Dylan
I know what my lifestyle looks like to contemporary, genteel people, especially folks used to living in gentrified cities. But, fuck, it’s not like I’m living raw out here.
I’ve got my own electrical grid, for crying out loud. I’ve got my own goddamn motherfucking helicopter that I make my own fuel for.
I’d like to see some of those motherfuckers buying up the condos at 57 West try living out here and see how they do.
Fuck, I can’t blame them for not wanting that. After all, it’s not like I wanted that.
I’ve made the most of it by making my wild Vermont fortress as civilized as I could. Over the past five years, I’ve done everything in my considerable power to avoid the dreaded ‘p’ word and all the preconceived notions that go with it.
Five years, and I was doing pretty well, until I went outside and began smashing apart a tree with my bare hands.
It’s pretty fucking primitive. That’s what I’m feeling right now, and it feels o-fucking-kay.
Primitive.
I can’t hide from that shit at the moment. No, sir.
Emma’s feeling it, too. It’s like I’m radio-fucking-active, full of isotopes spewing out...primitiveness—r something.
I look at my cabin from the outside and see a light shine through one of the front windows.
If the whole point of civilization is shared human experience, why is it that the presence of another human being is making me less civilized than I have in years?
Is it because the other human being is a woman, and not just any woman—but her?
I walk towards the cabin, giving myself some time to think before bounding through the front door. Seeing that light from the outside is weird—I would never have a light on, sucking up energy, unless I was inside and using it.
It actually makes sense that I’m feeling so primitive, so primal. I’ve been isolated from other people for so long that being in such close proximity to someone—to Emma, of all people—is dredging up all kinds of shit.
The past is catching up with me.
And it’s not like being around people automatically makes one civilized. It took humans hundreds of thousands of years on Earth before we finally eked out a few thousand measly years of civilization—and even that’s been a pretty bumpy road.
I stop a few yards short of the front door.
This situation’s challenging, but what situation isn’t? What’s more, I like a fucking challenge.
How the hell we move forward is something that I don’t know.
What I do know is that we need to figure it out starting right now, because we’re facing some shit that’s much bigger than our little feelings and discomforts.
I open the door and step inside my cabin with a mild yet growing eagerness to find out what’s next.
What’s next is Emma, sitting on my floor and staring up at me with an inscrutable expression. I’m not sure what she’s trying to communicate, but I don’t care anymore.
To be clear, I was concerned with it. Emma’s wearing one of my flannels, but she hasn’t put some pants on. The way she’s sitting could be enough to drive me completely nuts.
I was interested in trying to read her expression, just so I could discern what the hell she’s trying to tell to me.
That all changes, however, when I notice what looks like my living room curtains, on the floor and mutilated beyond any fucking use. Emma’s sitting right in the middle of this wanton destruction, looking at me with that unchanging, impenetrable expression.
“Emma, what the fuck? What did you do?”
Emma takes a quick look around at the shreds of fabric surrounding her.
“What? You mean this?” Emma waves her arms over my dead curtains with a weird, theatrical flourish.
A thunderous expression clouds my face. “What do you think?”
Emma’s face drops, and she pulls a torn rag of curtain fabric over her lower half. How could she be surprised I’m upset about this?
“I was just trying to make something nice to wear,” she pouts.
“Nice to wear? Emma, those were my curtains. They served an important purpose...” I try to keep my voice calm, but it’s not easy.
Emma stands up, holding what’s left of my curtains around her legs like it’s a petticoat.
“Oh? And you know what’s important to me?”
Her voice and expression are starting to match my intensity—exceeding it, even. I wasn’t expecting that.
“What, Emma? What could possibly be so important that you just need to ruin my shit?”
“Finding some clothes that don’t look like fucking garbage!”
After hearing that, the last thing I want to do is look down at what I’m wearing with a self-conscious expression on my face. But that’s exactly what I do—for a full second or more—before I can stop myself.
“What’s wrong with the clothes?” I can’t help saying, a frown on my face.
“You mean all the flannel? Because all your shit is flannel.”
“Yeah, it’s all fucking flannel. So? What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s tacky, and I hate it!”
I look over the remains of my living room curtains on the ground because I honestly can’t think of a response. Emma had brought out one of my sewing needles and some spools of thread.
She’s seriously trying to go Gone with the Wind on this shit.
“I haven’t been down to the Armani Exchange in a while,” I growl, resisting the temptation to kick the pieces of fabric from here to eternity.
“Well, no kidding.” Emma lets go of the scrap of curtain she’s holding, and it falls to her feet. “Where did you go?”
“You mean when you I used to go shopping in...”
“No. I mean why did you go? When you left? Now I know where you went, because we’re here now. But, why?”
Any anger I thought I had was gone, because it was never really there.
“You know, I could stand to diversify my wardrobe a bit.”
“Why, Dylan?”
“Like you just said, it’s tacky...”
“Cut the shit. Why did you leave?”
The flannel shirt Emma’s wearing goes just a couple of inches past her waist. It leaves an ideal amount to the imagination—to my tortured fucking imagination—and her legs are just...
“Perfect.”
“What’s perfect, Dylan? Are you being cryptic? Are you at least trying to answer my question?”
At least I know now, consciously, that what I thought was irritation—and anger—is really just frustration in disguise.
“Goddamnit,” Emma grumbles, and tries to kick the curtain fabric with her right foot. She lifts her leg as the cloth slides gradually from her ankle.
“The ideas for a new wardrobe I’m thinking of right now. They’re perfect. That’s what I meant.”
“What?” Emma asks in confusion and annoyance.
The frustration works both ways with Emma and me.
I’m still thinking about her leg lingering in the air, the fabric sliding down slowly...damn, I think it was worth losing my curtains just for that, even if that image is going to haunt me for the foreseeable future.
But Emma wants answers, and I understand that, but there really isn’t much I can do for her there.
I gather myself and my thoughts as Emma glares at me with her arms crossed. With her glowering face and her impatient stance, Emma just looks so...over the top, I guess.
I totally respect her being upset that I won’t answer her questions, but if it were any other woman besides Emma, I would almost suspect that she was being, I don’t know...
Playful?
I don’t know where that idea comes from, and it’s wrong of me to think that about Emma. And if it were any other woman...well, there’s no other woman who’s as ravishingly fucking hot.
That fact alone will continue to drive me fucking insane—maybe in perpetuity—or at least as long as Emma’s here. I’m gonna have to get used to the insanity.
I step warily over towards the pile of curtain fabric to Emma’s left, where the needle and thread are sitting on the floor. I give Emma a wide berth, like she’s surrounded by a force field.
“And now what are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m just gathering some supplies.”
“Supplies?”
I lean over to collect the needle and spool of thread.
“Supplies to put some of my fashion ideas into practice.”
Emma looks down at the shirt she’s wearing, puzzled.
“I’d like to start with that flannel, if you don’t mind,” I continue.
“This flannel?” Emma points to her chest, wide-eyed.
“Of course. I want to make it into something acceptable, or at least something that doesn’t look like fucking garbage, as you put it.”
Emma shrugs, which is enough of a surprise, but, in an instant, she’s stark naked in my living room, handing me the flannel shirt.
I’m rendered incapable of speech, so I simply nod as I accept the shirt. My jaw is still hanging open as I carry the flannel, the needle, and the thread into the other room so I can get to work.
The image of her naked body haunts me as I leave. And it will do so for a long fucking time, I’m sure. I’ll need more than a cold shower; I’ll need a fucking ice bath.