创客小说网

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第19部分（第2页）

“Bullshit。”　Pete　stood　up　and　paced　the　room。　“You　cheated　and　then　you　kept　it　a　secret。　How　do　I　know　this…　this　love　triangle　isn’t　always　going　to　e　back　to　haunt　you—to　haunt　me？”　Pete　shook　his　head　sadly。　He　looked　awful；　like　a　kid　who’d　just　seen　his　golden　retriever　puppy　get　run　over　by　a　car。　“I’m　going　to　take　a　train　to　Philly　and　stay　with　my　brother　for　a　bit。　I’ll　call　you。”

“Wait；”　Blair　screeched；　gripping　a　handful　of　the　dark　green　duvet。　She　couldn’t　believe　she　was　so　close　to　losing　Pete。　“Are　you　breaking　up　with　me？”

Pete　grabbed　his　small　wheeled　Tumi　suitcase　from　the　floor　and　paused　to　look　at　Blair。　“I　just　need　some　time　to　think；”　he　said；　a　little　bit　more　gently。　With　one　final　look；　he　headed　for　the　door。　As　it　closed　behind　him　with　a　thud；　Blair　collapsed　into　the　goosedown　pillow；　her　body　racked　with　sobs。

They　do　say　the　holidays　can　cause　depression。

d　on　deadline

Turtles　sleep　under　the　mud；　while　our　hearts　break…

Two　zebras　together；　so　separate。

Dan　crumpled　the　piece　of　paper　and　threw　it　onto　the　coffee…stained　tan　rug。　The　room　smelled　like　cigarettes　and　incense；　which　Dan　had　first　started　burning　a　year　ago　to　erase　the　smell　of　Vanessa；　but　hadn’t　broken　the　habit。　The　alarm　clock　he’d　had　since　seventh　grade　read　eleven　thirty…four　in　luminous　green　letters。　For　everyone　else；　it　was　twenty…six　minutes　until　New　Year’s；　but　for　Dan；　it　was　less　than　half　an　hour　until　he　failed　his　poetry　class　and　botched　his　writing　career。

Of　course；　he’d　been　an　idiot　to　even　sign　up　for　a　writing　seminar　called　Poetry　and　Passion　when　there　was　so　little　passion　in　his　life。　But　Colm　Doyle；　the　legendary　Irish　writer；　was　the　instructor。　Colm　wrote　angry；　honest　poems　about　love。　After　his　fourth　divorce；　he’d　written　a　poem　called　“Hand　on　the　Frying　Pan；”　and　Dan　had　memorized　every　line。　Besides；　he’d　hoped　he　could　benefit　from　taking　a　class　on　passion　when　he　wasn’t　in　love。　After　all；　back　in　high　school；　he’d　written　his　best　poem；　“Sluts；”　after　he’d　broken　up　with　Vanessa　the　first　time。　That　had　been　published　in　The　New　Yorker。

It　was　also　submitted　not　by　the　writer　but　by　its　unjealous　subject。

But　now；　he　couldn’t　write　anything。　It　wasn’t　like　he　hadn’t　tried；　over　and　over；　for　the　last　year。　It　was　just　always　the　same：　He’d　loved　Vanessa；　Vanessa　had　cheated　on　him；　he　hated　his　life；　and　he　wanted　to　move　on　but　for　some　reason　couldn’t。　He　was　angry　at　her　and　missed　her　and　hated　the　fact　that　he’d　seen　a　photo　of　her　and　that　Hollis　guy　on　one　of　the　party　pages　in　New　York　magazine；　looking　so　happy　together。　He　wished　that　he’d　never　met　Vanessa；　so　he　wouldn’t　have　to　feel　this　way。

Sounds　like　someone　skipped　the　better　to　have　loved　and　lost　lesson。

Dan　lay　down　on　his　bed　and　pulled　the　flannel　sheets　over　his　head。　All　he　wanted　to　do　was　fall　asleep　so　he　didn’t　have　to　think；　but　unfortunately　he’d　had　fourteen　cups　of　black　coffee　today　and　his　hands　were　vibrating。　He　just　couldn’t　fucking　write　the　poem。　And　he’d　tried。　So　far；　pages　and　pages　were　scattered　across　the　room　and　on　his　bed。　The　zebra　and　turtle　poem　had　actually　been　one　of　his　better　efforts。　At　one　point；　he’d　thought　he　was　onto　something；　but　then　realized　he　was　just　transcribing　an　Indigo　Girls　song　playing　on　the　radio　his　father　had　left　on　in　the　kitchen。

“Daniel？”　Rufus　appeared　in　the　doorway。　His　wiry　salt…and…pepper　hair　was　tucked　into　a　pink　beret　that　was　obviously　Jenny’s。　Jenny　had　spent　Christmas　with　them；　but　was　spending　New　Year’s　on　a　Waverly　field　trip　to　Paris。　Dan　wished　he　could　have　gone　with　her。　He　wished　he　could　be　anywhere　but　here。

“I　was　just　going　to　call　for　some　Chinese　food。　What　do　you　say？”　Rufus　asked　almost　tenderly。　“I　find　I　work　better　with　a　little　MSG　in　my　system。”

“I’m　not　hungry；”　Dan　mumbled。　He　swung　his　legs　out　of　bed　and　picked　up　the　half…empty　cup　of　coffee　from　his　night　table。　It　was　cold　but　he　gulped　it　down　anyway；　enjoying　the　bitter；　acrid　taste　as　it　traveled　down　his　throat。　That　was　how　he　felt。

My　love　is　like　stale　coffee…。

Dan　sighed。　It　was　official。　He　sucked。

“Should　I　be　worried　about　you？”　Rufus　asked　sternly　as　he　sat　down　on　Dan’s　bed。　Rufus　was　one　of　those　dads　who　believed　in　a　less…is…more　approach　to　parenting；　but　was　always　attuned　to　the　lives　of　his　two　children。　Dan　felt　bad　dragging　him　into　his　den　of　despair。　It　wasn’t　his　fault　Dan　had　peaked　at　seventeen。

“I’m　trying　to　write　a　poem；　and　I　can’t　do　it；”　Dan　admitted。

“What　do　you　mean？”　Rufus　roared。　He　stood　up；　placed　his　hands　on　his　hips；　and　looked　down　at　Dan　in　exasperation。　It　was　the　same　gesture　Jenny　would　make　when　she　wanted　to　prove　that　Dan　was　being　ridiculous。　“You’re　brilliant；　boy！”

“Thanks；”　Dan　mumbled；　glancing　away。　“I’m　going　to　fail　this　class　unless　I　write　a　love　poem；　and　I　just…　can’t；”　he　said　miserably。　“I　was　supposed　to　finish　last　week　but　the　professor　gave　me　an　extension　until　midnight　tonight。　After　that…”　He　trailed　off。

“Ah；　the　poet　under　pressure。”　Rufus　shook　his　head。　“I　remember　one　time　upstate。　Summer　of　’67。　But　instead　of　Woodstock；　we　were　creating　art。　We　were　free…versing　around　the　campfire；　and　I　didn’t　know　what　the　hell　to　say。　So　then　I　used　some　of　my　old　stuff　knocking　around　my　noggin。　Toast　of　the　evening；”　Rufus　said　proudly。

Dan　smiled　tightly。　His　dad’s　hippie　free…versing　wasn’t　exactly　the　same　as　a　poem　he　had　to　turn　in　for　a　grade　at　a　class　at　Columbia。

“I’m　off　to　order。　I’ll　get　you　the　chicken　fried　rice　and　let　you　know　when　the　grub’s　here。”　Rufus　stood　up　and　wandered　out；　leaving　Dan　alone。

Thankfully。

Still；　maybe　there　was　something　to　what　his　dad　w