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Fell Heavy Into Your Arms
Jul. 29th, 2021 02:49 amThe guy is nothing like Jon is expecting.
Forty pounds lighter, for a start, and surprisingly gym-fit. His hair is shorn close to his head, and thick eyebrows and long lashes frame big, blue eyes that blink with slow amusement. He’s young, too, much closer to thirty than the imagined fifty.
“Jonathan?” he asks in a voice that’s unexpectedly deep. He sticks out his hand, and for a long moment Jon just stares at the arm it’s attached to. It’s covered in ink, starting somewhere under the cuff of his short sleeved shirt and ending in a perfect slice at the wrist. The back of the palm is bare and pale, but just past the knuckles are thin henna lines that cross and swirl around his fingers. Jon’s eyes flicker to the other arm, which is the same, even if the patterns are different.
The overall effect is tacky, as if cheap black ink has faded to an ugly metallic green. It reminds Jon of the residue left behind from dollar store jewelry.
The hand is dropping and Jon catches it before it falls. “Yes,” he says, shaking firmly. “Yes, Jon. I’m Jon. You’re the… the, uh... ?”
Ghostbuster?
“Patrick,” the man says, giving Jon’s hand a final squeeze before releasing it. He smiles; white, even teeth breaking through full lips. Jon stares a little more while rubbing the tips of his fingers together. It feels like he has pins and needles.
“Come in,” he says, stepping back.
Patrick’s Converse High-Tops pad softly on the thin carpet as he makes his way past Jon. He’s wearing a khaki-cargo-shorts-and-graphic-tee-combo, and Jesus, he could be in a nineties Blink-182 tribute band.
This is a bad idea, Jon thinks, and not for the first time. “Thanks for coming at such short notice,” he says anyway.
“You’re a hard man to ignore,” Patrick says, his watchful eyes roving across the walls.
“Sorry. I know I called you a lot, but I’ve been …” Jon stops when Patrick’s tattoos begin to…
Stir?
Transform?
The green deepens to a pitch black, especially on his fingers where the vines swirl and start to loop across his palms, around his wrists. It’s almost hypnotic how they move up his arms, touching the muted colours and bringing them to vibrant life. Vague shapes become a robin with beating wings, an hourglass that funnels sand, and a huge wolf that blinks bright yellow eyes from just below Patrick’s right bicep.
Patrick’s gaze rises, crossing the ceiling as if seeing something invisible to Jon. “Speak,” he says with quiet authority.
A photo frame hurtles itself from the mantle towards Patrick, cutting through the air with a menacing swoosh. He catches it easily, holding it up until a black snake appears from under the cuff of his sleeve and winds down to take a curious sniff.
“Your family?” he asks.
“Yes.” One of Jon’s favourites, his parents, his brother, and himself, all of them decked out in ski gear, posing against a backdrop of brilliant snow.
Forty pounds lighter, for a start, and surprisingly gym-fit. His hair is shorn close to his head, and thick eyebrows and long lashes frame big, blue eyes that blink with slow amusement. He’s young, too, much closer to thirty than the imagined fifty.
“Jonathan?” he asks in a voice that’s unexpectedly deep. He sticks out his hand, and for a long moment Jon just stares at the arm it’s attached to. It’s covered in ink, starting somewhere under the cuff of his short sleeved shirt and ending in a perfect slice at the wrist. The back of the palm is bare and pale, but just past the knuckles are thin henna lines that cross and swirl around his fingers. Jon’s eyes flicker to the other arm, which is the same, even if the patterns are different.
The overall effect is tacky, as if cheap black ink has faded to an ugly metallic green. It reminds Jon of the residue left behind from dollar store jewelry.
The hand is dropping and Jon catches it before it falls. “Yes,” he says, shaking firmly. “Yes, Jon. I’m Jon. You’re the… the, uh... ?”
Ghostbuster?
“Patrick,” the man says, giving Jon’s hand a final squeeze before releasing it. He smiles; white, even teeth breaking through full lips. Jon stares a little more while rubbing the tips of his fingers together. It feels like he has pins and needles.
“Come in,” he says, stepping back.
Patrick’s Converse High-Tops pad softly on the thin carpet as he makes his way past Jon. He’s wearing a khaki-cargo-shorts-and-graphic-tee-combo, and Jesus, he could be in a nineties Blink-182 tribute band.
This is a bad idea, Jon thinks, and not for the first time. “Thanks for coming at such short notice,” he says anyway.
“You’re a hard man to ignore,” Patrick says, his watchful eyes roving across the walls.
“Sorry. I know I called you a lot, but I’ve been …” Jon stops when Patrick’s tattoos begin to…
Stir?
Transform?
The green deepens to a pitch black, especially on his fingers where the vines swirl and start to loop across his palms, around his wrists. It’s almost hypnotic how they move up his arms, touching the muted colours and bringing them to vibrant life. Vague shapes become a robin with beating wings, an hourglass that funnels sand, and a huge wolf that blinks bright yellow eyes from just below Patrick’s right bicep.
Patrick’s gaze rises, crossing the ceiling as if seeing something invisible to Jon. “Speak,” he says with quiet authority.
A photo frame hurtles itself from the mantle towards Patrick, cutting through the air with a menacing swoosh. He catches it easily, holding it up until a black snake appears from under the cuff of his sleeve and winds down to take a curious sniff.
“Your family?” he asks.
“Yes.” One of Jon’s favourites, his parents, his brother, and himself, all of them decked out in ski gear, posing against a backdrop of brilliant snow.
