The Lovebirds - XIII

“A half-hour jaunt down the street to spend money doesn’t really count as getting out of the house.”

Previously.

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“Would you want to go out somewhere?”

The incessant little click click click that had filled the den came to a sudden stop. Agratta - seated on the folding couch - looked to Stolitz where he sat at the countertop.

“What?”

“I asked,” said Stolitz. “Would you want to go out somewhere?”

Agratta scanned the den, brows furrowed as she appeared to search for whoever Stolitz had been speaking to, which, apparently, she didn’t consider to be herself. She pointed a black-lacquered talon at her face, puzzled.

“No,” said Stolitz. “The other demon. The one behind you.” When Agratta actually looked over her shoulder, he sighed. “Yes. Yes, you, Agratta. Would you like to go somewhere?”

Agratta’s confusion intensified. “Go where?”

Her husband made a vague gesture that didn’t indicate much of anything. “I don’t know. Somewhere. Maybe… maybe we just go get a drink or two, somewhere.”

“Are we really out of wine, already?

Stolitz’s eyes drifted to the collection of wine bottles sitting atop the fridge, which, in the absence of a proper liquor cabinet or wine rack, had become the designated space for alcohol storage. There was a variety of bottles of a variety of wines that had all been purchased based on the quality of the label alone. It wasn’t the most foolproof method of selecting wine that, if not good, was at least fit for demonic consumption. If the bottles they’d already cleared were anything to go by, it was, if nothing else, better than their previous strategy of selecting wine on what would do the least amount of damage to their dwindling funds.

“No. At the rate we’ve been drinking, I think we’ll have wine for the next week or so.”

Agratta gave a sigh of relief. “Thank sin for that.”

That wasn’t even taking into account the bottles of prosecco currently chilling in the fridge, which had proven to be a much superior alternative for morning mimosa making than grain alcohol. It had hurt to spend so much money on something that, at first glance, seemed to offer so little utility, but it kept Agratta happy. Well, as happy as she could be. Really, having a surplus of wine on hand kept her quiet more than anything. It helped keep Stolitz sane, as well.

“I don’t see why we’d go somewhere else to drink, then,” Agratta continued, turning her attention back to the knitting needle in her hand. The small click click click of metal on metal once again filled the den as she began to work on… well, Stolitz wasn’t sure what she was working on. Reluctantly, he’d purchased the supplies for her with the hopes that it would give her an activity to occupy herself with that wasn’t whinging or drinking and the full expectation that she would, after an hour or two, abandon out of frustration or boredom. To his surprise, however, a day had passed and she was still going at it. She seemed to pick up on the basics easy enough, gleaning them from a book they’d purchased alongside the supplies, but whether or not she’d make anything of any value was a different question. So far, all she’d managed to make was a thick, rectangular length of woven scarlet yarn that didn’t appear to serve any purpose or really be particular thing other than an experiment. But, if nothing else… well, she was trying, And that counted for something, Stolitz thought.

“Well, it’s not - it isn’t really about the drinks,” Stolitz told her. “It’s more just an excuse to… you know. Get out of the house.”

The needle in Agratta’s hands went still as she shot another puzzled look at her husband. “And… why would we want to do that?”

“Because we’ve been in it for two days straight,” Stolitz replied.

“We just went to Tar-Get,” countered Agratta.

“A half-hour jaunt down the street to spend money doesn’t really count as getting out of the house.”

Agratta resumed her knitting with a dismissive click of her tongue. “Perhaps not for you. It was more than enough for me.” Her eyes narrowed into slits as she worked what appeared to be a particularly disagreeable length of yarn.

For the sake of avoiding an argument, Stolitz suppressed the sigh of disappointment crawling up his throat and forced it back down. He supposed that the distance that had grown between himself and his wife was responsible for the fact that he’d forgotten just how much of a homebody Agratta really was. He remembered that, even in the early years of their marriage, she was always content to spend absurd amounts of time sequestered in their house, without much of an impetus to leave unless she was obligated to attend some event, or was forced to out of necessity. And, in Stolitz’s opinion, that wasn’t exactly a negative trait. If there was anything that convinced him that Agratta had never been infidelious, it was the fact that she’d have had to left the manor to do it, and, even more presciently, solicit an illicit partner to do it with - neither of which would have been in character for someone who preferred to spend their time sequestered inside and never made friends easily. Hell, he figured that if it was a candid picture of her snapped with her cousin in public that finally triggered his father to send them on this unwanted excursion, his patience would have been exhausted long, long ago if Agratta was more inclined to go out, make bad decisions, and show her tailfeathers to the public on a regular basis.

One of the traits that drew him to her in the first place was the fact that, socially, Agratta was a rather insular individual. He wouldn’t have the patience to deal with a partner that was constantly running out to gallivant about Hell with a posse of raucous extroverts.

Stolitz, too, was not the most socially outgoing individual. But he was also not a demon that liked being cooped up in one spot for extended periods of time. It was one of the reasons he’d found office work so tedious. It wasn’t that he minded spending time in a singular place for long stretches. On the contrary, Stolitz could spend a remarkably unhealthy amount of time locked in his office, reclining on a chaise lounge or sprawled out on the leather sofa, reading books or watching films or simply sitting there doing nothing at all. But it was one thing to remain in one spot by choice. It was another to be forced to stay somewhere against one’s will. Stolitz didn’t care for that. And, at the moment, he felt particularly confined; a sense that was only exacerbated by the fact that he didn’t have to be.

There was a car in the garage. There was nothing stopping him from getting in it and simply driving somewhere else. Where? He wasn’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t as if he was a prisoner. Yes, there was the troublesome matter of his neighbor, but she wasn’t posted up in a lawn chair in his front yard, a glass of sweet tea in one hand and a loaded gun in the other, just waiting to put a bullet in his face the moment he opened the door. Perhaps she was watching them through the scope of a rifle - the thought had occurred to him more than once - but if she was, she’d let them leave for the store without so much as a warning shot. And, he was convinced that she was keeping careful tabs on them, that much seemed to be a foregone conclusion. But it was also a forgone conclusion to Stolitz that, if he was forced to be a prisoner in this house, which he still couldn’t bring himself to say was his, a summary execution from the end of an angelic weapon would be a mercy rather than a punishment.

With a resolute sigh, Stolitz pushed away from the counter and stood up, his knees popping in a way that they didn’t when he’d been a younger demon. A lot of him snapped and crackled as he stretched. “Well,” he said. “That may be the case for you, Agratta, but it was hardly sufficient for me.”

“Because you aren’t doing anything,” said Agratta, this time without pausing the needle in her hand, staring intently at the ambiguous tapestry of fabric as she fixed another stitch.

“Actually, Agratta, I’ve been doing a lot,” he replied.

“Sitting there and brooding doesn’t count as something,” said Agratta.

You would know plenty about that, Stolitz thought to himself.

“Well, perhaps you were too invested in your knitting t-”

“Crocheting,” Agratta corrected.

“Right. Sorry. While you’ve been fussing with yarn -” He raised his hands as a preemptive measure of disengaging from the argument he knew his poorly chosen words would ignite. “Which is completely fine… I’ve been building furniture. Cleaning. I just did the laundry this morning.”

“And you put a red shirt in with the whites,” said Agratta. “Do be sure not to do that again.”

Stolitz put a hand over his beak. He shut his eyes.

Just breathe.

“Duly noted.”

“You’d do well to pick up a hobby,” she continued. “Keep your hands occupied. Keep your mind working, you know?”

“Of course,” Stolitz agreed. “Hobbies are all well and good, but, at the moment, I’m not sure we have the funds for both of us to take up a hobby.”

Agratta made another dismissive sound as she continued to work. “Oh, come off it. You didn’t spend more than… what? Twenty five dollars on supplies?”

“The how-to book alone was twenty five dollars,” said Stolitz.

“And you only have to buy it once,” Agratta said with an unconcerned shrug. “The rest… it wasn’t much.”

“Perhaps not, but, unfortunately, I don’t have the same interest in the fine art of knitting as you, and I -”

“Excuse you,” Agratta interjected. “It’s crocheting. I am crocheting, not knitting. Knitting requires two needles, and I am only using one.” She held the single needle in up to display it’s singularity. Whatever she was making hung limp from the side, like a flag sadly dangling from a pole on a windless day. “And it’s a hook. Not a needle.”

Stolitz had to admit; Agratta was learning a lot. Perhaps too much.

“Yes, well, crocheting. Knitting. Weaving, twining, braiding fabrics of any kind - I’m afraid I’m not terribly interested in it, and anything I am interested in doing costs significantly more capital investment than some yarn and needles.”

Agratta huffed. “Well, if I might be as bold as to make a suggestion, rather than complain that about finances, perhaps you might be better served… oh. How might I put it…” Stolitz already knew where Agratta was going with that comment, but generously remained silent and gave her the privilege of pretending to think for a moment before finishing. “Ah. Yes. Perhaps you should, er - find a way to the improve them. Hm?”

“Rest assured, Agratta, that is still at the forefront of my priorities.”

Agratta returned to her knitting. “If you say so,” she muttered.

Over the past two days, Agratta’s mood - and behavior - had been a marked improvement over that she’d arrived with. Being pleasant was still something she was struggling to contend with. But at least she wasn’t yelling.

That still wasn’t enough to temper Stolitz’s instincts to bite back. Every catty comment, every snide remark, every thinly veiled insult - they were more subtle, now, but still present, and each one still triggered a deep-seated impulse to snap back with an equally charged verbal jab of his own.

They were on thin ice. Both of them. Precariously balanced on a knife’s edge that could tip in either direction and undo the work that both of them had done in papering over decades of resentment. Only the fear of tearing open that brittle patch-work quick-fix that they had slapped over the gaping, sucking hole of marital discord stayed Stolitz’s tongue.

“Right,” he said. He smoothed out the creases in his vest and stood up to his fullest extent. “I think some fresh air would do me well.”

And some space even more so, he thought. Stolitz approached the door and stopped, hand on the handle, as he heard Agratta shifting on the couch, turning to watch him leave and doubtlessly preparing to offer some parting words of her own special brand of encouragement.

“We can only hope,” Agratta intoned. “If you do decide to indulge outside of the house… could you do me one simple favor?” She held up a single finger, her expression inscrutable. “Just one.”

Stolitz gave her a taut smile. “Perhaps if you ask nicely, I’ll be inclined to give it some consideration.”

Agratta’s expression darkened some. “I don’t think I’d be asking for much if I were to ask that you don’t stay out late.”

Stolitz briefly humored the idea of needling her over his suspected motives for such a request. Oh - are you afraid that our neighbor might decide to come check up on you while you’re out? He knew that making such a comment was guaranteed to raise Agratta’s ire. He also knew that it wasn’t an unwarranted concern. Though Agratta’s considerable paranoia regarding their neighbor had waned some, it had yet to completely dissipate. He doubted it ever would.

He nodded. “Listen, Agratta. I’m not going out with the intentions of getting unconscionably drunk. All I n-”

“Well, you don’t exactly have the best record of saying you won’t get unconscionably drunk and then deciding that the best place to spend the night is in a pile of trash bags behind a dumpster,” Agratta interjected.

Stolitz shut his eyes tight. “That was… one time,” he said, eyes still closed and an iron grip on his better judgement.

“One time too bloody many,” Agratta replied.

“And it won’t happen another time,” Stolitz said with a dismissive huff. “Things are different, now. I was… I was in a bad place.”

Agratta pulled a face. What kind of face, Stolitz wasn’t sure.

“Are really in a better one?” she asked.

“Physically or mentally?”

“Both.”

“Physically? No,” Stolitz replied. “Mentally?”

He hesitated.

“It could be worse.”

“That’s not exactly a response that inspires much confidence that you won’t be sleeping in a dumpster.”

“Look,” said Stolitz. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m just going going to breath fresh air. Maybe talk a stroll around the block. Stretch my legs. Feel the sun on my face.”

Agratta inhaled deeply. She exhaled even deeper. Then, awkwardly, she turned over, onto her back, and resumed her knitting. “Do as you will,” she said in a tone that implied she’d rather him do anything but. “Just know that if you come home and find my innards painting the walls, you’ll be here forever.”

“Frankly, Agratta, if our lovely neighbor painted the walls with your entrails…”

It’d be a lovely change of pace from the bare sheetrock. Stolitz shook the thought out of his head.

“She’d probably do the same to me, and there wouldn’t be much I could do to stop her.”

“Are you going, or not?”

Stolitz bristled. “Right. Don’t wait up for me.” Finally, he pressed down on the door handle, pushed, and -

“Stolitz.”

He froze.

“Wait.”

Stolitz turned to find Agratta, once again, staring at him. She looked as if she had something to say. Something that she couldn’t quite force out, something that, despite her best efforts, was caught in her throat. And causing a great deal of discomfort, too. Stolitz arched a brow. Agratta blinked furiously. She swallowed.

“Be sure to lock the door,” she said. “I know that flimsy little deadbolt won’t do much, but… it does make me feel better.”

Stolitz nodded. “Right. Bye, then.”

Stolitz stepped out of the cool, recycled, and fully conditioned air into a thick, soupy world of sticky hot. The Florida summer was in full swing, and no sooner had he stepped onto the porch did every pore on his body open up and begin to sweat. He closed the door. He made sure to lock it, slowly and deliberately. No sooner did he emerge from beneath the protective shade of the porch awning did he regret his decision; the sun on his face was much more pleasant in theory than it was in reality, much less like a soothing, warm, life-giving light washing over his body in a delicate wave, and more like a violent and brutal tidal wave crashing against him with a bone-breaking force. The humidity was so great that it had a tangible, physical weight that pushed down on him, made him feel heavier.

Hell got a reputation for being a hot place. It wasn’t - not overall. There were some sections of Hell that were actually quite cold. Florida, however? This was the kind of hot that people mistakenly thought Hell was. This made the infamously stuffy Layer of Wrath look positively balmy.

Given that a stroll around the block would have been tantamount to taking a leisurely stroll through a blast furnace, Stolitz decided against the idea. He slipped out his car keys. He’d rather take a drive. Yes - a nice, air-conditioned drive, in his nice, air-conditioned car, where he could find a nice, air-conditioned place and enjoy a nice drink that was not hot.

That sounded nice.

Stolitz made his way to the garage. Each step he took felt heavy and beleaguered, as if a tax was being tolled by the sun above. He leaned against the siding trim that framed the simple, white, retractable door, flicking open the cover from the keypad that operated the door from the exterior. Like everything else about the house, his father had neglected to leave any information regarding what the code might be to open the door. Stolitz had only managed to guess the right code through sheer luck while toying with it. He tried 123, then 111, 999, and a few others before the most obvious answer occurred to him.

He punched the 6 key three times, and the garage door motor began to whir with life. As the door began to retract with the deep grumble of churning gears and pulling chains, Stolitz looked up from the keypad.

Oh, he thought with only a dull sense of surprise, most of his wits dimmed by the oppressive heat. It’s so hot I didn’t even notice her.

Seated in a plastic lawn chair the color of the cloudless sky above and clothed in a dress of the same shade, Roniel sat like a splotch of blue against the flawless sea of green that was her carefully manicured yard. The fact that someone with as little color to her skin wasn’t frying like a fish on a grill while basking in sunlight of such ferocity was only further evidence of the fact that she was decidedly not human. She didn’t have a tanning screen. She didn’t have a gun, either. She just seemed to be sitting there. Ostensibly enjoying the sun.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just reminding him that she was, indeed, still there.

She gave Stolitz a broad, toothy grin, eyes obscured behind tinted lenses of a pair of sunglasses so large that they seemed to take up half her face. She raised a glass of what looked to be something brown and carbonated in a mocking toast. Probably to the prospect of his premature death at her hands.

Stolitz didn’t return the gesture. Instead, he retreated into the garage and sealed himself in the car, where he was, for a moment, able to delude himself into believing the door locks provided any real security.

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Old habits die hard.

This is the twelfth installment of my ongoing series for Thorny Thursday, which is spearheaded by Kathrine Elaine and The Brothers Krynn. I encourage you to check out the other authors that are participating, a full list of which can be found on either of their pages.

As always, I sincerely hope you enjoyed, and I hope to see you in the next.