Inker
"Control-Alt-Delete?"
"CTRL-Alt-Del."
Steve's nose curls in frustration. "All I got is a blue screen."
"Ahah. You're gonna have to start over!" Mick smiles to himself, knowing how very much Steve hates his laptop.
"Damnit!"
He glances down at his own tablet, counts the paragraphs. "What was the last thing you had typed?"
"I think I was calling Eric an asshole...shit!"
Mick muffles his laugh. Steve hates to be laughed at, unless he's finally admitted his own foibles. "I guess getting you a laptop for Christmas wasn't a good idea."
"No, I'm glad. I can talk to my girls now."
"Yeah, but you could do everything else in longhand."
"I don't got much to say."
Mick frowns. "You could, if you just-"
"Listened to my FEELINGS." He rolls his eyes. Steve doesn't like to be told to probe his own emotions, not because he's hyper-macho, but because he's lazy. He knows how he feels, but to have to meander and lavish over it felt trying. "Mick, you there?" He knows when he's gone too far.
"I'm here." Mick is in the middle of retelling a meeting with Fox executives. Every little detail is summarized beautifully and succinctly. He has spent a paragraph explaining why programming for the Midwest is such a convoluted idea. "Do you think you could live on two phrases for an entire week?"
"Huh?"
"You know; do you think you could live for an entire week expressing yourself through three phrases."
"Hell no!"
"I know you. I bet you could."
"Really? Which ones?"
"'Fuck you', 'Where's dinner', and 'Roll over.'"
He roars his laughter into the phone, and the line crackles.
"Who told you that?"
"I've lived with you. I know who you are." Which is great, he thinks, and bad for me, all at once.
"Yeah, well, there are things about me you don't know. Remember that."
He would like to think so.
"I gotta go; Jeannie's bringing the kids at two. But I'll call you, we'll see each other on Monday?"
"Yep."
"I - love you."
"I know. I love you too."
"Goodnight."
"Night."
The dialtone sounds and he hangs up the line. Turning over onto his stomach, Mick turns the volume up on his cheap TV. The Fonz is French-kissing a girl he barely knows. Once, he wanted to be like him. Instead, he fell for someone who could just be his double, at the soul, not the face.
God forbid either of them take off the leather and learn how to start talking.
Inspiration strikes. A new page is turned. The light flickers on, and he doesn't look up.