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more_magicEverything Darlington had ever read suggested that January was meant to be a time of new beginnings. Of starting afresh, of stepping through a doorway--the month named, after all, for Janus--and becoming somehow better than one had been in the year just past. There were rites, and rituals, and spells to recite; if he'd been a Roman, he might have given a tribute of figs and honey, or salt and coin, depending on how much one trusted Ovid's account. Regardless, things at the start of a new year were meant to be different.
In looking over the ruin of his January, Darlington wishes he'd been more specific about the kind of new beginning he'd been seeking.
He could ask how, or why, or when things went so spectacularly wrong, but in his heart he knows the answer. Knows, too, the only person there is to blame for it. He'd made a litany of wrong choices, flung himself down a path that he'd built stone by stone out of his own rigidity and judgement and anger. Whether awake or asleep, he's been plagued by flashes of his own regrettable memories: the smear of glitter on Alex's cheek, that full moon night; the tight set of his own jaw as he hid in the squalid shadows of the club and watched her gyrate on stage only a few days ago; the sound of that mug shattering against the wall beside his head; the sneer of his voice as he said one unforgivable thing after another. If he could begin again, walk through the doorway of the new year once more and be wiped clean, he would. He'd give anything to do it. But he can't.
With his one Monday class cancelled, he's agreed to take on an additional shift at work today, coupling his usual morning shift at the museum with another in the afternoon. It felt good to work, to sink into the repetition of selling tickets and directing guests, pointing the way to the restrooms or the temporary exhibit hall and taking down yet another complaint that the touchscreens in the Human Bodies gallery were malfunctioning. It doesn't quite keep him from dwelling--nothing, really, ever could--but it's enough to let him forget for small stretches of time.
The gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next means he's managed to swing a full hour and a half for lunch. After using his staff discount to buy a sandwich and a bottled juice from the cafe in the museum courtyard, he looks around for a place to sit. There's some tour group from one of the high schools here, a chattering tangle of adolescents picking at their own sack lunches and sprawling across the benches, and as he makes his way to a vacant table at the other end of the seating area, Darlington affords them a slightly wide berth.
In looking over the ruin of his January, Darlington wishes he'd been more specific about the kind of new beginning he'd been seeking.
He could ask how, or why, or when things went so spectacularly wrong, but in his heart he knows the answer. Knows, too, the only person there is to blame for it. He'd made a litany of wrong choices, flung himself down a path that he'd built stone by stone out of his own rigidity and judgement and anger. Whether awake or asleep, he's been plagued by flashes of his own regrettable memories: the smear of glitter on Alex's cheek, that full moon night; the tight set of his own jaw as he hid in the squalid shadows of the club and watched her gyrate on stage only a few days ago; the sound of that mug shattering against the wall beside his head; the sneer of his voice as he said one unforgivable thing after another. If he could begin again, walk through the doorway of the new year once more and be wiped clean, he would. He'd give anything to do it. But he can't.
With his one Monday class cancelled, he's agreed to take on an additional shift at work today, coupling his usual morning shift at the museum with another in the afternoon. It felt good to work, to sink into the repetition of selling tickets and directing guests, pointing the way to the restrooms or the temporary exhibit hall and taking down yet another complaint that the touchscreens in the Human Bodies gallery were malfunctioning. It doesn't quite keep him from dwelling--nothing, really, ever could--but it's enough to let him forget for small stretches of time.
The gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next means he's managed to swing a full hour and a half for lunch. After using his staff discount to buy a sandwich and a bottled juice from the cafe in the museum courtyard, he looks around for a place to sit. There's some tour group from one of the high schools here, a chattering tangle of adolescents picking at their own sack lunches and sprawling across the benches, and as he makes his way to a vacant table at the other end of the seating area, Darlington affords them a slightly wide berth.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 06:18 pm (UTC)Dude, where r u?? Dammers is sending staff into the bathroom to make sure ur not dead!
"Fuck," he says when he reads it, and shoots back a few texts (one of which scolds Clint for telling Dammers he was in the bathroom). "I gotta go." He pushes the chair back, then tucks it in once he's stood. He hesitates, looking at Darlington. "Just... be good to Alex, okay?"
no subject
Date: 2020-01-19 06:55 pm (UTC)Darlington waits, letting him tap out that flurry of messages, and when he stands again, he gives him a brief nod. "I will," he says, as genuinely as he can manage. "You're a good friend to her, Caleb. I'm glad. And...hang on."
He turns, getting his satchel from where he'd draped it along the back of his chair. Opening it, he pulls out a museum brochure, glossy and bright, a stock photo splashed across the front. "If your teacher asks, you had questions about the summer teen docent program," he says, handing it over. "Happy to help."