When Camille and I get home, Camille’s poor heart throws one glance at the cardboard boxes in the living room and nearly sinks down on the floor in exhaustion.
“There is so much work,” she cries out. I can not remember the last time I heard her complaining. Then she goes into her room to get in contact with her calmer side. She insists on being zen - whatever that means. In times like these I never try to force her into socialising with me. I know she wants to, but focusing on settling down both physically and mentally is important to her.
I look around the living room, eyeing the many boxes on the floor. The view of them makes me fatigued as well. The only difference between me and Camille is that Camille will unpack whether she wants to or not. I, on the other hand will avoid doing so, until I can not stand living in the mess I created.
As Camille tries to get a total togetherness of her body and mind, I make my way into the bathroom to examine my face. When I meet my own brown eyes in the mirror, I brush a sling of hair behind my ear - letting my eyes wander over the details of my face. I take a long look at the two small scars on my left cheek. People rarely notice them unless they decide to study my face like I am doing. I am not sure how I feel about them. They are just there, but I can not imagine them not being there - so I suppose they must have some kind of spiritual importance to me.
The longer I stand in front of the mirror, the more I get an urge to alter the way I look. My brown hair falls like it always does; in slightly messy waves. Maybe I should dye it pink, or get a bob cut. I could always start with getting bangs, or maybe go for the extreme and bleach it. I think about it for a second, but then take a step back and decide that if I ever change my hair, it will not be right after bumping into four art students. I have a way of sucking inspiration to me easily, and I think that even considering dying my hair some unnatural colour is too much adaptation for the day. Therefore I decide to go ahead and call the one person that has known me for the longest - he could possibly not make me think of crazy things.
“Hello?” Harry asks tiredly over the line. I was almost about to hang up when he finally answered. His voice is raw and throaty. I understand instantly that I woke him up.
“Sorry, I did not mean to wake you.” I quickly murmur.
“Mel?” He asks and I can hear him adjust a little in the bed. He must have been too tired to check his caller ID. I nod, but then realise that he can not see me. “Yes,” I reply.
I can hear him breathe in heavily, “What are you doing up so early?”
“I see,” he mumbles hoarsely.
“But Harry, I completely forgot what time it is - so let me call you back later, okay?”
“No.” He protests. “You called. Why?”
“It can wait.” I insist.
“I am sure it can, but I can’t. So what is it?”
I smile to myself. I want to tell him what I was thinking when I called, but it is only thirty minutes past six in the morning and suggesting going out all of sudden seems out of the question. I have to come up with something else.
“Nothing that matters now anyway,” is the only response that I can think of in my search for something better to say.
“Come on, you can’t wake me up and then not tell me.” Harry sighs, “Are you okay?”
“I am fine.”
“Good. Do you want me to come over or what?” He asks suddenly, taking me by surprise.
“Now?” I ask, not sure he has thought that through completely.
“Harry, it is six in the morning.” I protest.
“I will be at yours in forty minutes.”
“You will not! First of all it takes thirty minutes to get here and second of a-“
“- It takes twenty without traffic.” Harry says.
I sigh, “I can not make you get up at six.”
“Half past six.” Harry corrects me.
“It is too early.”
“Hang on.” He excuses himself. Someone says something on the other side of the line, and I can hear him reply. For a second there is no sound. I almost get to be afraid that Harry is truly considering not showing up, but then I hear Harry telling someone that he is going out. The other person seems to speak everything I just did. It is too early. You should get some sleep. And then finally: Tell her I said hi.
Harry must have put his phone down. I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, clutching my phone in my hand. A minute passes before I hear someone rummaging around, and then Harry’s voice sounds again.
“You still there?” He asks.
“Yes, hanging on.”
“Good. We are going to Connecticut.” He says casually.
“What? Why are we going to Connecticut?” I ask stupidly.
“Because I feel like a long drive and breakfast in Groton Long Point.” He states - not sounding as if it is up for discussion. I am once again in need of asking a stupid question, “Where is that?”
“It’s a small town. I will explain on the way.”
“Half an hour.” He orders.
“You said forty minutes.”
"And now I say half an hour." He says, surprising me.
We hang up and I breathe in and let my hand fall down in my lap. I suppose Harry needs a little while to breathe. His life does not always allow that.