Omega

Morgan anxiously waited for quitting time. While he struggled to break into Seattle’s alt-folk music scene, he paid his bills at Friend or Pho, a SoDo Vietnamese sandwich and bubble teashop. Linea had stopped in earlier, ordered her usual, then slipped him a note on the napkin as she paid; she’d be stopping by his place this evening. 

Morgan and Linea had carried on this spy-drop correspondence for three years. She’d stop by the shop, order a black milk tea, then provide directions for their rendezvous concealed on a napkin. Her delicate handwriting slanted to the right corner in purple ink, concealed within the folds of the square fluffy paper. They never went out together and only saw each other socially in groups. The convenient cover for their relationship was school acquaintances and they knew many of the same people. But in their situation, appearances were everything. 

Whenever possible she came out to see him play guitar. Linea would lie to Terry, saying she was going to a movie or concert with her girlfriends. Morgan hated to listen to Linea describe these deceits. But he loved the way she leaned on the stage, a splash of bright color in his peripheral vision. And he loved the tender passion of their relationship, their secret love, nurtured in the back alleys of clubs, the back glances at parties, and his tiny apartment. He drummed on the counter with his fingers, eyeing the remaining customers, silently urging them to finish their plates and leave. 

He’d known Linea since the fifth grade but only realized his affection for her in high school. Morgan had always been quick to love. He didn’t idealize women, putting them on a pedestal, but he tried to treat them the way they should be treated. But the teenage girls he knew had a peculiar hankering for guys who handled them badly. Morgan’s high school was a honeycomb filled with strong, intelligent, young women hanging on every word of some asshole. Without the killer instinct of an alpha male, Morgan found his interactions with the opposite sex bore little nectar.

Often, Morgan was banished to the friend zone, or ended up serving as the default guy. As Backup Boy, he would hold his tongue as his female friend cursed men after an over stimulated playboy cheated on her. Always in the back of his mind, he hoped that this phase would pass and that someday she would see him for what he was, and what they could be.

Morgan had a few quasi-relationships, always unofficial, always short, and always poorly ended. The girl would lead him around for months, even a year, drawing him in, and then pushing him away when he got too close or she received a better offer from a more prized male.   

After one particularly brutal rejection by a future California starlet, Morgan was alone after an unproductive band practice, brooding over which sign he misinterpreted this time. Absent-mindedly strumming his nylon stringed, parlor guitar, he stared up from the floor at the popcorn glaze on his ceiling. The phone rang, but he wasn’t prepared to rehash tempo debates with the bass player. He sat at his desk to screen the call. Next to stacks of guitar tabs Morgan rediscovered the handmade card, a piece of blue tag board bent into a small folder, his name scrolled in boxy black capital letters across the front of a white square outlined in red. The inside contained the same excited letters, thanking him for his help on an essay, and wishing he’d be well soon. The card was signed with a heart from Linea; beneath her name she drew a little snail. 

She’d always been a sweet and considerate girl. Involved with various volunteer projects. But she’d rather bullshit her way through free study hour with him than attend 6th grade symphonic band rehearsal. She looked great in a pair of volleyball spandex. And pestered him about learning yoga with her or wondered why he didn’t enroll in honors classes.

Then Morgan realized that Linea was the only person who seemed to genuinely care about him at school. Since he’d known her, she always tried to include him, wanted to know if he was going to the football game Friday, or if he’d be at a party. Several times, she’d brought him batches of cookies, her latest gluten free experiment, for no discernible reason. While his other friends made up strange stories about why he was absent, she made him a card. And from this little seed of kindness she casually planted, love sprouted. He knew he wasn’t the first guy to be attracted to her, and he definitely wouldn’t be the last.    

Her stain on his adolescent psyche did not fade with the progression of time.  In school they remained just friends, running in similar circles and on paths that would periodically diverge and converge. Linea was never without a regular boyfriend. So, even though he longed to, Morgan never felt there was a good time to tell her how he felt. After graduation, she left their sleepy southwestern Washington town for a private college in Seattle. Morgan stayed close to home, playing with his band Animatronic Cowboy for the hipsters in Portland taverns at night, while serving coffee at Powell’s for cash. 

Quitting time finally came and Morgan rushed through closing. He put the chairs up on the tables, sticky vinyl on gummy dull glossed wood. Then swept and mopped the floor. Stray noodles, bits of bread, crumpled napkins, coins, flavor orbs, and other spills, both dry and wet, littered the restaurant. His orange sneakers squeaked across the moist surface. These tasks completed, Morgan hung his apron in the back. Everything in its place, the doors to the teashop locked, another shift done. 

Morgan wasted no time. He headed directly to the bus stop, his worn out shoes padded softly on the sidewalks as he jogged down the block. When the timing was right, he had virtually no wait for the bus. But if closing took too long, it would be at least a half hour waiting in the damp, cool night. Tonight proved most efficient, and the bus pulled up just as Morgan arrived at the stop. He jumped on the sparsely populated bus and took a seat toward the middle. Morgan closed his eyes, resting, with a smile on his face; soon he would be back in Linea’s arms. 

After a couple years, Morgan believed that even his friendship with Linea had petered out.  But two years as a near townie proved enough for the troubadour. He fled the familiar banks of the Columbia River to seek his fortune on the shores of Puget Sound. This decision held unexpected consequences, as his path again converged with Linea.           

Morgan and Linea reunited at a pretentious coffee shop on Mercer Island. He was performing an acoustic set with his new band, Janet Reno and the Somethings, at the café’s open mike night. The band played five songs to a lukewarm response, as the crowd clanked their mugs and did their best to talk over them. Janet Reno and the Somethings finished their set, thanked them for the lack luster applause and plugged their next gig at a bar in the UDistrict that weekend. Off the tiny stage, carefully stowing his gear, Morgan suddenly confronted a familiar face. 

“I knew it was you.” Linea greeted him with a smile. 

She looked different and the same all at once, but somehow more herself. Gone were the locks that hung just below her shoulders when curled, and at her mid-back when straightened. Instead her hair was cut short like Audrey Hepburn, if Hepburn had worn it tousled more than styled and listened to Ani DiFranco and Sex Pistols. Linea’s rich blue eyes looked as big and bright as ever. She wore a satin olive dress that went to her mid thigh, dark stockings, and knee-high boots. 

Morgan barely managed to stammer a greeting. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious about his own disheveled appearance. 

Morgan’s hair was also shorter. Since graduation he’d ditched his straight shoulder-length blonde locks, opting for upturned strands that hung down to the nape of his neck. Unkempt sideburns shot down to his jaw, while stubble gave the rest of his face a dirty appearance. Admittedly, his couch surfing lifestyle didn’t lend itself to the best hygiene. He looked like a Scandinavian herring fisherman: lean, pale, grungy and ready to head out to sea. 

“How long’ve you been in town?” 

Linea stared at him, apparently waiting for him to pick up the conversation. When he didn’t, she moved it along herself: “Are you guys going on again tonight?”

“Ah, no.”

“Want to grab a bite to eat or a cup of coffee?” 

Morgan nodded his head like the village idiot. 

“Great, just let me tell my friends I’m leaving, you know, so they won’t worry.” 

While Linea said her goodbyes, Morgan finished packing his gear.  Under his breath, he cursed his stupidity for getting tongue tied. After his disconcerted behavior, he was lucky she still wanted to hang out. Morgan knew that if he didn’t calm down and get his act together, she would think he’d become some kind of sociopath. Now that she was back in his life, he had to play this just right.

Morgan entered his studio apartment on Capitol Hill. The sparsely furnished room somehow still had a crowded feel. The kitchen was cluttered with pans and dishes stacked on the counters and stove. Several potted plants lined the windowsill above the sink: Christmas cactus, spider plant, Venus flytrap, and a bonsai fichus Linea had given him as a house-warming present. The single main room was furnished with a dirty sleeper sofa that was rarely seen as a couch, a milk crate bedside table, cinderblock bookcases housing paperback novels and an old stereo, and a guitar amp. The rest of the space was taken up by disorganized crates of CDs, records, and tapes. The only things hanging on the wall were his laundry drying above the radiator, a Beatles poster, and his two guitars above the bed. The bathroom was a cramped broom closet with a toilet, shower and sink. The entire studio exuded a damp, moldy musk that Morgan tried to cover with incense and candles. Rather than remove the stench of mildew, the sweet vapors mingled and mixed with the pungent air, spawning unwieldy offspring. Unless someone desired that seedy motel look, Morgan’s dank place was hardly the ideal location for a regular affair.

Since Linea moved in with her boyfriend two years prior, her cleaner more spacious place was no longer an option. Adulterers can’t be choosers, so they focused on each other’s company, and ignored the aroma and furnishings. Linea, an art history major in college, liked to affect the role of the free spirit. She claimed that she loved Morgan’s dump of an apartment. The studio’s raw bohemian quality fit her jaded, poetic lover perfectly. Morgan sometimes feared that if he ever became more than a poor singer-songwriter that she’d leave him, that the desperate nature of his life was the attraction. 

Morgan forced the warped door of his apartment open, slipped his sneakers off at the entryway, and hung his keys and jacket by the door.  Incense and candles were already battling the mildew to a draw, and a Beatles album, Rubber Soul, cracked away on the record player, letting him know he wasn’t alone.  Linea claimed a set of keys to his place when their tryst became a regular thing.  For the sake of ritual, he dimmed the lights as he left the kitchen and entered the main room. 

Linea stepped out of the closet bathroom, lit brilliantly from behind. A pale blue satin slip with cream lace trim clung to her thigh, partially concealing yellow underwear with the same trim. The slip accented her deep blue eyes, making them pop and shine like a calm lake in summer moonlight. She leaned in the doorway, one knee bent, her foot resting on the frame like a pin-up girl. 

“New lingerie?”

“You noticed.” Linea smiled and walked slowly toward Morgan. 

“How long do we have?” He took her in his arms and caressed the soft skin on the back of her neck. 

“All night,” she whispered. Linea slowly unbuttoned his kung-fu style work shirt, gently rubbing down his chest. She loosened and removed his belt. “Terry is visiting his parents this weekend. So, I thought we could play house. Do you like my new nightie?” 

The muscles in Morgan’s neck and lower back tensed at the mention of Terry. Morgan knew he was the other man, and didn’t need to be reminded of it. In his mind, Linea’s boyfriend was a subject best left unspoken.

“It’s nice.”

“Good.” She played with his shaggy hair. “I got it with you in mind. You even get to see it first.” 

With that phrase, Morgan felt something inside him snap. He could no longer stand the little reminders and inequities that came with his status. The idea that seeing the lingerie first was an honor made him feel cheap. A sour taste, like spoiled pho chua, rose in the back of his mouth. 

“We need to talk.” He pulled her arms down from around his neck. 

“About what?” She tried to close the gap between them and re-tangle their bodies. 

Morgan dodged her, side stepping toward the window opposite his bed. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said without looking at her. 

“What’re you saying, you don’t find me attractive anymore, you don’t love me?”  She took a single step toward him. 

“No, it’s not that at all. I just can’t do this. I can’t handle us anymore.” 

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“How can I break up with you? We don’t officially exist.”

“This is about Terry.”

“Don’t say his name.”

“Morgan, I love you. You know that.” Linea stood directly behind him, and wrapped her arms around him. “What we’ve got is special. Don’t throw it away.” 

Morgan turned around and looked deep into Linea’s eyes. The blue pools around her pupils glistened with suppressed tears. Her sadness began to soften his rapidly hardening heart. All he wanted was to hold her, come home to her. But that couldn’t happen as long as he was the bit on the side. 

“How can you say you love me, and then go home to him? If you love me, leave him.” 

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Sure it is. If what we have is so special, leave him. Bye-bye Terry, good-fucking-riddance.” 

“That isn’t fair, I can love you both.”             

“What isn’t fair is letting me take care of you, and then going home to him. Telling me it is some kind of privilege to get to see your new underwear first. It isn’t fair to me, the boyfriend of convenience, and it sure-as-hell isn’t fair to him, the boyfriend of appearances. Are you ashamed to be with me?”

“No.” She pushed away from him and moved toward the bed. Tears began to slowly run down her face. “It would be wonderful to be with you, freely, openly. I just can’t choose.” She slumped onto the edge of the mattress. 

“You must’ve known someday you’d have to choose.” 

Morgan couldn’t look at her anymore. He moved toward the kitchen and the door. He buttoned his shirt and slipped on his shoes. 

“Morgan,” she called as he reached the door, her voice cracked, as if it came from an overplayed record. “Are we over?” 

He didn’t answer. The door seemed heavier, the hinges turned stiffly. But somehow he managed to force it open, and himself into the hall. Behind him the door banged shut. And then for a moment there was silence. The tension of his single room slowly lifted in the stale air of the hall. Morgan stood there, staring at the cracked, water-damaged ceiling tiles. 

They stayed up that first night talking, shutting down a less stuffy coffee house and then migrating to the living room of her apartment. She told him about college, her favorite classes, her struggle to register during the first year, dorm life, and the astronomical cost of a liberal arts education. He talked about run down theaters, open mike nights, coffee houses, house parties, using a fake ID to sneak into bars to play shows rather than drink, and overly anxious caffeine addicts. Different people they’d met along the way were described; somehow, Terry wasn’t part of the conversation. 

At two that morning, the old friends found themselves sitting on the floor, sharing a blanket. Their eyes met, they held hands beneath the blanket, and they kissed. The embrace seemed natural, without the awkward quality of most first kisses. 

As the passion of their embrace picked up steam, Linea abruptly broke away. She excused herself, saying she worked in the morning but he was welcome to sleep there and stay until bus service resumed. Then Linea disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Left alone to wonder what’d happened, Morgan slept in the bathtub and slunk off in the morning, without saying goodbye. As an afterthought, he left a note with his number and the time and location of his next gig. 

Morgan didn’t know what to expect after his initial encounter with Linea. He wished he could call her, maybe apologize for the kiss. But did he really have anything to apologize for?  He was fairly certain that the kiss was mutual. Regardless, he didn’t have her number. The only way he could be sure to see her again would be to drop by her apartment. Not knowing where he stood, Morgan decided against an unexpected visit. 

He uneasily awaited his upcoming gig, wondering if she’d be in the audience.  Janet Reno and the Somethings were playing at a lounge near the University of Washington. It was a pretty typical booking; one of six bands allotted thirty minutes to wow drunken college students. A good response would open the door to regular bookings in bars, lounges, and theaters around the University District. Success would also mean saying good-bye to the claustrophobic coffee house scene. Despite the implications of the show, Morgan remained preoccupied with Linea. 

Janet Reno and the Somethings took the stage third, middle of the pack, a respectable placement for a relatively new group. Morgan was clicking on all cylinders that night, the performance a welcome distraction from his rattled nerves. His fat-body strat seemed like an extension of his body, as he effortlessly shredded his way through the set list. The entire band swaggered about the stage, following Morgan’s lead as he belted each song into the microphone with a cocked head and rhythmic flips of his blonde locks. 

Halfway into their set, Morgan noticed someone pushing to the front of the crowd. Linea stood to the right of center stage. The group mellowed for the next song, one Morgan had written that week. A simple song about the work that goes into building and maintaining a relationship. About a man struggling to write a song that accurately reflected his feelings. A man that couldn’t find the words to say he loved her. For this number alone, Morgan stopped his head bobs and hair flips. Instead, he performed only for Linea, not taking his eyes off her as he sang. 

Back stage after the set, the band teemed with excitement over their performance.  Morgan completely forgot about his inner turmoil over Linea. The stage manager came over, said there was someone who wanted to talk to him, as he continued to relish the roar of the crowd. The band stood dumbstruck, hoping to be greeted by a club owner or record producer. Instead, Morgan found himself congratulated by Linea. She was as ecstatic about the band’s performance as they were and offered to take him out to celebrate. 

“Not cool, dude,” the rest of the band shouted after them. 

They hadn’t spoken in over a week. As the pair shared a meal at Cedars, their conversation was forced; neither wanted to address the awkward tension between them. At the end of the night, she gave him her number; they hugged, and sheepishly kissed each other on the cheek at a bus stop, ready to head in opposite directions. Morgan feared that he might not see her again.   

At the last minute, Linea grabbed Morgan’s hand, to prevent him from getting on the bus. She pulled him back to her. 

“Did you write that song for me?”

Morgan nodded. 

“I don’t want you to go. I want you to come back with me,” she said.

Morgan reached out, gently caressing Linea’s chin. They kissed again and this time when they broke their embrace there were no abrupt goodnights. 

She led him by the hand, onto her bus, and up to her place.

Gradually their relationship unfurled, as they rediscovered one another. A month into their blissful tryst, Morgan finally learned his true position in her life. He knew that the signs had been all around him. The picture of Linea embracing a guy who was not her brother on her mantel. Her reluctance to meet him anywhere in the University District. The random male socks in the laundry, when he wasn’t allowed to leave anything behind. But he was too blindsided by love, too wrapped up in the fulfillment of his adolescent fantasies. So he pushed forward, following her siren song, a voluntary participant in their shared charade. 

A block from his apartment, Morgan sat on the stoop of a closed law office. The street was quiet, with only an occasional drunkard passing by on his way to another bar. Sitting on the steps, Morgan looked up to the night sky. He hoped to see some stars, but knew that was impossible through the city’s light pollution. Above him the overcast sky reflected the urban lights, lights that represented thousands of people, crammed into high-rise buildings, sprawled across suburban neighborhoods. Surrounded by people, Morgan felt alone. 

He knew that he loved Linea. Shouldn’t that be the only thing that mattered? She was compassionate, smart and beautiful. Morgan couldn’t wait to see what she did with her life and wanted to be a part of it. He’d miss her nagging him about homeopathic medicine, her attempts to slip him Echinacea or fish oil tablets. The way she cheated at pool, leaning over the table in a low cut shirt. The watercolors and pastels she kept tucked in his closet. The way she insisted he take it slow during sex, no matter the time restraints.

But he also knew that he idealized her. Their relationship was built on deception and stolen time. Despite his resentment toward Terry, Morgan couldn’t forget that he himself was the other man. He could never decide which was worse, to be the cheater and know about the other person, or to be the fool, lied to and believing everything was all right. 

Linea was sure that Terry had no suspicions about Morgan, and she worked hard to keep it that way. When they met at parties, she would keep clear of Morgan, or treat him with the aloofness of an acquaintance. Morgan wondered if Terry was the only one being deceived.

This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to break it off. And every time it was the same old story, tears, promises, declarations of love, and occasionally even resolutions that she’d leave Terry, when the time was right. The time was never right and the situation never changed. But still he believed her. 

Morgan rose from the stoop and began walking back toward his apartment complex. Images stirred and mingled in his mind. Linea’s swinging shoulder as she turned her back on him in the presence of her college friends. Linea lip-syncing in front of the stage at a show. Linea and Terry with their arms linked. Linea puttering about his apartment, trying in vain to create some order in the chaotic clutter. Was he in love with her? Or the idea of her? 

At his door for the second time that night, Morgan hesitated. He knew that someday he’d have to fight for Linea, if he wanted to keep her in his life. Perhaps even force her hand. But not now. “I’ll stay until she goes,” he said to himself, as he turned the knob and entered the apartment. 

B. R. Lewis graduated from Western Washington University and earned his MFA at Eastern Washington University. He served as an editor for both Willow Springs and Sundog Lit. His fiction has appeared in Tribute to Orpheus 2 (Kearney Street Books), Gold Man Review, and Cagibi. He currently lives in Roseburg, OR, where he teaches at Umpqua Community College.