Corona Gale, nightly build 3.2.2
This is how she fights.
Dusted violins in the rain, their instrumentalists stomping, invincible, vesuviating[To erupt; explode; fulminate.], blind and immortal, sienna leather coats with hoods, the violin chinrests jutted into these hoods in a way that caused a crink in their necks, all of them with the same gait, who knows how many, a dark alley full at least, all playing the same dreamy azure note. They provide the soundtrack. They existed in the old quarter of Kate Foley’s reverie[an idle daydream; a thought of idle desire; a surrendering to imagination], and came out when she needed dramatic focus. Their notes played over her worrying subconscious. Each thrum on the strings played over doubt, double-speak, concerns, and nonsense thoughts that would have slowed Kate down.
These make believe instrumentalists were part of a system Kate learned a long time ago. It’s an easy enough one to remember, but difficult to implement correctly over long periods of time. The problem most people who try to use this system have is they can’t get them to appear at the right moment. The band should start playing just before the doubt. This is difficult. Anticipating your own mind’s duologue and countering it with imaginary distractions takes practice, but anyone can try. There’s no special skill required. Make up a band of some kind. Make up a setting for them. Make up a reason for them to play. Give the band a set of instruments you can’t ignore, that can be played violently, to play over the beats of your own mind. And then, don’t let them stop until after your focus has become a weapon, and after that weapon has struck.
Kate’s inner duologue[Is this the right word for this?] was trying to tell her not to run after Ollie.
The violins thrummed. Did Ollie have a soundtrack for moments like this? Or would he have thought it unnecessary artiface? If she had told him about the violinists in the rain and dust, their purpose, creation, and how she was taught to think of this as a logical step 1, which part would he judge first?
Kate ran into the storm. It hadn't started yet, but was on its way. She couldn't feel it, but she could see the storm clouds off in the distance, beside hills, on their way to drown an hour. Ollie was half a block away. She saw his truck parked just past him. If he made it, and didn't wait for her, there wasn't anything to say tonight. She might drive back to his apartment and yell at the windows. She might throw a rock. She could get in if she wanted to. She didn't have a key but had also never needed a key.
But when she got in, what words would undo the damage Shawn caused with the pilfered text? He had told the truth.
Kate yelled out.
That was step two. Know exactly what to say. First, the violins. Then, the speech.
Kate had counted on having a whole week with Ollie. She was going to make so much more than the most of it. Tonight, when she found her way home from a night of great advice from a reliable mentor and friend, Kate would have snuggled on the couch with Ollie as they watched the Flames win in an upset. They would have drank the bottle of wine she'd chilled and he remembered to take out before it totally froze. They would have drank another. And they would have rode one another on the couch afterward, and then he would have picked her up and carried her, her hand slapping his ass in the hallway on the way to bed, where he'd drop her and let her jump back up into him, dropping him to the damned floor where the rest of the clothes would end up. She'd take care of him in the way he liked and told her about. He'd do what she told him to. It was a fantasy anyway, so everything would work and nobody would get tired or pull anything. They'd fall asleep while listening to the classic rock station. It was a fantasy anyway, so they'd actually play something good for a goddamned change.
They wouldn't do exactly that for the next six days, but that evening would somehow last all six days. As if watching the best television and having the best sex and falling asleep next to the best person was an action that could take up a week, or a life, as if it could get any better than that, week after week finding out that you'd chosen right, that you'd gotten to choose at all.
And at the end of the week she would call it.
They were parked in opposite directions from the house. If she didn't catch him, he'd have an awful head start. But he knew she was behind him. She called out. She knew every word she was going to say. She had counters. She would win this. She would get what she wanted.
When Ollie reached his truck, he stopped and turned around. He waited for her to catch up. He wasn't going to leave without her. They were going to talk here in the street as clouds formed above them, moving across the horizon at such speeds.
Ollie asked, "How true is this?"
Kate tried to hug him but he shoved her off. "Answer me," he repeated. "How true is this? You're leaving me in a week. What is that? And who was that at the house? Are you leaving me for him? What the hell is going on?"
It was as if standing next to his truck gave Ollie the confidence to go on the offensive.
But Kate still heard the violins. Nothing about his questions stopped her plan. She played her first card. She told him it was hard to explain, and that it was about to downpour, that they should go get a drink somehwere quiet where they can work on this.
"No, fuck that, you're giving me a yes or no on this."
"Ollie," she said. "It's so much more complicated than that."
"Maybe I need to ask you differently. In seven days, are we a couple? Next Saturday, are you gone?"
A drop of rain landed on Kate. If she ran now, she might get back to her car before it really hit. So she told him that instead of answering. He didn't care about the rain, which was a convenient stance when leaning against your own vehicle.
