, trying to draw her into a conversation. indie supposed that he felt guilty. after finishing their coffees, nitroacid kidnapped her to the art gallery and indie consented. it was like they were friends again, as if the past few months had not happened. she let him take her around for the whole day, checking out bookstores and having more coffee. indie almost felt as if they were lovers. he never said anything about having to go, and indie wanted it that way. she wanted to stay away as long as possible from her life. the sky was beginning to darken as they walked slowly in the streets, people rushing past them while looking at the ground and never making eye contact.
“don’t you think it’s weird? i mean, how people never look at you. you’re not allowed to make eye contact. we’re so detached from one another.” indie observed.
“yeah, that’s the problem with big cities. i mean, everyone is a dollar bill. it’s about money and business. we’ve all become coporate sex slaves in a sense. i mean, somewhere out there, someone is realizing for the first time that their life has absolutely no meaning, but they say ‘who cares? let’s go spend some money...’ we’re all so detached from life.” nitroacid sounded thoughtful, almost pensive. he shook his head. “but what can we really do? so you want to go out for supper? i thought maybe we could get something to eat, then go to this rave by citrus. we’ll go check it out, and if you don’t want to stay, we won’t. okay?”
“nitroacid, you are the most darlingest boy in the world.” indie laughed, slipping her arm into his. nitroacid tolerated it for a while, but soon found an excuse to unentangle himself. the smile faded from indie’s mind; she had pretended too hard. they weren’t lovers, just friends re-united after a long while. friends more from accident than from choice.