WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Nine: My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Ten
In a one-bedroom apartment in Kitsilano, Jay led an austere lifestyle. He ate, slept, and wrote in the living room. One of his only indulgences was books. They littered the apartment. There were stacks of read, unread, soon-to-be-read, and at least four he was currently reading. Some of the books he’d read—deemed too valuable to lend, sell, or give away—became furniture.
A short squat table was constructed from four stacks of books and a rectangular piece of Plexiglas. Under the Plexiglas was a large plastic storage box containing his writing projects. Two large throw pillows rested beside the table. He sat on a pillow when he ate and when he wrote. A futon folded out and became a bed. He owned a laptop and an antique boom box he found at a thrift shop. His other indulgence was music. A guitar case leaned up against a wall, gathering dust.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“Sure, sometimes.”
“Well, I’d love to hear you.”
“Sure, someday.”
Piles of CDs encircled his boombox. Many were of local indie artists. All were signed. Global music completed his collection—little-known artists from little-known places.
“Listening to music helps stimulate my creativity,” he told me.
I surveyed his apartment. “This is such an empty cavern.”
“I guess it’s up to you to transform it into a home.” He handed me a set of keys. “Beautiful Gwen, will you move in?”
I threw my arms around him. “Oh, yes, of course I will! I thought you’d never ask,” I teased.
Into his barren bedroom, we moved my queen-size bed and hardwood bureaus. I stood examining the contents of his closet. I saw several pairs of black and faded denim jeans. Beside them were bamboo/cotton blend shirts of crisp white, prairie gold, deep purple, and indigo blue.
“You don’t have any clothes,” I said.
“In comparison to you? No, but I have enough for my needs,” Jay replied.
“You don’t have any sweaters.”
“Sure, I do.”
I remembered the Peruvian multicolored sweater. It lay in the living room on the back of
the futon. “One. You have one.”
He grinned. “It’s all I’ve ever needed.”
I removed his one and only sweater from the back of the futon, folded it, and put it in a drawer where it joined my extensive collection. In the small closet, I squeezed in my shirts, tees, pants, jeans, skirts, and dresses.
The last four boxes we unloaded from the moving van were all labelled “Yarn.”
“Where do these go?” he asked.
“In here.” He followed me into the bedroom.
I eagerly tore open each box, ran my hand over each ball, stroking them. “It’s okay. You’re home.”
“You’re so cute. Do you name them?”
“No need. They come named.” I showed him a yarn band.
“Will they be sleeping with us?”
“Um, no. Or at least not yet. I’ll put them in the empty bureau.”
“Can I help?” he asked.
I kissed him. “Sure, my stash is arranged seasonally. It’s spring, so cotton, bamboo, and other lightweight fibers go in the top three drawers. Wool and wool blends go in the bottom drawers.”
“How about if I open the boxes, hand the yarn to you, and you arrange them?” Jay suggested.
With the two of us working together, the job was quickly completed.
As I surveyed the living room, I thought about how much better it looked. We’d replaced Jay’s futon and makeshift table with my living room suite, large flat-screen TV, cutting-edge sound system, and four empty hardwood bookshelves.
“Do you miss your futon?” I asked.
“It went to a good home. Where are the boxes containing your crystal collection? If you like, I can put them on the bookshelves,” he offered.
“Oh, no need. I put them all in storage. The apartment will look much better without your books floating around.”
He gave me a hug and then cheerfully began assembling his library.
I turned my attention to the kitchen. I was sure the cupboards would be full. After all, Jay worked at a café, so he must be a skilled chef. I knew it would take careful planning to add my stuff to his collection. But, to my surprise, though I searched cupboard after cupboard, drawer after drawer, I found only six coffee mugs, a box of matches, a partially melted candle, and four dimes.
Jay walked into the kitchen. “Have any trouble squeezing your stuff into the cupboards?”
I giggled. “Um, no. There’s tons of room.”
“Like a cup?” He pulled my coffee pot out of my coffeemaker and filled it with water.
“Great idea. It’s time for a break.” I sat down at the table to wait. “About the empty cupboards, what’s up? You don’t even have a plate.”
“I eat all my meals at the café.” He rinsed two coffee mugs and reached for a paper towel.
“Ah, ah, ah,” I scolded, pointing to a box that stood beside the sink.
The paper towels, coffeemaker, and box stood alone on the counter. I had yet to unpack my blender, juicer, bread maker, toaster, and microwave. He looked inside the box and found my tea towels.
“Now with you here, I’ll try to eat at least one meal at home. I mean, you must be an accomplished cook with all these gadgets.” He ran a hand over the tower of boxes that stood beside the fridge.
I thought of all the overcooked and undercooked meals I’d prepared. “I try,” I replied. “You know, if this table were any bigger, it wouldn’t have fit. It’s big enough to do double duty. You could write here as well.”
“I like the way you think.” He poured us both a mug of coffee and brought them to the table, joining me.
“How are you feeling about my invasion?” I asked.
“I wish I’d asked you to move in sooner.” He kissed my cheek.
“Aren’t you worried?”
“About?” He was so naive.
“What if we’re not compatible?”
He took a long sip of coffee. “It’ll take some adjusting, but we’ll compromise. It’ll work,” he assured me.
“What’s your daily routine?” The aroma of coffee drew my attention to the mug on the table, but I didn’t take a sip—not yet.
“Up at five.”
“What?”
“Five.”
“Every day?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I meditate for an hour. It centres me. You’re welcome to join me.”
“What? Wake up at five to sit and try not to think. Um, no, thank you. And then?”
“I go for a walk.”
“To?”
“If the weather’s nice, I go to the park. If not, I go to the library.”
“What do you do then?”
“Write.”
“Of course.” I took a sip of coffee.
“For about an hour. Around seven, seven-thirty, I go to the café. I come back to this apartment, dog tired, climb into bed, and the next day I do it all again.”
“Fun?”
“I like it,” he replied, with his trademark half grin, half smirk.
“What about us? When will you have time for us?” I set my mug on the table with a thud.
“It’ll be a challenge, but I’ll attempt to add you into my day. We’ve been dating for...”
“Three months.”
“I’ve done a…”
“Fairly good job.”
“Only a C. Well, that’s disappointing. But I promise, Teach, now that you’re here, I’ll work hard to improve my grade.”
I was worried about our relationship, but he wasn’t, which annoyed me. I wanted everything
the romance novels promised. He tried his best. He changed his daily routine to include me.
Instead of walking directly to the café after writing, he returned home and crawled into bed. I
woke each morning to his gentle kisses. We ate breakfast together. I washed the dishes as he left for the café.
Sunday, December 28, at approximately 4:40 PM PT
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Eleven
Surrounded by creativity, I longed to stake my claim as an artist.
