Day... uh... four?
Nov. 5th, 2009 05:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sendthembackI don't have a plot. Rachel meets some old dude. Maine sucks. Keith is Keith. Baseball. Breakfast. Good morning.
Words required: 6,668
Words achieved: 3,601
Words of today: 3,601
A.
Rachel dreams of an impossible bridge, so tall she can barely see the top through the clouds. She's never really been afraid of heights, but right then, staring up from somewhere miles away, she can feel her head start to spin. It's the intricacy of the whole thing that really gets her, so much metal, so many bolts, so high above the ground.
Ana is a tiny orange dot, somewhere among the blue and white and steel. Rachel swears she can hear her singing.
I.
It's Tuesday and cold, and the light through the window is grey. Rachel stretches her arms over her head and turns away from the window, stooping down to mess with the coffeemaker before starting on toast and turning toward the thermostat. It looks so cold outside, the heat doesn't even seem to be working, even though it's near stifling in the apartment, even the her thermometer will attest to that. Rachel would be sweating if she weren't down to her underwear and a tank-top, but she doesn't even realize it. She just turns back to the window and feels cold.
Eventually, she'll have to go outside.
The city might as well be bombed out for the way it feels, towering angrily around her. But it's not as cold as it looks. It's even a little sunny, for all the drab of stone and cement, so she's carrying her jacket on her arm, down to her sweatshirt and jeans. The cool air that that blows into her could almost be invigorating, but it's not. It's just annoying, and cold.
Rachel ducks into the convenience store on the corner, buying yet another coffee, something to keep her hands warm, and then she's on the street again.
There had been a man standing next to her at the counter, small and thin, with wrinkled skin and black-brown eyes, but she didn't even see him, just the numbers on the register, the teeth of the clerk when he smiled, and the change in her palm. The pennies were cold, reminding her that she needed to buy a new pair of gloves.
She's still thinking about gloves when the man runs up, yelling after her. "Excuse me! Sir! Your coffee!"
She doesn't turn around, until he's at her shoulder.
"Sir!"
"I--oh..."
"I'm sorry," the man mumbles, slowly digesting her voice. "I didn't..."
"It's okay." Rachel accepts her forgotten coffee, taking in the man's shaking hands before turning away with a nod.
She's two steps away when he calls out, "Wait."
"I've got to get to work," she answers, not looking back. It's kind of true, though she doesn't really have to be in for another hour.
The man keeps following her. "Then I'll walk with you."
Rachel takes a deep breath, puffing out a slow cloud of white air, but she doesn't say anything. The man falls to her side, somehow keeping her long-legged pace as she starts back down the street.
"So," he says. Rachel looks over at him, finally noticing how small he is. He'd be small standing next to most anyone, but to Rachel, he's a hundred miles away.
She shrugs at him, wondering how much faster she can walk than he can, how quickly she could get away. "So?"
"Why do you keep your hair so short?" There's no malice in the question, which may actually make it worse.
She shrugs again. "It's comfortable."
"Okay," he answers with a grin. They walk the next block in silence.
"My grandson has hair like yours. That's why I thought--"
Rachel scans the crosswalk before stepping off of the curve. The man jogs behind her.
"He's not as tall as you are, not quite, but... He's adopted. My daughter couldn't conceive... Good kid, smart."
"That's good," Rachel grumbles. She finally remembers her coffee, pausing on the sidewalk to take a sip. It's cooled just enough.
"I bet you're smart," the man tries.
Rachel laughs and they start to walk again. "Why do you say that?"
"I just bet you are. You have the look."
"The nerd glasses?" Rachel offers.
The man shakes his head. "That could be part of it, yes, but... Well, you stoop slightly when you walk, more when you're talking to someone."
Rachel stops again. More coffee.
"No, not stoop, that sounds wrong. It's with your neck. You lean in, like you're listening, always listening. Very smart."
Rachel lets out a soft huff. "I don't know what to say."
"Smart!" the man laughs, throwing up his hands. Rachel looks him over.
"You're... well, you're strange."
"Thank you."
The rest of the walk is peppered with small talk, but stays far away from anything substantial. The man slips little jokes into his conversation, smiling up at Rachel when she laughs or rolls her eyes. They make it to 30 Rock faster than Rachel could have ever imagined. She can hardly believe they talked the whole way.
She nods at the building as it rises up in front of them.
"So that's where you work," he says. "I didn't even ask you what you do for a living."
Rachel smiles. "I didn't ask you either. I'm on TV. I analyze politics."
The man nods, as if it's exactly what he expected.
"What about you?" Rachel asks.
"I walk," the man answers. He grins, looking her up and down. "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"
Rachel laughs. "Why not?"
"Good." He offers her his hand and then turns away.
Of course they forgot to exchange names.
II.
Rachel steps off of the elevator and right into Keith Olbermann's rage.
"Rachel!" he bellows. "I can't even believe--"
"I know, Keith," she sighs. Her good mood, the one she hadn't even realized had overtaken her, drains out through her teeth. Here comes the grey.
He charges toward her, his palm landing on her shoulder. "It just... Fuck Maine! How could they do this again, after California and everything? It makes me sick. The tyranny of the majority! I--"
He stops when he sees how the color has disappeared from her face.
"You're being bombastic, again, Keith," she says.
He frowns.
"Give me a few minutes?" she asks.
"Of course. I'm sorry."
She hits her office almost running, pushing the door closed and tossing her jacket at her desk. Then, she dives onto the couch.
Keith gives her an hour, just the right amount of time for her to be off of her stomach and onto her back, her computer resting in her lap. He knocks lightly, turning the knob when he hears her call back at him.
"Hey," he says, slipping inside and closing the door again. "I'm sorry really sorry about that."
Rachel shrugs, sitting up a little on the couch. "No big deal. You were angry and we all know about you when you get angry."
Keith shifts awkwardly on his feet, looming, trying not to loom.
"Come on," Rachel sighs, sitting up and swinging her feet to the front of the couch. "Sit down."
"Sorry," he grunts.
Rachel rolls her eyes. "You can stop that, you know."
"I know, it's just, well. I'm sorry. I mean, what do I have to lose in all of this? You're the one who really hurts in this and I'm exploding all over you. I could get married to any woman I want, any time, for any reason, and you..."
"Keith, it's okay." She leans back on the couch, quietly weighing Keith's ability to make bad things better against his occasional tendency to make bad things worse. "I think anyone with a conscience hurts today."
"Well, still..." He starts.
Rachel smiles. "No still."
"Okay," Keith finally concedes. He leans in over Rachel's laptop. "So, what are you working on?"
She turns the screen to him, letting him look at the open Word document on her screen.
FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE
Keith pulls her into his arms as carefully as he can, holding his breath until he's sure she's not going to cry.
"Fuck Maine," he whispers.
She laughs, and then her eyes finally start to leak.
III.
Get something to eat.
Rachel sees the card on her desk as she slumps into her office chair half an hour after her show. Keith is long gone, having taken yet another night off, but Rachel knows it's from him. She opens the envelop one-handed, scrubbing a few remaining streaks of make-up from her jaw with a hand wipe.
Two puking-cute Labrador puppies sit in a basket of sunflowers on some generic white porch. Above them rises the puking-cute message "Somebody Wubs You". Rachel shakes her head and flips the card open. There's no text inside beyond Keith's scribbled directive. Rachel smiles and sticks the card into the back pocket of her jeans.
Rachel hits up her favorite street vendor, a remarkably gay 40-something Greek man who takes a special pleasure in flirting outrageously with her every time she stops by. He's a little quieter this evening, but still lets his fingers rest that extra second on top of Rachel's when he passes her a foil-wrapped pita busting with gyro meat. She's equally subdued, distracted, giving him a quick smile and a nod before stepping back, idly scanning the street.
"Looking for someone?" he asks before she turns away.
Rachel shakes her head. "Not really."
She takes a taxi home.
---
B.
Rachel doesn't dream about the strange old man. She dreams about baseball, or the stands, really, big, blue, and empty. She thinks she can hear the noise of the crowd, echoing from somewhere higher than it should be, but it's never really clear enough to tell. And then, there is something glinting in her eye, up high and back and far away, behind the right foul pole; she sees it shining in some imaginary sun. She needs it, though, somehow, she knows she can't have it.
She needs it.
Rachel tramps through a section of trash, plastic cups and cellophane wrappers, too much trash. She grimaces when her sneaker lands on something soft. She can barely look at it, but she does, she realizes that it is just a hot dog bun, thougb she doesn't understand why she feels so relieved. What else would it have been?
She forgets about it. She's coming up to the aisle. She can see it as she turns her head.
But, there are so many stairs, too many stairs and too much cold, grey cement. Rachel takes a breath and gets ready to climb.
IV.
Rachel wakes up long before she needs to. The sun hasn't even come up yet and her apartment is cold. She doesn't even bother looking at the clock, just wiggles down into her blankets and tries to remember those stairs.
It doesn't work. She gives herself ten minutes of burrowing and rolling over before she finally gives up and heads for the coffee pot. She's about to get lost looking out the window again--she's trying to figure out if the lack of stars in the tiny patch of sky she can see is from light pollution or clouds. There's a slight pink tint to the darkness and that makes her think that it's going to rain some time soon--when she hears her phone buzzing in her bedroom.
Rachel takes her time moving out of the kitchen and toward her nightstand. It's not like she can get there slowly, regardless of what she does. Her phone is still glowing when she picks it up and checks her text messages.
Doubt you're awake, and if you're not, I hope your phone is off.
She hits reply and starts to type a response, but quickly cancels it, holding down the "4" button until Keith's number starts to ring.
He picks up after two.
"Did I wake you up?" he asks. He sounds like he's answering from a room full of marshmallows and Rachel wonders if maybe she's woken him up.
"No, no," she answers. "I'm making coffee, woke up a while ago and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Me too," he says, "even including the coffee."
Rachel wanders back into the kitchen, checking the pot. "So, I dreamed about Yankees Stadium last night, or I think I did. The seats were blue..."
"Was I there?" Keith asks. She can hear him smiling as he starts to wake up.
Rachel shakes her head, like Keith can see her. "No one was."
Keith is quiet for a second. "You want to get breakfast?"
"Yes."
V.
They meet in the Theatre District. Rachel gets to the restaurant first, a good ten minutes before Keith. It's open, but just barely, so she waits outside, leaning against cold cement as she stares up at the sky and out at the city. There are always cars on the streets, but they're sparser now, passing casually by like traffic in a normal city. The sun is still struggling under the horizon and all of the late night city lights are still on. They glow and blink under the brightening slab of sky and scatter across the damp pavement. Rachel is nearly transfixed, half asleep, half wishing she'd warned Keith to bring an umbrella.
It isn't raining yet, but it already has and it will again, probably soon.
Keith catches her just like that when he climbs out of his cab. She looks a strange mix of comfortable and utterly lost in her baggy jeans and worn out sweatshirt. She's gazing intently at the sidewalk across the street, not even blinking when a delivery truck rattles by, hissing over the wet pavement.
"Hey," he says, reaching out to tap her sneaker with the tip of his umbrella. "Don't think too hard, or you might figure it all out."
Rachel grins. "And then where would I be?"
"Come on," Keith answers, offering her his arm. "Jon says this place has really good matzo ball soup, though he may have just told me that to screw with the goyim."
"Matzo ball soup for breakfast?" Rachel asks, letting him lead her to the door.
Keith shrugs as he reaches for the handle. "In these times, why not?"
"They have sliced beef tongue on the menu," Rachel states, flipping the menu over, searching for the drink list out of pure habit. They're sitting at the most perfect table, right by the window, alone in the restaurant but for one other couple.
Keith snorts. "Just keep looking. Breakfast starts halfway down. And they do serve breakfast booze. The cocktail list is just separate." He reaches out, rapping his fingers over a loose card on the table.
Rachel turns the menu back around, scanning over it until she finds a long list of egg dishes, completely ignoring the cocktail list in Keith's hand. "I wasn't looking to order something, I was just looking to judge them by their offerings."
"I'm sure."
"It's 6:20 in the morning, Keith. I'm not that..."
His look cuts her off.
"That was just that... thrice."
Keith smirks. "Good save."
Rachel balls up her napkin and it about to throw it at him when the waiter appears at their table.
The waiter is exquisitely brusque, tapping his foot when Keith takes a moment to weigh the varying merits of orange vs. grapefruit juice, drawing it out to heights of obnoxiousness that only an under-slept Olbermann could achieve, before he finally decides against grapefruit. Rachel quickly orders her own glass of orange juice. When the man is gone, Keith and Rachel discuss just how mean it would be to ask him to explain the preparation, cooking process, and plating art involved in the sliced beef tongue appetizer. They're still laughing when the waiter reappears with coffee and juice. Rachel lets Keith order first--some elaborate omelet with a bagel and lox on the side--while she waffles between french toast and and pancakes, somehow ending up with steak and eggs (poached, please), under the darkening glare of the waiter.
"You expecting?" Rachel asks once the waiter has disappeared again. "That's a lot of food."
Keith steals Rachel's napkin from where she dropped it on the table and tosses it back at her.
"Whatever you say, Dr. Beef and Poultry."
Rachel shakes her head and then turns toward the window, her eyes catching the bright grey light that has fallen over the city. "I think the sun is coming up."
Keith stares after her gaze, shaking his head.
"How can you tell?" he asks, allowing himself an early morning smirk.
Rachel shrugs. "The grey."
Keith looks out the window until he sees it, too. They watch the growing light in silence.
Their food comes more quickly than either of them expected. The waiter is drops their plates down in front of them, openly relishing in the sudden start he gets from Rachel.
Food brings more silence. They're both hungrier than they realized. But, soon, Rachel is eying Keith's bagel, even though she has half a cow and a full egg still waiting for her on her plate.
Keith grins. "I'll give you the bottom in exchange for a strip of meat and part of however you can figure out to divide a poached egg."
"Give me the top and I'll cut the egg on your plate."
"Let me think about that and get back to you," Keith smirks, returning his eyes to his own plate.
Rachel laughs. "I'll even let you keep your lox."
"Why," Keith asks, lifting up a forkful of lox, "because they're icky?"
"Exactly."
"You drive a hard bargain, Maddow."
Rachel snorts, coughing softly when some of her egg sneaks up into her sinuses.
Keith takes a long drink of juice to keep from laughing, too.
Finally, he buckles. "Give me your plate."
The waiter watches disdainfully as the pair messily share their breakfasts.
"So how was the game, you pinstriped freak?" Rachel asks, sopping up her yolks with a piece of her new bagel half.
"Better than your dream, I bet."
Out on the street, Keith makes a show of clutching his belly as he tries to hail a cab, groaning with every slight movement. Rachel keeps hold of his umbrella, laughing all the while.
"I swear, Rach, if I find out this steak and eggs thing is all part of a plot to get you a two hour show..."
Rachel puts on her best offended look. "I would never. Besides, if you have a heart attack, it's going to be from the sausage explosion you pretended was an omelet."
"I'd've given you a taste if you'd have only have asked," Keith replies, waving frantically as the third taxi speeds by.
Rachel rolls her eyes and Keith enjoys every second of it. Then, Rachel huffs and steps toward the curb.
"You do it like this." She spots a cab crossing Broadway. She steps slightly off of the sidewalk, her hand raised.
"If this works..." Keith starts.
It doesn't matter that he doesn't finish his sentence. The car charges on past, falling just short of spraying rain all over them. Luckily, Rachel starts laughing first, and Keith soon joins her.
Another 20 minutes and they're actually in a cab, heading toward work, because it's finally after seven and it's the only place they can think to go.
They're half a block from Rockefeller Center when Rachel suddenly sits up in her seat.
"Wait," she says. She's looking at Keith, but the driver lifts his eyes to his mirror.
Keith turns his head from the window. "What?"
"I need to go home. I--uh... forgot something."
Keith shrugs. "No problem, we can just take a little detour and..."
"No, I'll just get out."
The cab driver has already pulled to the curb and Rachel hops out before Keith can even say something in response. At least she finally let him pay for the ride.
Words required: 6,668
Words achieved: 3,601
Words of today: 3,601
A.
Rachel dreams of an impossible bridge, so tall she can barely see the top through the clouds. She's never really been afraid of heights, but right then, staring up from somewhere miles away, she can feel her head start to spin. It's the intricacy of the whole thing that really gets her, so much metal, so many bolts, so high above the ground.
Ana is a tiny orange dot, somewhere among the blue and white and steel. Rachel swears she can hear her singing.
I.
It's Tuesday and cold, and the light through the window is grey. Rachel stretches her arms over her head and turns away from the window, stooping down to mess with the coffeemaker before starting on toast and turning toward the thermostat. It looks so cold outside, the heat doesn't even seem to be working, even though it's near stifling in the apartment, even the her thermometer will attest to that. Rachel would be sweating if she weren't down to her underwear and a tank-top, but she doesn't even realize it. She just turns back to the window and feels cold.
Eventually, she'll have to go outside.
The city might as well be bombed out for the way it feels, towering angrily around her. But it's not as cold as it looks. It's even a little sunny, for all the drab of stone and cement, so she's carrying her jacket on her arm, down to her sweatshirt and jeans. The cool air that that blows into her could almost be invigorating, but it's not. It's just annoying, and cold.
Rachel ducks into the convenience store on the corner, buying yet another coffee, something to keep her hands warm, and then she's on the street again.
There had been a man standing next to her at the counter, small and thin, with wrinkled skin and black-brown eyes, but she didn't even see him, just the numbers on the register, the teeth of the clerk when he smiled, and the change in her palm. The pennies were cold, reminding her that she needed to buy a new pair of gloves.
She's still thinking about gloves when the man runs up, yelling after her. "Excuse me! Sir! Your coffee!"
She doesn't turn around, until he's at her shoulder.
"Sir!"
"I--oh..."
"I'm sorry," the man mumbles, slowly digesting her voice. "I didn't..."
"It's okay." Rachel accepts her forgotten coffee, taking in the man's shaking hands before turning away with a nod.
She's two steps away when he calls out, "Wait."
"I've got to get to work," she answers, not looking back. It's kind of true, though she doesn't really have to be in for another hour.
The man keeps following her. "Then I'll walk with you."
Rachel takes a deep breath, puffing out a slow cloud of white air, but she doesn't say anything. The man falls to her side, somehow keeping her long-legged pace as she starts back down the street.
"So," he says. Rachel looks over at him, finally noticing how small he is. He'd be small standing next to most anyone, but to Rachel, he's a hundred miles away.
She shrugs at him, wondering how much faster she can walk than he can, how quickly she could get away. "So?"
"Why do you keep your hair so short?" There's no malice in the question, which may actually make it worse.
She shrugs again. "It's comfortable."
"Okay," he answers with a grin. They walk the next block in silence.
"My grandson has hair like yours. That's why I thought--"
Rachel scans the crosswalk before stepping off of the curve. The man jogs behind her.
"He's not as tall as you are, not quite, but... He's adopted. My daughter couldn't conceive... Good kid, smart."
"That's good," Rachel grumbles. She finally remembers her coffee, pausing on the sidewalk to take a sip. It's cooled just enough.
"I bet you're smart," the man tries.
Rachel laughs and they start to walk again. "Why do you say that?"
"I just bet you are. You have the look."
"The nerd glasses?" Rachel offers.
The man shakes his head. "That could be part of it, yes, but... Well, you stoop slightly when you walk, more when you're talking to someone."
Rachel stops again. More coffee.
"No, not stoop, that sounds wrong. It's with your neck. You lean in, like you're listening, always listening. Very smart."
Rachel lets out a soft huff. "I don't know what to say."
"Smart!" the man laughs, throwing up his hands. Rachel looks him over.
"You're... well, you're strange."
"Thank you."
The rest of the walk is peppered with small talk, but stays far away from anything substantial. The man slips little jokes into his conversation, smiling up at Rachel when she laughs or rolls her eyes. They make it to 30 Rock faster than Rachel could have ever imagined. She can hardly believe they talked the whole way.
She nods at the building as it rises up in front of them.
"So that's where you work," he says. "I didn't even ask you what you do for a living."
Rachel smiles. "I didn't ask you either. I'm on TV. I analyze politics."
The man nods, as if it's exactly what he expected.
"What about you?" Rachel asks.
"I walk," the man answers. He grins, looking her up and down. "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"
Rachel laughs. "Why not?"
"Good." He offers her his hand and then turns away.
Of course they forgot to exchange names.
II.
Rachel steps off of the elevator and right into Keith Olbermann's rage.
"Rachel!" he bellows. "I can't even believe--"
"I know, Keith," she sighs. Her good mood, the one she hadn't even realized had overtaken her, drains out through her teeth. Here comes the grey.
He charges toward her, his palm landing on her shoulder. "It just... Fuck Maine! How could they do this again, after California and everything? It makes me sick. The tyranny of the majority! I--"
He stops when he sees how the color has disappeared from her face.
"You're being bombastic, again, Keith," she says.
He frowns.
"Give me a few minutes?" she asks.
"Of course. I'm sorry."
She hits her office almost running, pushing the door closed and tossing her jacket at her desk. Then, she dives onto the couch.
Keith gives her an hour, just the right amount of time for her to be off of her stomach and onto her back, her computer resting in her lap. He knocks lightly, turning the knob when he hears her call back at him.
"Hey," he says, slipping inside and closing the door again. "I'm sorry really sorry about that."
Rachel shrugs, sitting up a little on the couch. "No big deal. You were angry and we all know about you when you get angry."
Keith shifts awkwardly on his feet, looming, trying not to loom.
"Come on," Rachel sighs, sitting up and swinging her feet to the front of the couch. "Sit down."
"Sorry," he grunts.
Rachel rolls her eyes. "You can stop that, you know."
"I know, it's just, well. I'm sorry. I mean, what do I have to lose in all of this? You're the one who really hurts in this and I'm exploding all over you. I could get married to any woman I want, any time, for any reason, and you..."
"Keith, it's okay." She leans back on the couch, quietly weighing Keith's ability to make bad things better against his occasional tendency to make bad things worse. "I think anyone with a conscience hurts today."
"Well, still..." He starts.
Rachel smiles. "No still."
"Okay," Keith finally concedes. He leans in over Rachel's laptop. "So, what are you working on?"
She turns the screen to him, letting him look at the open Word document on her screen.
FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE FUCK MAINE
Keith pulls her into his arms as carefully as he can, holding his breath until he's sure she's not going to cry.
"Fuck Maine," he whispers.
She laughs, and then her eyes finally start to leak.
III.
Get something to eat.
Rachel sees the card on her desk as she slumps into her office chair half an hour after her show. Keith is long gone, having taken yet another night off, but Rachel knows it's from him. She opens the envelop one-handed, scrubbing a few remaining streaks of make-up from her jaw with a hand wipe.
Two puking-cute Labrador puppies sit in a basket of sunflowers on some generic white porch. Above them rises the puking-cute message "Somebody Wubs You". Rachel shakes her head and flips the card open. There's no text inside beyond Keith's scribbled directive. Rachel smiles and sticks the card into the back pocket of her jeans.
Rachel hits up her favorite street vendor, a remarkably gay 40-something Greek man who takes a special pleasure in flirting outrageously with her every time she stops by. He's a little quieter this evening, but still lets his fingers rest that extra second on top of Rachel's when he passes her a foil-wrapped pita busting with gyro meat. She's equally subdued, distracted, giving him a quick smile and a nod before stepping back, idly scanning the street.
"Looking for someone?" he asks before she turns away.
Rachel shakes her head. "Not really."
She takes a taxi home.
---
B.
Rachel doesn't dream about the strange old man. She dreams about baseball, or the stands, really, big, blue, and empty. She thinks she can hear the noise of the crowd, echoing from somewhere higher than it should be, but it's never really clear enough to tell. And then, there is something glinting in her eye, up high and back and far away, behind the right foul pole; she sees it shining in some imaginary sun. She needs it, though, somehow, she knows she can't have it.
She needs it.
Rachel tramps through a section of trash, plastic cups and cellophane wrappers, too much trash. She grimaces when her sneaker lands on something soft. She can barely look at it, but she does, she realizes that it is just a hot dog bun, thougb she doesn't understand why she feels so relieved. What else would it have been?
She forgets about it. She's coming up to the aisle. She can see it as she turns her head.
But, there are so many stairs, too many stairs and too much cold, grey cement. Rachel takes a breath and gets ready to climb.
IV.
Rachel wakes up long before she needs to. The sun hasn't even come up yet and her apartment is cold. She doesn't even bother looking at the clock, just wiggles down into her blankets and tries to remember those stairs.
It doesn't work. She gives herself ten minutes of burrowing and rolling over before she finally gives up and heads for the coffee pot. She's about to get lost looking out the window again--she's trying to figure out if the lack of stars in the tiny patch of sky she can see is from light pollution or clouds. There's a slight pink tint to the darkness and that makes her think that it's going to rain some time soon--when she hears her phone buzzing in her bedroom.
Rachel takes her time moving out of the kitchen and toward her nightstand. It's not like she can get there slowly, regardless of what she does. Her phone is still glowing when she picks it up and checks her text messages.
Doubt you're awake, and if you're not, I hope your phone is off.
She hits reply and starts to type a response, but quickly cancels it, holding down the "4" button until Keith's number starts to ring.
He picks up after two.
"Did I wake you up?" he asks. He sounds like he's answering from a room full of marshmallows and Rachel wonders if maybe she's woken him up.
"No, no," she answers. "I'm making coffee, woke up a while ago and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Me too," he says, "even including the coffee."
Rachel wanders back into the kitchen, checking the pot. "So, I dreamed about Yankees Stadium last night, or I think I did. The seats were blue..."
"Was I there?" Keith asks. She can hear him smiling as he starts to wake up.
Rachel shakes her head, like Keith can see her. "No one was."
Keith is quiet for a second. "You want to get breakfast?"
"Yes."
V.
They meet in the Theatre District. Rachel gets to the restaurant first, a good ten minutes before Keith. It's open, but just barely, so she waits outside, leaning against cold cement as she stares up at the sky and out at the city. There are always cars on the streets, but they're sparser now, passing casually by like traffic in a normal city. The sun is still struggling under the horizon and all of the late night city lights are still on. They glow and blink under the brightening slab of sky and scatter across the damp pavement. Rachel is nearly transfixed, half asleep, half wishing she'd warned Keith to bring an umbrella.
It isn't raining yet, but it already has and it will again, probably soon.
Keith catches her just like that when he climbs out of his cab. She looks a strange mix of comfortable and utterly lost in her baggy jeans and worn out sweatshirt. She's gazing intently at the sidewalk across the street, not even blinking when a delivery truck rattles by, hissing over the wet pavement.
"Hey," he says, reaching out to tap her sneaker with the tip of his umbrella. "Don't think too hard, or you might figure it all out."
Rachel grins. "And then where would I be?"
"Come on," Keith answers, offering her his arm. "Jon says this place has really good matzo ball soup, though he may have just told me that to screw with the goyim."
"Matzo ball soup for breakfast?" Rachel asks, letting him lead her to the door.
Keith shrugs as he reaches for the handle. "In these times, why not?"
"They have sliced beef tongue on the menu," Rachel states, flipping the menu over, searching for the drink list out of pure habit. They're sitting at the most perfect table, right by the window, alone in the restaurant but for one other couple.
Keith snorts. "Just keep looking. Breakfast starts halfway down. And they do serve breakfast booze. The cocktail list is just separate." He reaches out, rapping his fingers over a loose card on the table.
Rachel turns the menu back around, scanning over it until she finds a long list of egg dishes, completely ignoring the cocktail list in Keith's hand. "I wasn't looking to order something, I was just looking to judge them by their offerings."
"I'm sure."
"It's 6:20 in the morning, Keith. I'm not that..."
His look cuts her off.
"That was just that... thrice."
Keith smirks. "Good save."
Rachel balls up her napkin and it about to throw it at him when the waiter appears at their table.
The waiter is exquisitely brusque, tapping his foot when Keith takes a moment to weigh the varying merits of orange vs. grapefruit juice, drawing it out to heights of obnoxiousness that only an under-slept Olbermann could achieve, before he finally decides against grapefruit. Rachel quickly orders her own glass of orange juice. When the man is gone, Keith and Rachel discuss just how mean it would be to ask him to explain the preparation, cooking process, and plating art involved in the sliced beef tongue appetizer. They're still laughing when the waiter reappears with coffee and juice. Rachel lets Keith order first--some elaborate omelet with a bagel and lox on the side--while she waffles between french toast and and pancakes, somehow ending up with steak and eggs (poached, please), under the darkening glare of the waiter.
"You expecting?" Rachel asks once the waiter has disappeared again. "That's a lot of food."
Keith steals Rachel's napkin from where she dropped it on the table and tosses it back at her.
"Whatever you say, Dr. Beef and Poultry."
Rachel shakes her head and then turns toward the window, her eyes catching the bright grey light that has fallen over the city. "I think the sun is coming up."
Keith stares after her gaze, shaking his head.
"How can you tell?" he asks, allowing himself an early morning smirk.
Rachel shrugs. "The grey."
Keith looks out the window until he sees it, too. They watch the growing light in silence.
Their food comes more quickly than either of them expected. The waiter is drops their plates down in front of them, openly relishing in the sudden start he gets from Rachel.
Food brings more silence. They're both hungrier than they realized. But, soon, Rachel is eying Keith's bagel, even though she has half a cow and a full egg still waiting for her on her plate.
Keith grins. "I'll give you the bottom in exchange for a strip of meat and part of however you can figure out to divide a poached egg."
"Give me the top and I'll cut the egg on your plate."
"Let me think about that and get back to you," Keith smirks, returning his eyes to his own plate.
Rachel laughs. "I'll even let you keep your lox."
"Why," Keith asks, lifting up a forkful of lox, "because they're icky?"
"Exactly."
"You drive a hard bargain, Maddow."
Rachel snorts, coughing softly when some of her egg sneaks up into her sinuses.
Keith takes a long drink of juice to keep from laughing, too.
Finally, he buckles. "Give me your plate."
The waiter watches disdainfully as the pair messily share their breakfasts.
"So how was the game, you pinstriped freak?" Rachel asks, sopping up her yolks with a piece of her new bagel half.
"Better than your dream, I bet."
Out on the street, Keith makes a show of clutching his belly as he tries to hail a cab, groaning with every slight movement. Rachel keeps hold of his umbrella, laughing all the while.
"I swear, Rach, if I find out this steak and eggs thing is all part of a plot to get you a two hour show..."
Rachel puts on her best offended look. "I would never. Besides, if you have a heart attack, it's going to be from the sausage explosion you pretended was an omelet."
"I'd've given you a taste if you'd have only have asked," Keith replies, waving frantically as the third taxi speeds by.
Rachel rolls her eyes and Keith enjoys every second of it. Then, Rachel huffs and steps toward the curb.
"You do it like this." She spots a cab crossing Broadway. She steps slightly off of the sidewalk, her hand raised.
"If this works..." Keith starts.
It doesn't matter that he doesn't finish his sentence. The car charges on past, falling just short of spraying rain all over them. Luckily, Rachel starts laughing first, and Keith soon joins her.
Another 20 minutes and they're actually in a cab, heading toward work, because it's finally after seven and it's the only place they can think to go.
They're half a block from Rockefeller Center when Rachel suddenly sits up in her seat.
"Wait," she says. She's looking at Keith, but the driver lifts his eyes to his mirror.
Keith turns his head from the window. "What?"
"I need to go home. I--uh... forgot something."
Keith shrugs. "No problem, we can just take a little detour and..."
"No, I'll just get out."
The cab driver has already pulled to the curb and Rachel hops out before Keith can even say something in response. At least she finally let him pay for the ride.
