K Breese - Future Imperfect

Hot-tub relaxed.

And, honestly, it disturbs me.

Our date is a foreign movie because Vaux only likes art films.

She won’t see “mainstream crud,” so we’re driving to the Chez Artiste on South Colorado Boulevard, a place I’ve seen hundreds of times but never been in. From what I hear, the seats don’t recline and the screen is something just a tad smaller than Roderick Burgundy’s home theater.

This movie we’re seeing, last time it was in theaters we hadn’t been born.

I pick Vauxhall up but don’t go inside of her house or meet her mom because she’s waiting for me on the porch.

The sun’s just setting, the sky still blue but bleeding out fast into night.

There are stars but none of them are twinkling, so I’m guessing they’re really planets. It’s cool and dry with a breeze that’s picking up all sorts of floral smells and lawn scents. The whole scene is everything you imagine a first date might look like.

Vaux is wearing jeans and this crazy, frilly kind of blouse. It’s blue like the disappearing sky and it’s so loose and thin that looks lighter than air. Underneath she’s got on a tank top. Black. Her shoes, they’re open-toed. Her nails, purple. Vauxhall’s hair up and her eyes gleaming under mascara, she’s a combination rock star and vacationing princess.

She gives me a big, long hug and looks me over. “You smell like chlorine.”

“Joined the swim team. Thought it might, you know, do something for me.”

Vaux smiles. “You really scared the shit out of me last weekend. Someone called me in a panic, told me you were dead. That just killed me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I was worried we weren’t going out tonight. I kinda showed up here not knowing what to expect. I realize I upset you when we talked last, but really, I was just trying-”

She shushes me with a finger to my lips.

Vauxhall tastes of coconut.

On our way to the theater she fills me in on who we’re meeting.

She tells me I’ll love them, Clyde and Ambrosia, and that they’re from her other school, the one she ran away from. And Vauxhall tells me that Clyde is really into the occult. She says, “You two will really hit it off.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Clyde is five inches taller than me and has hair all the way down to his ass, slick like a horse’s tail. He’s super friendly and Vauxhall was right, within minutes the two of us are laughing loudly about palm readers and pyramids. Ambrosia looks like her name, all long curls, narrow Eurasian eyes, and a nose ring. She talks slowly like she’s drugged and touches my elbow or arm or shoulder every time she speaks.

Both of them smile big at me. Clyde even gives me a hug.

He says, “Been a while, dude.”

“-”

“Right?” Clyde screwing up his face.

The way I look at them gives them pause. Clyde shrugs to Ambrosia. Ambrosia shrugs back, this their little private language, and then we head into the theater. I overhear Clyde whispering, “Looks just like that one guy, doesn’t he?”

Before we sit down, Vauxhall tells me she saw this movie the first time with Ambrosia. She tells me they were both really toasted. “Ambrosia was freaking out about it for like a month,” she says.

Clyde says, “First time I saw it I freaked too.”

I ask if I’m the only one who hasn’t seen this more than once and Vauxhall pats my head and tells me that it’s okay. She tells me that it was a rite of passage for them. She says, “You’re lucky to be seeing it for the first time. I wish I could see it over again like that.”

“Hope I’m impressed,” I say, and then the lights go dim. I lean over and ask Vauxhall if I know these two. Like, “Have I ever met them before? They’re acting like I have.”

She says, “I’m guessing they’re just stoned.”

The movie has something to do with a bookstore owner and a gangster. The bookworm is having an affair with the gangster’s bruised wife and there’s a chef. The whole thing is very arty and colorful but gruesome as well and I’m pretty sure one of the main characters is eaten. I don’t really watch the movie because I’m too busy watching Vauxhall watch it.

Every time there is a scene shift and a flash on screen, as the light changes, in that brief moment I watch Vaux smile or frown or look concerned. She’s seen this movie before, but you’d never guess that from her expressions.

Twice she catches me watching her.

Twice she smiles and blinks and grabs my hand and squeezes it hard.

After the movie we sneak up onto the roof of the theater where we can lie down on the pea gravel and watch the moon spin toward the mountains. Vauxhall and Ambrosia talk about the movie (Vauxhall: “If only Gaultier designed costumes for all movies.” And Ambrosia: “Wait until you see his baby movie.”) while Clyde grills me on the whole divination scene.

He lets me know he met my ex once. Says Belle came on to him. Says, “She’s crazy.” And then he props himself up over me like he’s going to try and kiss me and whispers, “She’s kind of hot too, though. In that crazy kind of way, you know?”

I mention to him that Belle and I dated. That she’s crazier than he knows.

Clyde nods and lies back, chew it over, and then asks, “Tell me about seeing the future? You do that with psychedelics or some combo of designer stuff?”

“Who told you that?”

“Only everyone, dude.”

“And you believe-”

He jumps in. “Cut the crap. Just tell me how.”

“Just hit my head is all.”

“Must be hardcore side effects.”

“I guess.”

Clyde laughs, this chest-deep hearty grandfatherly laugh, and then he’s like, “Dude, I met you at a party last summer. We totally talked for like two hours. I can’t believe you don’t remember any of that. You told me all about your head injury vision thing. Seriously, dude, you don’t remember that at all?”

I explain that I don’t. It’s true. Sitting up and looking closely at Clyde, there’s nothing remotely familiar about him. And what’s odd about it is that he’s an instantly memorable character. Someone you would never forget. Ever.

Slapping me on the back, Clyde says, “Concussions. Can’t be good, dude.”

We go to Watson’s, this ice-cream parlor/soda fountain place that’s supposed to be like something in the 1950s. Vauxhall shares a float with me. The two of us like the dogs in that Disney cartoon drinking from the same frosty mug. She laughs so loudly that it startles me when she does. We laugh so much that by the time we say bye to Clyde and Ambrosia, my sides are aching and my throat is dry.

I drive to Wash Park and we walk around the lake. There are other people out even though the moon has vanished. Near the playground we sit on a bench and Vauxhall asks me about why she was in my vision. She says, “Tell me why you think it was me?”

“Destiny? Fate?”

“You believe in those things?”

Ducks spin lazily in the lake. Bats dart above us. Cars backfire.

“Not really. You?”

Vaux mumbles something. Her face smooth like it’s under filigree.

She asks me if I’m disappointed.

“With?”

“Me. Two years you’ve been waiting and here I am. Me, not your dream girl.”

“You’re even more amazing than I imagined.”

“And?”

I shrug. “What else?”

She reads my sincerity, smiles. “Nothing. Give me a hug.”

And what’s crazy is that all we do is hug.

It’s brief, but just having Vauxhall’s body that close to mine is exhilarating. Feeling the warmth of her, the shape of her, pressed against most of me, I never want the moment to end.

Vauxhall says, “It’s so private. The most private thing.”