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sendthembackKeith's apartment is awkward. He wants food. Rachel mixes drinks. Classic Rock. Cable TV. The Dodgers. Delivery.
Words required: 11,669
Words achieved: 12,225
Words of today: 3,195
I beat god damned NaNo. Kinda. For now. Not really.
XIII.
Keith slides his key into the lock. Rachel is a little too close behind him, and he actually hesitates, jerking back and then down again, until he hears the click. He opens the door to a dark apartment, leaning in to hit the light switch by the doorway. Rachel trails behind him, pausing in the entryway when he slides back to lock the door behind them. He unbuttons his coat and tosses it at the rack next to the light switch.
Rachel watches silently, letting her eyes roll away, taking in the space. She's seen it before, but it's different somehow, here and now.
"So, are you hungry?" he asks, taking off toward the kitchen. She follows him across the wood floor, her bag hanging awkwardly on her shoulder.
"You've redecorated the hell out of this place," she finally says. She wanders into the dining area, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and setting her bag down on the floor beside her. She wiggles out of her jacket, keeping her eyes on him all the while.
Keith nods as he shrugs. "I completely forgot. You haven't been here in... in a few months, have you?"
"Nope," she answers, unzipping her sweatshirt. She takes one more look around. "And it really isn't that big of a change, I guess, just little things here and there." She runs her eyes across the wall next to her right shoulder. They catch and she smiles. "I really don't know about that clock, though."
"Which..." He turns his head, following her gaze to the bright red and orange woodblock that hangs on the tan-painted plaster. He grins, almost shyly. "Oh, yeah, that... I promise it was a gift."
Rachel cocks her head and stands up, dropping her sweatshirt onto the back of her chair as she moves in closer for a better look. She sees that the red pieces are solid, but the orange ones are actually little doors and hinges and gears.
"Is it a real, working coo-coo clock?" she asks. "I mean, is a bird gonna pop out five minutes from now?"
"Yes and no," Keith answers. He's turned away from her now, slowly setting out all the supplies he can think Rachel might need, glasses, a shaker, a strainer, a little plastic juicer that looks like it's seen better days, bitters, tonic water, grenadine. He even has sugar cubes, though those came from his mother. It's everything but the alcohol and the ice, and he'll let her deal with that.
"It is a real coo-coo clock," he explains, "but there's a little switch on the back that turns the coo-coo part off. It took me too weeks to find it, but, oh, when I did..."
Rachel laughs. She carefully tilts the clock forward, away from the wall, using both hands, seeking out the switch. She thinks she feels it under her fingers, but she doesn't turn it on. Instead, she files the information away for another visit.
"So, you didn't tell me if you were hungry," Keith says. He gestures to the kitchen counter, showing her how he's arranged everything next to the sink. "If you want to make us a drink, I can order something, or--"
"What you're saying," Rachel cuts in, "is that you're hungry..."
Keith shrugs.
"Well obviously," he grins.
Rachel surveys her supplies then turns around, moving toward the little nook that juts off the end of the kitchen. "All your booze is still in still in the same place, right?"
"Of course."
"All right," Rachel says, reaching by instinct for the switch that turns on the light over the liquor cabinet. "You get us some menus and I'll get the drinks started."
Keith nods, opening a drawer under the cabinet and starting to dig in. "Do you at least have a genre of food that interests you?"
"Hey, man, I'm making the drinks..." Rachel lifts up a bottle, staring at the label. "When did you buy Kirschwasser? ...And, besides, you're the hungry one..."
"I've had that for a while, it was just hidden back in the back," Keith answers. Rachel smirks and tucks the bottle under her arm, going after the sweet vermouth next. "So, what are you interested in? I don't care. I'll eat anything that isn't a salad."
"Is Indian okay, then?" Keith asks.
Rachel's reaching for the bourbon, but suddenly stops, her eyes falling on Keith's scotch. He usually has a better bottle, some pricy shit even she wouldn't buy, but he's either finished it or hidden it, because it's not where it should be. She smirks to herself. If he's put it somewhere strange, she's going to have to find out where.
"Rachel?"
"Hmm?" She grabs the inferior--but far from cheap--bottle of scotch that sits in the usual place and carries her armfuls to the kitchen.
"Indian?" Keith asks again.
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
Rachel circles back to the booze cabinet, fishing out a bottle of Cointreau and snagging the bourbon for later. When she returns to the counter, Keith follows, a stack of menus in his hands.
"We could just do hamburgers, if you want, and finally rectify your salad situation..." He shuffles through the papers, finally sliding an America's Burgers and Wraps menu under her eyes.
Rachel looks up at him. "I'm sorry, I'm just--I'm really out of it. Hamburgers would be good, but so would Indian. I don't..." Then, she smiles. "I mean, does your stomach even tolerate Indian? And what about the buns? On the hamburgers, I mean..."
Keith steps over to the fridge, opening the door swinging out a bag of gluten-free hamburger buns. He dangles them in front of her for a second before tossing them back inside. "I switch out. And Indian is fine as long as I don't eat the naan. Plus, they're open late."
He raises an eyebrow at her. She grins then closes her eyes and reaches out her hands. "Give me the two menus and I'll pick the one with the better-feeling paper."
"Seriously?" Keith laughs, picking up the stack of menus again.
Rachel nods, her eyes still closed. "Just the hamburgers and the Indian, so it doesn't get too difficult..."
He separates the two menus from the rest. Shamrat's is glossy and folder; America's is flat, but slightly wrinkled. He starts trying to guess her decision, but then, his thoughts turn back on themselves and he just gives up, finally placing the two papers on her palms. The burger menu immediately drops, fluttering down toward the floor. Rachel laughs and closes her fist around the other one.
"This one, I guess, if that's--"
"It's fine," he says, laughing as watches her open her eyes.
"Really, Rachel, we make statements and analyze decisions for a living, how hard is it to pick a place to eat?"
"It's been a long week," Rachel answers, handing him the winning menu before slaloming around him, ducking into the refrigerator in search of limes.
"Citrus is in the second drawer from the bottom," Keith calls out, leaning back against the nearest kitchen chair. Rachel stoops down, opening the drawer, and comes back up with two limes in her hand.
"You really stocked up," she laughs.
Keith shrugs. "I just figured, you know, 'stupid and uneducational'... Also, I don't need this." He waves the menu in the air before placing it back down on the counter, right in front of the scotch. He smirks. "I know what I want."
"Well, that makes one of us."
Keith turns back toward the refrigerator, opening it up and pushing the lemons and limes toward the front of the drawer.
Rachel takes a few minutes to scan over the menu. Keith watches her rest her palms on the edge of the counter, swaying slightly as she reads down the list.
"Will you be jealous if I get bread?"
Keith laughs and she grins at him.
"Just checking." She takes one last look. "Okay, let's do this."
Keith calls in the order while Rachel finally gets to work, juicing the limes and measuring out the whisky, vermouth, and Cointreau. She doubles the recipe in her head, adding ice to the shaker and then dumping it all in.
Rachel shakes her way into the living room, nearly dancing toward Keith's stereo. She stands next to it, idly twirling the finger-numbing shaker in her hands, waiting until he's finished with the phone before daring to turn on local radio. She fiddles with the buttons until she finds the best thing out there, a classic rock station. The DJ's playing "Into the Night" by Benny Mardones, but she's willing to wait it out.
"We really need to get you one of those magical cables that hooks an iPod up to your stereo," she says. She listens to the end of the track, squinting one eye in anticipation until Journey comes on next. She laughs at the selection, dancing back into the kitchen with the shaker.
"I'd need an iPod first," Keith grumbles.
Rachel hoots as she rearranges the glassware, frowning at what she finds. They're short enough, but far from cocktail glasses. "You have an iPhone, you dork."
"Fine, yes, so I do... But, do we have to listen to this?"
"Come on, it's a classic..." Rachel slides two glasses across the counter, uncapping the shaker and snatching up the strainer.
Keith sighs, sneaking quietly over toward the source of the noise. "A classic among drunken coeds everywhere, maybe, but..."
"Hey, as I said, get me one of those cables and--"
"And I'll never hear another song by any artist I recognize ever again?" He grimaces to himself. "Indie rock is something I've never understood."
He turns down the music, hoping Rachel doesn't notice, and then collapses into the couch with a grunt. He indulges in a long yawn, stretching his legs out in front of him, relishing in the muted sound of Journey crying out and failing to reach him, again and again.
Rachel finishes with the drinks. She drops the strainer and the shaker into the sink and then carries the glasses over to Keith.
"I listen to some old man music, too, you know? I'm not ashamed," she says, handing him his booze. Keith shakes his head as she sits down beside him.
"Kids these days," he breathes.
Rachel smirks. "Come on now. This isn't Williamsburg and I don't own a single piece of American Apparel clothing." She stops to think, sipping her drink and enjoying it. It's Friday night, finally, and she almost loses herself.
She shakes herself back out of her thoughts. "Actually, correction: I think my Tarbox Ramblers shirt might be printed on one of their tees, which is probably why it doesn't fit all that well, but, still, I'm not--" She sits up straight, taking a great gulp from her drink. "Oh no, Keith! Don't die on me now!"
Keith is leaning back on the couch, his eyes rolling up into his skull. He starts forward dramatically, his drink swirling dangerously in his glass. "Huh? What? I thought I heard talking, but then, the words, they made no sense. And then, man, then there's this Journey song, it's totally, like..."
"If you say 'rad', I'll kill you. My brain just can't..." Rachel looks over at him and sees that he's smiling triumphantly. "Just drink your drink."
Keith lifts his glass, sniffing it suspiciously. It smells like alcohol. He takes a sip.
"Hmm," he says. "It's good. What is it?"
Rachel grins. "A Churchill. Joe Gilmore creation. I'll tell you no more as I've probably already surpassed my rambling limit for the night."
Keith shakes his head. He starts to say something, then stops suddenly, dramatically attentive. It takes Rachel a moment to realize that the song is about to end, but she soon gets it. She smiles until she's giggling, then takes a long drink from her glass, watching the way Keith pretends to be transfixed by the last few notes.
"Okay, good," he says once the song has ended. "And the drink really is good."
"Thank you?" Rachel asks, ducking her head a little.
Keith shrugs. "You're welcome. Also, I'm extending your rambling limit, because, otherwise, this is going to be a really long night, especially after a few more of these." He lifts the glass.
"Food is coming," Rachel reminds him.
"That's true."
A commercial comes on next and Rachel lifts herself off of the couch, wandering over to the window.
"You really do have an amazing view," she says, as if they've been talking about his apartment the entire time.
Keith shakes his head, but crawls off of the couch, slowly following, sipping his drink as he meets her in front of the glass. He looks out over the city, barely breathing.
"Do you think I'm an asshole?" he asks.
Rachel laughs. "Why? Because you have a good view of the city?"
He shrugs. "And marble in my bathrooms?"
Rachel downs the last of her drink, pointing her elbow at the glass in Keith's hand. "Finish that."
"You didn't answer my question," he answers.
"I don't think you're an asshole, apartment or otherwise. I mean, why would I spend my Friday night with an asshole?" She smirks.
Keith can think of half a dozen reasons, but he doesn't say anything, just takes a series of long drinks, staring out over the lights of the city. Rachel looks out once more and then turns away, making for the kitchen.
"Hey," he says, reaching toward her shoulder. She stops and his fingers land at the edge of her sleeve. "Come here and look at this."
"Okay," she says, slipping to his side. She grabs the drink out of his hand and takes a sip.
He draws her a little closer, pointing out the window. "It's dark, but look out there and you'll see the park."
Rachel looks. Her eyes are trained too high at first, and all she sees is lights, but then, slowly, under Keith's palm, she lets her gaze drop.
"I see," she breathes. There are so many little patches, all lined up in that scattered little space. She swears she can almost see the green.
"It's better in the morning," he says, almost whispering. "Remind me to show you in the morning."
Rachel finishes his drink. "Okay."
She shrugs his hand off of her shoulder as lightly as she can, smiling back at him as she holds up his empty glass. "More scotch or something different?"
"Bartender's choice."
Rachel takes one last look out the window, over the lights and steel and concrete, finding the little patch of what must be green in the daylight. She realizes she is probably imagining the shine off of what probably isn't the Central Park Lake, but she smiles at it anyway, the glint, the glare. Then, she heads back toward the kitchen.
She's feeling lazy, so she makes them another round of Churchills, humming to herself as she slices a second lime. She shakes the drink to her own internal song, rinsing out the glasses and then pouring it out. When she leaves the kitchen, she finds Keith back on the couch, sitting quietly. He's turned the radio off and the silence is strange and unexpected.
"Don't stop believing?" he asks, recognizing the look on her face. "They were playing REO Speedwagon. I couldn't let it happen."
Rachel laughs as she hands him his new drink.
"How long has it been since you ordered?" she asks.
He looks at the display on the DVR. "15 minutes. They said up to 30."
She sits down beside him. "Go ahead and turn on the TV then."
"You're sure?"
"Completely."
It's just eleven and he has no idea what is on, so he surfs from the top down, staring with the HD channels, hoping some documentary will catch Rachel's eyes before they get to the sitcoms. He doesn't want the snark, not yet.
Keith doesn't understand why they're showing movies on the Weather Channel, but he doesn't say anything, just passes on through, past HGTV and whatever the hell FitTV is. Rachel doesn't say a damn word, just drinks through several C-Spans and half a dozen movie channels. He slows down when they hit the two Smithsonian Channels, but she doesn't seem interested. Unabashed, he full out stops at each ESPN he hits, just checking the highlights.
"The Yankees still won," Rachel smirks when Keith stops for the third time. He looks over at her and sees her half-empty glass. She nods back at him. "Drink more, surf less. In fact, give me the damn remote."
He lets her have it, watching silently as World Series Highlights and an ancient Monty Python broadcast slip by, surrounded by an endless parade of movies he doesn't recognize. Rachel stalls out on Anderson doing a serious face, just long enough for them both to break into giggles, but not long enough to find out what he's being serious about. Then, it's on through local news and a dozen awkward entertainment channels.
Keith is beginning to worry that they'll make it to the music channels before Rachel finds something when she suddenly skips back into the regular channels, pressing a handful of numbers and randomly hitting PBS Nightly Business Reports.
"We were better off with the window, I think," she says. "I have no clue what is on TV right now." She places the remote on his knee. "Here, just make it go back to sports or something, I don't even know any more."
Keith shoots Paul Kangas a sympathetic look and then returns to the MLB Network and World Series Highlights. It's the only channel he has memorized.
Campanella has just hit his 1953 tie-breaking homer when the buzzer sounds. Rachel jumps for it, hoping to escape the boiling Yankees rage Keith is barely hiding under his skin, but he follows close behind, digging his wallet out of his pocket.
It's for the best, anyway, as Rachel doesn't even know how to begin to let the delivery man into the apartment. Keith reaches around her, pressing a few buttons and then listening to make sure the man makes it inside.
He and Rachel hang awkwardly in the air next to the door.
"It was a long time ago," Rachel offers. "It was even before you, the old, old man were born."
"That doesn't help," he answers with a forced scowl. The grin is already slipping through. His drink is no longer in his hand and he misses it. Rachel passes him hers.
"I'm only joking," she snorts, watching him finish her drink. He hands her back the empty glass.
"You're already being mean, and you're not even drunk. It worries me."
Rachel smirks. "You're thinking too hard. Whatever it was and 'uneducational', remember?"
"Stupid," he says, and he doesn't breathe until he's sure she gets it.
"Yes, 'stupid'," she says, "like us both."
Keith lets out a long breath. There's a knock at the door.
Words required: 11,669
Words achieved: 12,225
Words of today: 3,195
I beat god damned NaNo. Kinda. For now. Not really.
XIII.
Keith slides his key into the lock. Rachel is a little too close behind him, and he actually hesitates, jerking back and then down again, until he hears the click. He opens the door to a dark apartment, leaning in to hit the light switch by the doorway. Rachel trails behind him, pausing in the entryway when he slides back to lock the door behind them. He unbuttons his coat and tosses it at the rack next to the light switch.
Rachel watches silently, letting her eyes roll away, taking in the space. She's seen it before, but it's different somehow, here and now.
"So, are you hungry?" he asks, taking off toward the kitchen. She follows him across the wood floor, her bag hanging awkwardly on her shoulder.
"You've redecorated the hell out of this place," she finally says. She wanders into the dining area, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and setting her bag down on the floor beside her. She wiggles out of her jacket, keeping her eyes on him all the while.
Keith nods as he shrugs. "I completely forgot. You haven't been here in... in a few months, have you?"
"Nope," she answers, unzipping her sweatshirt. She takes one more look around. "And it really isn't that big of a change, I guess, just little things here and there." She runs her eyes across the wall next to her right shoulder. They catch and she smiles. "I really don't know about that clock, though."
"Which..." He turns his head, following her gaze to the bright red and orange woodblock that hangs on the tan-painted plaster. He grins, almost shyly. "Oh, yeah, that... I promise it was a gift."
Rachel cocks her head and stands up, dropping her sweatshirt onto the back of her chair as she moves in closer for a better look. She sees that the red pieces are solid, but the orange ones are actually little doors and hinges and gears.
"Is it a real, working coo-coo clock?" she asks. "I mean, is a bird gonna pop out five minutes from now?"
"Yes and no," Keith answers. He's turned away from her now, slowly setting out all the supplies he can think Rachel might need, glasses, a shaker, a strainer, a little plastic juicer that looks like it's seen better days, bitters, tonic water, grenadine. He even has sugar cubes, though those came from his mother. It's everything but the alcohol and the ice, and he'll let her deal with that.
"It is a real coo-coo clock," he explains, "but there's a little switch on the back that turns the coo-coo part off. It took me too weeks to find it, but, oh, when I did..."
Rachel laughs. She carefully tilts the clock forward, away from the wall, using both hands, seeking out the switch. She thinks she feels it under her fingers, but she doesn't turn it on. Instead, she files the information away for another visit.
"So, you didn't tell me if you were hungry," Keith says. He gestures to the kitchen counter, showing her how he's arranged everything next to the sink. "If you want to make us a drink, I can order something, or--"
"What you're saying," Rachel cuts in, "is that you're hungry..."
Keith shrugs.
"Well obviously," he grins.
Rachel surveys her supplies then turns around, moving toward the little nook that juts off the end of the kitchen. "All your booze is still in still in the same place, right?"
"Of course."
"All right," Rachel says, reaching by instinct for the switch that turns on the light over the liquor cabinet. "You get us some menus and I'll get the drinks started."
Keith nods, opening a drawer under the cabinet and starting to dig in. "Do you at least have a genre of food that interests you?"
"Hey, man, I'm making the drinks..." Rachel lifts up a bottle, staring at the label. "When did you buy Kirschwasser? ...And, besides, you're the hungry one..."
"I've had that for a while, it was just hidden back in the back," Keith answers. Rachel smirks and tucks the bottle under her arm, going after the sweet vermouth next. "So, what are you interested in? I don't care. I'll eat anything that isn't a salad."
"Is Indian okay, then?" Keith asks.
Rachel's reaching for the bourbon, but suddenly stops, her eyes falling on Keith's scotch. He usually has a better bottle, some pricy shit even she wouldn't buy, but he's either finished it or hidden it, because it's not where it should be. She smirks to herself. If he's put it somewhere strange, she's going to have to find out where.
"Rachel?"
"Hmm?" She grabs the inferior--but far from cheap--bottle of scotch that sits in the usual place and carries her armfuls to the kitchen.
"Indian?" Keith asks again.
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
Rachel circles back to the booze cabinet, fishing out a bottle of Cointreau and snagging the bourbon for later. When she returns to the counter, Keith follows, a stack of menus in his hands.
"We could just do hamburgers, if you want, and finally rectify your salad situation..." He shuffles through the papers, finally sliding an America's Burgers and Wraps menu under her eyes.
Rachel looks up at him. "I'm sorry, I'm just--I'm really out of it. Hamburgers would be good, but so would Indian. I don't..." Then, she smiles. "I mean, does your stomach even tolerate Indian? And what about the buns? On the hamburgers, I mean..."
Keith steps over to the fridge, opening the door swinging out a bag of gluten-free hamburger buns. He dangles them in front of her for a second before tossing them back inside. "I switch out. And Indian is fine as long as I don't eat the naan. Plus, they're open late."
He raises an eyebrow at her. She grins then closes her eyes and reaches out her hands. "Give me the two menus and I'll pick the one with the better-feeling paper."
"Seriously?" Keith laughs, picking up the stack of menus again.
Rachel nods, her eyes still closed. "Just the hamburgers and the Indian, so it doesn't get too difficult..."
He separates the two menus from the rest. Shamrat's is glossy and folder; America's is flat, but slightly wrinkled. He starts trying to guess her decision, but then, his thoughts turn back on themselves and he just gives up, finally placing the two papers on her palms. The burger menu immediately drops, fluttering down toward the floor. Rachel laughs and closes her fist around the other one.
"This one, I guess, if that's--"
"It's fine," he says, laughing as watches her open her eyes.
"Really, Rachel, we make statements and analyze decisions for a living, how hard is it to pick a place to eat?"
"It's been a long week," Rachel answers, handing him the winning menu before slaloming around him, ducking into the refrigerator in search of limes.
"Citrus is in the second drawer from the bottom," Keith calls out, leaning back against the nearest kitchen chair. Rachel stoops down, opening the drawer, and comes back up with two limes in her hand.
"You really stocked up," she laughs.
Keith shrugs. "I just figured, you know, 'stupid and uneducational'... Also, I don't need this." He waves the menu in the air before placing it back down on the counter, right in front of the scotch. He smirks. "I know what I want."
"Well, that makes one of us."
Keith turns back toward the refrigerator, opening it up and pushing the lemons and limes toward the front of the drawer.
Rachel takes a few minutes to scan over the menu. Keith watches her rest her palms on the edge of the counter, swaying slightly as she reads down the list.
"Will you be jealous if I get bread?"
Keith laughs and she grins at him.
"Just checking." She takes one last look. "Okay, let's do this."
Keith calls in the order while Rachel finally gets to work, juicing the limes and measuring out the whisky, vermouth, and Cointreau. She doubles the recipe in her head, adding ice to the shaker and then dumping it all in.
Rachel shakes her way into the living room, nearly dancing toward Keith's stereo. She stands next to it, idly twirling the finger-numbing shaker in her hands, waiting until he's finished with the phone before daring to turn on local radio. She fiddles with the buttons until she finds the best thing out there, a classic rock station. The DJ's playing "Into the Night" by Benny Mardones, but she's willing to wait it out.
"We really need to get you one of those magical cables that hooks an iPod up to your stereo," she says. She listens to the end of the track, squinting one eye in anticipation until Journey comes on next. She laughs at the selection, dancing back into the kitchen with the shaker.
"I'd need an iPod first," Keith grumbles.
Rachel hoots as she rearranges the glassware, frowning at what she finds. They're short enough, but far from cocktail glasses. "You have an iPhone, you dork."
"Fine, yes, so I do... But, do we have to listen to this?"
"Come on, it's a classic..." Rachel slides two glasses across the counter, uncapping the shaker and snatching up the strainer.
Keith sighs, sneaking quietly over toward the source of the noise. "A classic among drunken coeds everywhere, maybe, but..."
"Hey, as I said, get me one of those cables and--"
"And I'll never hear another song by any artist I recognize ever again?" He grimaces to himself. "Indie rock is something I've never understood."
He turns down the music, hoping Rachel doesn't notice, and then collapses into the couch with a grunt. He indulges in a long yawn, stretching his legs out in front of him, relishing in the muted sound of Journey crying out and failing to reach him, again and again.
Rachel finishes with the drinks. She drops the strainer and the shaker into the sink and then carries the glasses over to Keith.
"I listen to some old man music, too, you know? I'm not ashamed," she says, handing him his booze. Keith shakes his head as she sits down beside him.
"Kids these days," he breathes.
Rachel smirks. "Come on now. This isn't Williamsburg and I don't own a single piece of American Apparel clothing." She stops to think, sipping her drink and enjoying it. It's Friday night, finally, and she almost loses herself.
She shakes herself back out of her thoughts. "Actually, correction: I think my Tarbox Ramblers shirt might be printed on one of their tees, which is probably why it doesn't fit all that well, but, still, I'm not--" She sits up straight, taking a great gulp from her drink. "Oh no, Keith! Don't die on me now!"
Keith is leaning back on the couch, his eyes rolling up into his skull. He starts forward dramatically, his drink swirling dangerously in his glass. "Huh? What? I thought I heard talking, but then, the words, they made no sense. And then, man, then there's this Journey song, it's totally, like..."
"If you say 'rad', I'll kill you. My brain just can't..." Rachel looks over at him and sees that he's smiling triumphantly. "Just drink your drink."
Keith lifts his glass, sniffing it suspiciously. It smells like alcohol. He takes a sip.
"Hmm," he says. "It's good. What is it?"
Rachel grins. "A Churchill. Joe Gilmore creation. I'll tell you no more as I've probably already surpassed my rambling limit for the night."
Keith shakes his head. He starts to say something, then stops suddenly, dramatically attentive. It takes Rachel a moment to realize that the song is about to end, but she soon gets it. She smiles until she's giggling, then takes a long drink from her glass, watching the way Keith pretends to be transfixed by the last few notes.
"Okay, good," he says once the song has ended. "And the drink really is good."
"Thank you?" Rachel asks, ducking her head a little.
Keith shrugs. "You're welcome. Also, I'm extending your rambling limit, because, otherwise, this is going to be a really long night, especially after a few more of these." He lifts the glass.
"Food is coming," Rachel reminds him.
"That's true."
A commercial comes on next and Rachel lifts herself off of the couch, wandering over to the window.
"You really do have an amazing view," she says, as if they've been talking about his apartment the entire time.
Keith shakes his head, but crawls off of the couch, slowly following, sipping his drink as he meets her in front of the glass. He looks out over the city, barely breathing.
"Do you think I'm an asshole?" he asks.
Rachel laughs. "Why? Because you have a good view of the city?"
He shrugs. "And marble in my bathrooms?"
Rachel downs the last of her drink, pointing her elbow at the glass in Keith's hand. "Finish that."
"You didn't answer my question," he answers.
"I don't think you're an asshole, apartment or otherwise. I mean, why would I spend my Friday night with an asshole?" She smirks.
Keith can think of half a dozen reasons, but he doesn't say anything, just takes a series of long drinks, staring out over the lights of the city. Rachel looks out once more and then turns away, making for the kitchen.
"Hey," he says, reaching toward her shoulder. She stops and his fingers land at the edge of her sleeve. "Come here and look at this."
"Okay," she says, slipping to his side. She grabs the drink out of his hand and takes a sip.
He draws her a little closer, pointing out the window. "It's dark, but look out there and you'll see the park."
Rachel looks. Her eyes are trained too high at first, and all she sees is lights, but then, slowly, under Keith's palm, she lets her gaze drop.
"I see," she breathes. There are so many little patches, all lined up in that scattered little space. She swears she can almost see the green.
"It's better in the morning," he says, almost whispering. "Remind me to show you in the morning."
Rachel finishes his drink. "Okay."
She shrugs his hand off of her shoulder as lightly as she can, smiling back at him as she holds up his empty glass. "More scotch or something different?"
"Bartender's choice."
Rachel takes one last look out the window, over the lights and steel and concrete, finding the little patch of what must be green in the daylight. She realizes she is probably imagining the shine off of what probably isn't the Central Park Lake, but she smiles at it anyway, the glint, the glare. Then, she heads back toward the kitchen.
She's feeling lazy, so she makes them another round of Churchills, humming to herself as she slices a second lime. She shakes the drink to her own internal song, rinsing out the glasses and then pouring it out. When she leaves the kitchen, she finds Keith back on the couch, sitting quietly. He's turned the radio off and the silence is strange and unexpected.
"Don't stop believing?" he asks, recognizing the look on her face. "They were playing REO Speedwagon. I couldn't let it happen."
Rachel laughs as she hands him his new drink.
"How long has it been since you ordered?" she asks.
He looks at the display on the DVR. "15 minutes. They said up to 30."
She sits down beside him. "Go ahead and turn on the TV then."
"You're sure?"
"Completely."
It's just eleven and he has no idea what is on, so he surfs from the top down, staring with the HD channels, hoping some documentary will catch Rachel's eyes before they get to the sitcoms. He doesn't want the snark, not yet.
Keith doesn't understand why they're showing movies on the Weather Channel, but he doesn't say anything, just passes on through, past HGTV and whatever the hell FitTV is. Rachel doesn't say a damn word, just drinks through several C-Spans and half a dozen movie channels. He slows down when they hit the two Smithsonian Channels, but she doesn't seem interested. Unabashed, he full out stops at each ESPN he hits, just checking the highlights.
"The Yankees still won," Rachel smirks when Keith stops for the third time. He looks over at her and sees her half-empty glass. She nods back at him. "Drink more, surf less. In fact, give me the damn remote."
He lets her have it, watching silently as World Series Highlights and an ancient Monty Python broadcast slip by, surrounded by an endless parade of movies he doesn't recognize. Rachel stalls out on Anderson doing a serious face, just long enough for them both to break into giggles, but not long enough to find out what he's being serious about. Then, it's on through local news and a dozen awkward entertainment channels.
Keith is beginning to worry that they'll make it to the music channels before Rachel finds something when she suddenly skips back into the regular channels, pressing a handful of numbers and randomly hitting PBS Nightly Business Reports.
"We were better off with the window, I think," she says. "I have no clue what is on TV right now." She places the remote on his knee. "Here, just make it go back to sports or something, I don't even know any more."
Keith shoots Paul Kangas a sympathetic look and then returns to the MLB Network and World Series Highlights. It's the only channel he has memorized.
Campanella has just hit his 1953 tie-breaking homer when the buzzer sounds. Rachel jumps for it, hoping to escape the boiling Yankees rage Keith is barely hiding under his skin, but he follows close behind, digging his wallet out of his pocket.
It's for the best, anyway, as Rachel doesn't even know how to begin to let the delivery man into the apartment. Keith reaches around her, pressing a few buttons and then listening to make sure the man makes it inside.
He and Rachel hang awkwardly in the air next to the door.
"It was a long time ago," Rachel offers. "It was even before you, the old, old man were born."
"That doesn't help," he answers with a forced scowl. The grin is already slipping through. His drink is no longer in his hand and he misses it. Rachel passes him hers.
"I'm only joking," she snorts, watching him finish her drink. He hands her back the empty glass.
"You're already being mean, and you're not even drunk. It worries me."
Rachel smirks. "You're thinking too hard. Whatever it was and 'uneducational', remember?"
"Stupid," he says, and he doesn't breathe until he's sure she gets it.
"Yes, 'stupid'," she says, "like us both."
Keith lets out a long breath. There's a knock at the door.
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Date: 2009-11-08 08:55 pm (UTC)Yep. Totally laughed out loud at that one.
"It's better in the morning," he says, almost whispering. "Remind me to show you in the morning."
Oh, my God, this. There is something heartbreaking about this line, even with the totally innocent context in which it is being said. Or maybe it's because of the innocence of it. Hmm. Yeah, I think that's it.
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Date: 2009-11-09 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-09 07:06 am (UTC)And, yeah, about that window......
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Date: 2009-11-09 07:22 am (UTC)I giggled like a manic idiot on that one.
There was something intensely uncomfortable and heartbreaking about this part. Don't mind it, too much, understand it's part of the greater story and all that.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 04:10 am (UTC)I really hope they stop being heartbreaking soon. I'd like some funtiems, pls, muse.
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Date: 2009-11-09 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 04:11 am (UTC)