The Attic

Twenty

            John turned to Paul. “This is it. It’s all happening now.”

            Paul shook his head, refusing to believe any of this. It was simply insane—but already, he could feel John’s confidence piercing through his skepticism. Could there be any truth to John’s theory?

            “No,” Paul said aloud, then his gaze landed on John. “No, you’re only saying that. How could you know?”

            “It was predicted! This was meant to happen, already it was meant to happen and now I’m just avoiding it. And all that does is get you hurt,” John said.

            Paul took a step forward and placed a hand gingerly on John’s forearm. He felt his throat work to form words because already a raw lump was forming there. “You’re—you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you? Because I don’t need saving, if that’s what you think—“

            “Paul I—“

            BLAM!

            There was another resounding crash as a shelf that was previously affixed securely onto the wall fell. A few books tumbled down, and a vase also fell, showering the floor in shards of the pottery.

            “That’s it—I can’t—“ John said, seemingly at war with himself. Paul could feel him shaking.

            “It’s alright—it’s fine, nothing bad will happen,” he soothed, taking John into his arms. John breathed in deeply. It had to be now—everything was going downhill quickly.

            Nothing else happened that afternoon, and John was sure that fate had heard him, and was giving him time to do this properly. John tried to set up a nice dinner, which was a difficult task in of itself. They had rice, some canned beans, and a package of spaghetti he found in the very back of a cupboard.

            “Spaghetti… with beans,” Paul remarked with a hint of sarcasm. He smiled up at John with visible affection, and John returned it, but just a beat late.

            “Tonight’s special,” John said.

            His mind was spinning and time was ticking but he just couldn’t think what to say. He shouted at his mind, tried to make it think of a random topic to bring up, but he came up blank. This strange loss for things to say he recognized from earlier years, in Hamburg, for example; when he woke up with a girl he’d bedded but had forgotten all about over the night, and was expected to make nice conversation with the morning after.

            “Just tell me what this is about, I could help,” Paul offered. John studied his face while he thought of an answer. His eyes lingered over puffy, purplish skin under Paul’s eyes, the little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, evidence of a lifetime of laughter, and the bits of stubble he’d forgotten to shave off that morning.

            “I’m sorry I went off like that. This—this has been a strange experience for me,” John said, laughing hollowly. “I think I’m alright now, though,” he said, trying to convey sincerity on every inch of his face, willing it to happen.