Chapter Text
ACT ONE: MEMORY
Memory, all alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
☼
In which:
Even Bech Næsheim is stuck;
a memory returns;
a new year begins;
and a lost connection is rekindled—
or rekindles itself.
December 21, 2024
Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring tingle tingling too (ring-a-ling-a ding-dong-ding!)
Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you (ring-a-ling-a ding-dong-ding!)
Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling “yoo hoo!” (ring-a-ling-a ding-dong-ding!)
Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you (ring-a-ling-a ding-dong-ding!)
The music on the radio briefly fades to the background by the sounds of the world outside and the chime of the bell above the door as it opens, a customer coming and taking with her a strong gust of cold, harsh wind.
The coffee machines whir along as they always do while the customer quickly but firmly puts her feet to the ground, one and then the other, to get some of the left-over snow off her boots. The little doormat at the entrance hasn’t been dry since this morning, when the first customer arrived and did the exact same thing as this one does now.
Only a thousand people separate them, all of them going through exactly the same motions. Come in, stomp the snow off, put on a fake smile and a fake voice for a fake greeting, order, pay, leave. Over and over and over again.
That’s what it feels like, anyway.
Even Bech Næsheim doesn’t think he’s ever hated something as much as he does Christmas in a customer service job. He tries to hide his annoyance at the mess the customer is making; at the song on the radio, which is playing for what seems like the millionth time today; at the itchy Santa hat he’s had on for far too many hours already.
He tries, he really does.
He puts on a smile and tries to be as charming as possible as the customer cites her order from memory, sure of her case. He tries and he has been trying for years now; to say it’s the Christmas part specifically that he hates would be a bad attempt at consoling himself, a futile attempt at telling himself if you just get through this winter, you’ll be okay again after that.
As if he was okay in summer, as if he will be okay in spring. As if he’s been okay at any point in the last handful of years, or, for that matter, will be in the next handful.
The truth is just that Even Bech Næsheim feels stuck.
Stuck in a shitty job that he’s had since far too long ago, stuck in a city that he’s seen every corner of, stuck in a country where the days in winter are short at best and non-existent at worst. Stuck and unable to get out, stuck and unable to breathe sometimes, like the walls of his life are closing in on him until he’s crushed to just a single speck of dust.
Even keeps track of it sometimes, just how short the days are. In a way he feels that it makes him even more miserable, knowing the exact numbers, yet he still does it. Gives him something to do, he thinks. Today, on the shortest day of the year, the rock bottom of five hours, fifty-three minutes and fifty-five seconds has been reached.
Through a gap in between the buildings of the city, Even can see the last slivers of the sun before it dips below the horizon, out of reach for the next eighteen hours. He would think that living in this city all his life would make it easier, but really, it doesn’t.
In fact, it only gets harder as time goes on, as he spends more and more of his days holed up at this shitty café, watching the sun rise hours after he comes in and set hours before he can leave.
In truth, it’s incredibly draining. Not just the job; everything. His life. The world. The entirety of this stupid fucking galaxy, of this stupid fucking universe, of whatever lies beyond it and whatever hides in between the cracks.
“One gingerbread latte for me, please, Santa!” a new customer chides as she comes up to the counter, aggressively batting her eyelashes in a much less jokey way than the comment sounds. Even’s used to that by now, constantly being flirted with by customers.
It used to flatter him, despite the fact that he had no intention at all of doing anything with it. Now it has just started to feel fake. Really, would they try their luck with him so often if they knew what was behind the curtains? Would they still, if they saw that beyond that ‘pretty’ face was only a deep pit of existential darkness?
Even does not think so. He thinks they would run away screaming.
Still, they can’t see beyond his outside; that’s kind of the point. It’s also why he’s been promoted to head barista, running the shifts and being at the front as much as possible, especially during the rush. The coffee sells, the pastries do, but so does he. It would kill his boss to admit that, but it’s true, and everyone knows it.
Even has a trusted set of regulars now and he’s always quick with a joke, always a smile ready on his face. The customers love him, in short, and he, in turn, sometimes hates them for getting so attached to a version of him that does not exist. Not anymore, at least. Not really.
Still he doesn’t know what he would do without the familiar faces that come in every day; the old lady that’s always there first thing in the morning, wanting nothing more than a plain black coffee she could probably make herself at home; the businessman from the office across the street who never eats breakfast and always gets the same sandwich in the morning rush; the group of university students that passes by every day on their way to class and can never resist dropping by.
They’re one of the only things in this life that keep Even grounded, that make him feel real in this time and place, that make him feel like his life isn’t completely lost.
Even though it kind of is.
“Ho, ho,” Even says to the customer, moving to prepare her Christmas-special drink. He inwardly cringes at what comes out of his mouth, but it’s how the boss wants it; the guy is absolutely in love with Christmas and does the most to amp up the atmosphere at the café each year, starting already in November. They don’t wear the hats then, yet, but lights are fastened to the ceiling and fake snow is sprinkled around the place.
For a few years now, Even has suspected the guy doesn’t really like Christmas all that much but more so the revenue it creates.
In any case, it works: there’s a significant increase in customers during the dark days, all craving the solace that the warm, cozy space can offer them. It’s funny, Even thinks, how the place that makes him so miserable can be perceived so completely differently by others; the only difference is really their position in relation to the counter.
Well—that, and the contract that went from a few hours a week to more, and then even more, and then to full-time. That, and the fact that they all do have genuine connections with the world around them, the fact that they all do have a fulfilling life or at least are on their way to achieve it.
It’s a whole world of difference, and the realization of it is always there, stinging his fingers, burning his underarms, giving him a headache, making his legs ache. Death by a thousand small cuts.
It’s the realization that they have something that he’ll never even get close to having, not when he’s stuck in this job or in this city or in this life. In short, there is no way out for him, and the only thing he can do about it is learn to deal with that.
It has proven quite an arduous task.
Even slides the freshly-made drink over the counter to the customer who was flirting with him, a toothy grin still plastered onto his face. “There you go. That’ll be 35 kroner, please.”
The girl on the other side of the counter bats her eyelashes again. “I thought the point of Santa Clause was that he gives us presents, like, for free,” she says innocently, and Even finds himself at a fork in the road: maybe it’s just an innocent joke, but all the same it could be a spoiled kid whose brain unfortunately does work that way, who will demand to get the drink for free and who will throw a fit if she doesn’t.
Even has experienced it all. More than once. He braces himself for the impact as he gives the girl the benefit of the doubt, making a joke in return.
“You know, Santa would love to, but he’s a little short on money this year…”
The girl shrugs and taps her card to the machine, paying her dues and grabbing the drink from the counter. Just before she turns around to leave, she winks at him, a big fat wink that already tells Even where this is going to go before it even happens.
“I also have different payment methods at my disposal as well, you know.”
The girl eyes Even up and down as his heart sinks into his stomach as he watches her leave like a statue frozen in its place. He’s lost count of the amount of times this stuff happens to him, of the amount in tenfold that he sees it happen to his female coworkers.
Even just cannot wrap his head around it, the thought processes required to think of something like that and then actually say it as well. Flirting he’s fine with; to him, it’s part of the job, and the reciprocation he allows the customers only makes for a better turnover.
But there is a line, and people cross it every single day. Even breathes out hard and waves down his boss, a stocky guy a few years older than him called Fosse.
Fosse’s father bought the place a few years ago, when Even already had been working there for a while. Even doesn’t know how the man came to the conclusion that his son would be fit to run the café, but apparently he did, and now Even is stuck with a good-for-nothing who doesn’t even respect his own employees.
“What is it?” Fosse asks, boredly looking at his nails and, as always, doing absolutely nothing to ease the rush, not even at a time like this.
“Can I take my break now?” Even asks, thinking about the past few times he’s request has been denied and hoping that for once, Fosse will be a little lenient. Even’s legs ache and he’s annoyed at the girl’s comment, at the itchy fucking hat, at the music, at the smell of coffee.
Even needs a fucking cigarette.
“Fine,” Fosse relents, easier than Even thought he would considering the time of day. “But only if you give me a cig.”
Even does his absolute best not to roll his eyes at that so hard that they pop out of the sockets. Fosse has developed a really annoying habit of bumming cigarettes off of Even all the time; Fosse has discovered Even is a habitual smoker, always a pack or two on him, and now pretends that he himself isn’t—even though he always leaves his bag open on his desk and there’s always a pack inside of it.
Even’s just relented himself to the fact that there are some battles he will never win, and that he’s not really keen on risking to die trying.
“Sure,” Even says, and Fosse nudges him along while he tells the other baristas they’re going out for a smoke. None of the baristas are really equipped to handle a rush like this; ideally, it’s either Even, Fosse, or both of them at the same time behind the counter at all times, but alas. Fosse is lazy and Even is about to rip his hair out if he stays inside of this building for much longer.
Even feels a little bad for them, sure, for Freya and Ingeborg, and even a tiny bit for Julian. Still. They won’t learn if they always have his hand to hold. He was also thrown into the deep end when he was about their age, and all he could do was kick like hell to stay afloat and reach the shore.
Even barges through the door leading to the back and then outside into the snow of the street around the corner of the entrance, making sure to twist the lock so that the dead bolt sticks out and the door won’t close on him.
The cold envelops him as he lights his cigarette, the blouse and the apron he wears bringing him far from enough coverage for this weather. Even only thinks it’s nice, though, the way the cold air clings to his hot skin; the coffee machines and the stress of the rush always leave him a little worked up and sweaty.
The first drag of smoke hits his lungs and Even finally feels like he can fully breathe again, despite what medicine or science or whatever bullshit people have to say about that. There’s a reason so many doctors can’t seem to quit smoking despite telling their patients off for doing it.
The smoke escapes his mouth again as he leans back against the cold wall, watching the people across the street, walking with their hands deep inside their pockets and their chins buried in their winter coats.
Even’s about to take his second drag when the door bursts open with way more force than necessary and Fosse steps out, wrapped in a thick winter coat.
Yeah, Even thinks. Of course you would think it’s cold out here, sitting around and doing fucking nothing all day. “Here you go,” he says, handing Fosse a fresh cigarette and his lighter.
“Nice hat,” Fosse snickers, and Even quickly rips the itchy red thing from his head, having forgotten it was still there. It’s like the nicotine and the cold numbed all that was bothering him, until the only things he has left are the ringing in his ears and the feeling of his craving fulfilled.
Fosse cups his hand around the cigarette to light it and Even pretends not to notice how much he’s struggling with the wind, just so Even has an excuse not to help him. Even knows Fosse would never ask for help; not from him at least.
They smoke in a silence for a small moment once Fosse succeeds, Even glad that Fosse doesn’t try to talk to him like he usually does, but there it is already: Fosse inhales sharply and starts to blabber about all the things Even has apparently been doing wrong ever since he came in at seven thirty this morning.
“I know I told you to really get into the Christmas spirit, but that Santa Clause role play is a little too much, don’t you think?” Fosse ends his monologue with, a sort of disbelief in his voice that Even is actually following the instructions Fosse himself gave him.
Even has to do his best not to smack Fosse’s thick head into the wall behind him.
“You’re the one who gave me the hat, man,” he just says in response, placidly taking another drag from the cigarette that’s burning up between his fingers. “The customers like it, anyway. It’s not like I’m doing it because I enjoy it so much.”
Fosse shrugs. “It’s just a bit cringe.”
Even doesn’t even have the mental capacity to respond to that, so he doesn’t; he just stays glued against the frozen wall, training his eyes again on the people across the street. The street lamps are close to flickering on as the twilight slowly progresses into night, the Christmas decorations the city put up in mid-November already serving as a supplemental source of light.
“Anyway, what are you planning on doing with that babe from just now? Please tell me you wrote your number on her cup or something. Can’t just let them go when they throw themselves at you, now, can you?”
Even takes yet another drag to keep himself from lashing out Fosse, tapping the ash away as he brings his hand down again.
“I have a girlfriend, didn’t I tell you that?”
Fosse scoffs. “So why do I never hear about her? I don’t even know her name!”
Because I don’t really have anything to talk about when it comes to her, Even thinks, but that’s hardly an acceptable thing to say about someone you’ve been with for multiple years, much less to your boss. “I don’t know,” Even just says. “Just doesn’t come up, I guess. And her name’s Elaine.”
Fosse laughs, as if he can’t believe it, as if he just finds it funny that Even is apparently willing to draw out the lie so much. Point is, it’s not a lie. Even does not laugh along with him.
“So…” Fosse says, apparently finally starting to believe Even a little bit. “This Elaine, do you have a picture of her?”
Even, like he does most things in his life, wants to keep her as far away from Fosse as he can, but he knows there’s no way out now. If he doesn’t show the picture, Fosse will just continue to belittle him about not going out with one of the million customers that flirts with him every day.
Even sighs inwardly and grabs his phone from his back pocket, typing in the code with fingers that are stiff from the cold.
2121.
An old reminder of something lost long ago. A stupid one, at that. The only reason it’s still there is because it’s muscle memory, and changing it to something new like Elaine’s birth year would only cause him confusion and a locked phone. It’s fine.
Even, realizing he has awfully few recent photos of Elaine, ends up just showing Fosse her messenger profile picture.
Fosse thoroughly inspects the picture, showcasing Elaine taking a selfie with the cat she and Even adopted years ago. It’s a cute picture; her dark brown hair frames her face nicely and she has a lovely expression on her face, not completely unlike the one their cat, Pippi, has.
Even likes the picture. He really does. He just wishes it made him feel more than it does; knows it’s supposed to make him feel more. But the spark that used to be there has been fading since long ago, and Even doesn’t think it’s completely unfair to say it’s the same for Elaine as well.
Their life together now, it’s just comfortable. It’s comfortable and easy and so they keep on living it; they keep on waking up next to each other every day, keep on exchanging a kiss or two or three throughout their morning routine, keep on cuddling as they fall asleep each night.
Elaine knows Even’s biggest secrets; Even knows Elaine’s. Their parents are close and hoping for marriage; though the parents try to conceal it, it’s hardly gotten past either of them. Neither Elaine nor Even ever brings that up to the other. It would only lead to a painful conversation there is no need to have.
And so, life goes on. Always something missing, always something out of place.
But Even thinks he’ll just have to live without the last piece of that puzzle. What is one piece of cardboard compared to the nine hundred ninety-nine making up the framework of his life?
Can you even say that, when that one piece is your heart, the thing that makes it all worth it?
Even quickly retreats his hand with the phone when Fosse makes a motion trying to grab it, and the other man looks at him, offended. “What,” he says, indignantly. “You scared I see your sexts, or something?”
Even just shakes his head, a little more furiously than he wanted to. Fosse just gets that reaction out of him without even trying. It makes Even even more annoyed, that his stupid boss apparently has such power over him without even doing anything for it.
“Don’t get so worked up, man. I know you’re on meds and stuff, but try to keep yourself in check a little, okay? We don’t need a mental liability on the work floor. It was already a gamble to take you on in the first place. You should be glad I let you stay after the last guy left.”
That is the final straw. Even suddenly wants nothing more than to be back inside the crowded cafe, back with the noisy machines and the annoying customers and the incompetent teenagers working at his side, the ones he tries to teach but that haven’t picked up so much as the basics even after months of working here.
He wants nothing more than to be stuck inside again with that stupid itchy hat, with the music blasting in his ears, with the taste of nicotine still on his tongue and with the ever-present feeling that something has fundamentally gone wrong in his life.
It’s all better than the turn this conversation is taking.
Even drops the butt of his cigarette to the ground and quickly extinguishes it with one twisting motion of his foot. “Break’s over,” he announces, and he’s back inside before Fosse can so much as open his mouth to protest.
Not that Fosse would ever protest against him getting back in there, anyway. If it were legal, Fosse would have him work through all his breaks and then also not pay him, like, ever.
Even can count on two fingers the times in the past year he’s had to step toward Fosse and tell him that there was something wrong with his payslip, something Fosse always treats as an absolute failure on his own part, and oh God, it will never happen again!; Even, on the other hand, knows Fosse does it on purpose and just hopes that Even won’t notice.
Even always notices.
Elaine tells him he should make a report, but Even wouldn’t really know to whom, really, and he always manages to fix it anyway. Maybe it’s even good, he sometimes finds himself thinking. Just something to bring a little adventure to his big fuck-up of a life.
That’s really what Even sees it as, even though everyone around him always likes to lighten the mood with a joke: “What about us coffee drinkers, Even, if baristas did not exist! You’re more valuable than ten doctors at once, I’m telling you!”
Yeah, Even always thinks while he laughs at the jokes and pretends they make his dread disappear into nothingness again, pretends that it never even existed in the first place and that he just said it to be funny. What about you, huh?
The dread is rubbed into Even’s skin again like salt in a wound when he re-enters the café’s main space, seeing a bunch of terrified young baristas and the ever-growing line of customers coming through the door.
The dread travels through his body as he barks orders at his colleagues and starts making a dent in the line, knowing that this will be his most important contribution to society today, and that it’ll be like that every day, unless he finds a new road to take on.
But with what qualifications? Anywhere that takes people on the later side of twenty with only so much as a high school diploma to show for it are either the same or even subpar to this, and Even thinks nothing would be worse than working his way up the customer service food chain again.
He’ll just have to make do with whatever this is, with pouring coffees and hot chocolates and ‘babyccinos’ and everything in between, with haunting his boss for the last hundred kroner missing from his pay check, with clocking in too early and clocking out too late every damn day.
He’ll just have to make do with it, because the only other options would be catastrophic.
“Next!” he yells, and the day goes on.
Even’s coat and beanie are covered in snow when he opens the door to the apartment he and Elaine have been renting for a few years now. The key is always a little stiff and the neighbors a little annoying, but it’s a nice place nonetheless.
As always, the first thing Even is met with is their cat Pippi, who rushes to the door as soon as he pushes it open and who starts to butt her head against his cold legs.
“Hi, baby,” Even tells the animal, crouching down a little to give her head a few rubs while trying not to let her escape onto the landing. It has happened before, and she’s an absolute pain in the ass to try and get back inside.
Then Elaine appears in the door-frame of the living room, an apron tied around her waist. It’s navy originally, Even knows it all too well; he’s the one that bought it for her. Now, though, it’s covered in specks of white dust, a few prints of her fingers here and there.
It causes Even to remember something he had forgotten about, until now.
They are attending a potluck tonight. A Christmas potluck at Sonja’s place; she’s hosting with her boyfriend and invited Even and Elaine ages ago.
“Fuck,” Even says as he closes the door behind him, making sure Pippi is safe and sound. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I would have come home earlier to help you, but it was fucking busy and I forgot and—”
Elaine, who has gotten closer, shuts him up with a hand on his cold cheek and a kiss on his chapped lips.
“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling against his lips. “I figured it out on my own. I can do that, you know,” she continues, pulling back with a smile still on her face.
Even smiles back and softens at the sight of her; the flour in her hair, the little bit of sugar on her cheek that she must have gotten there while decorating. He still sees in her the woman that he fell in love with, the one he still loves now but just in a different way.
“I know,” Even says, going in to kiss her again even though the snow on his coat is melting and there are already some droplets threatening to fall to the ground. Pippi circles their legs as they kiss, meowing slightly.
“What did you end up making, in the end?” Even asks as he pulls back and starts to remove his coat. He recalls their conversation from a few nights before, huddled on the couch together with a movie playing that neither was really interested in. Elaine wasn’t really sure what to make, as the only person in charge of the sweet treats.
Well, she and Even, but in effect only Elaine.
“My grandma always made us syv slag småkaker,” Elaine had said, and Even was instantly transported back to his own childhood, when his mother used to bake the traditional assortment of seven types of cookies every Christmas without fail. He’d always have a taste of all of them, feeling a little nauseous after, yet those were some of the best times of his life.
Much better, anyway, than the way his Christmas has looked for the past few years: blisters on his feet and aching legs, annoying Christmas songs stuck in his head all night, the smell of cinnamon permanently stuck in his nose.
“She gave me a recipe, but I don’t know. It’s a little much, maybe. I might go for something a little easier.”
Even had promised to help her with the seven different types of cookies if work allowed it, and that’s why he now feels a sense of dread when Elaine’s answer sounds.
“Just simple gingerbread cookies.”
“Fuck,” he says again, despite her reassurance from earlier. “You could have—you should have called, I could have begged Fosse to let me go home so I could help you.”
Elaine just softly swats his shoulder and Even suddenly recognizes the smell of the spiced cookies on her.
“It’s fine, you dork. Do you really think he would have let you go? He knows that place is nothing without you. Especially now.”
Even thinks she does mean it. Elaine likes baking and it’s not like Even would have been a good help to her; seven different types of cookies is very fucking ambitious, and it’s not like he actually knows all that much about any of them.
Still, he curses himself a little for letting her deal with it on her own, for not being more attentive. For letting that job suck the life out of him even more.
Elaine’s soft eyes are still on Even as he steps out of his tattered old sneakers and makes a mental note to pick out a different pair for the get-together tonight.
It’s not that he thinks she doesn’t know that there’s something going on with him. He knows that she knows; she just knows he doesn’t want to talk about it.
So she doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell, and both are left on their own, even when they are together. It’s easier like that, Even forces himself to think. Give it a few years and they can get married, like their parents want.
Ease, comfort. A roof over his head.
What more does he need, really?
“When do you want to leave?” Even asks, glancing at the clock on the wall of the living room. Elaine shrugs.
“It starts at seven thirty. If we leave around seven it should be fine.”
Even nods in agreement. That leaves them a small half-hour to get ready. A shiver suddenly travels down Even’s spine, and he thinks he must smell like coffee, milk, and sweat from the day at Kaffebrenneriet.
“I’ll go take a quick shower, then. Just tell me if you need help packing the cookies or something.”
Elaine nods, and Even gives her a kiss on the cheek before he goes to the bathroom, leaving his coat and his beanie on a hanger in the hall, futilely hoping they will dry a little before he has to put them on again. Of course they will not, not even a little, but Even sometimes thinks he’ll have nothing left in this life if not hope.
Hope that he’ll get somewhere he actually wants to be sometime; hope that this thing in his relationship is just a temporary slump, that despite his ambition to make it work nevertheless, his feelings will return to him in full force; that he’ll get out of the bleak, daily routine of being no one, going nowhere, and doing nothing worthwhile.
The hot water of the shower embraces Even like a mother her child, and he lets himself enjoy it for a short minute before he does what he came there to do. After, he allows himself another minute, and then it’s time to face the cold bathroom air again, the hot water no longer protecting him.
Even dries himself off a little before he wraps the towel around his waist, muttering a few curse words under his breath when he realizes he forgot to take new clothes when he went in. Now he’ll have to battle the even colder living room air, and the mere thought of it already elicits goosebumps out of him.
Even opens the door and tries to get to the bedroom as fast as possible. Elaine laughs in the background as he darts past her in the same way that Pippi often likes to do. “Blow dry your hair before we go, will you?” her voice sounds after him. “We can’t have it frozen to your head again.”
Even sticks his head around the corner of the bedroom door and throws a wink at Elaine. “What do you mean? That was on purpose! I’ve always liked Frozen, you know.”
Elaine smiles and shakes her head as Even retreats into the bedroom and gets dressed, picking out an outfit that’s nice and Christmasy yet not all too formal. The dress Elaine is going to wear is already on display on a hanger, fastened to the wardrobe’s door.
The dress is a nice shade of dark green that fits Elaine’s eyes really well, and Even decides to put in a little effort as well. He picks out a dress shirt with accents in roughly the same color of green, already knowing that their friends will love this display of affection, of knit-togetherness.
Except Sonja, but that’s another story. Sonja is always another story. Sometimes Even thinks she does it on purpose.
When Even’s done he moves back to the bathroom to do as Elaine said and blow dry his hair. In all his years on this earth, through all his winters in this city, he’s only had it happen to him once that his hair got frozen, and Elaine still brings it up every time.
It was during one of their first dates, back when Even’s life did not yet feel entirely devoid of optimism. They met each other through Sonja and hit it off right away. On the date, Even had been so nervous and he’d been running late, failing to take into account the sub-zero temperatures when he walked out of the house with his hair still a little wet.
He’d noticed Elaine looking at him a little confusedly as he walked up to her, and when he finally asked if there was something wrong, she could only laugh and point to his head.
It’s a mistake he’ll never make again, but it makes for a fun story to tell and a fun memory.
They could use that these days, some more of that fun.
It’s not that they have arguments or disagreements or different visions about how they want to live their lives from now on, now that adulthood has truly started. Quite the contrary, really. It’s just that there are only a few fires that burn forever, and for this one, the only thing that’s left are some smoldering coals.
Still, if they both pretend that it’s fine, doesn’t it automatically become fine? If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, does it really make a sound?
Life with Elaine is a breeze. Boring, but a breeze. Life alone would be Even’s last fucking straw. And she doesn’t seem so keen on leaving behind what they have, either.
It’s a good deal, one could say. Even if they never talk about it. Even if talking about it would be the thing to tear it down completely. Acknowledgment, harsh and real and undeniable. It’s the last thing they need and the last thing they want.
Good thing that’s all in their own hands, then.
Elaine is occupying the space in front of the bathroom mirror when Even arrives, and he leans against the door frame as he watches her apply some last touches of make-up. She generally does not care much about it, but likes to do a little more for festivities like these. Even likes it either way, with without, though whenever he tries to tell her as such she jokes that it doesn’t matter what he thinks anyway.
Even supposes it doesn’t, but it is a little annoying sometimes, that she won’t let him compliment her. Now, he just uses his usual, teasing approach, the one he knows she likes so much.
“You know, if you still have your face scrunched up like that when Rome’s clock strikes, it’ll stay like that forever.”
Elaine eyes him in the mirror and makes a face. “And when would that be?”
Even shrugs nonchalantly. “Could be anytime, really. I’m just saying.”
Elaine puts the wand of her mascara back in the tube and smiles, turning herself toward him. “I’ll just stay like this, then,” she says, before she slips past him to put on her dress.
Even takes her place in front of the mirror and plugs in the blow dryer. He hates how loud it is and how hot, but the hottest setting gets the job done the fastest. When his hair is dry enough he picks up his jar of hair product, to give his hair some shape as opposed to the limp form it always takes when he’s blow dried it.
When he’s done he finds Elaine in the living room, her green dress on and basically ready to go. She’s packed the cookies into a cute tin. Even puts on his shoes and shrugs on his cold coat, not bothering with the beanie to at least give his hair somewhat of a chance at looking presentable.
“Ready?” he asks Elaine when he’s all buttoned up. She’s crouched at Pippi’s side, trying to balance the tin on the palm of her hand, but gets up at his question.
“Ready,” she says, smiling, and together they enter the cold, lamp-lit streets of Oslo in December.