Jason & Demarara #5

Some Mondays, neither Jason nor Demarara have to attend work. On one such Monday, neither Jason nor Demarara was particularly pleased to be sharing a weekday off with the other, having spent a long, muted, treat-free weekend together; payday was over a week away, and neither had wanted to do as the other suggested, neither had wanted to watch the other’s boxset proffering. Spring was further away and as for summer . . . Another suitcase in another hall.

Sunday night had ebbed away to a goodnight-free bedtime in the knowledge that a third day together lay in wait. They awoke, roused themselves, summarily completed their ablutions, before reconvening in the front room. Neither were angry, but each was sullen. Low, late winter sun was standing on sunbeam stilts as the lovers tinkered at their laptops, refused the other’s offer of tea, coffee. Jason was reading a free eBook on his laptop. It was about the mountains of California, where he longed to be. Demarara was reading a charity shop paperback by an author who cared not about endearing his readership with a compelling title (GET CLOSE) nor, as Demarara was discovering, a compelling story. (GET PREDICTABLY KIDNAPPED).

Before the clock moved to eleven, Demarara slapped the abductive novel shut before she let it steal her morning entirely. Something else was knocking at her mind and she wanted to let it in. She stood, sauntered to the kitchen, bursting a sunbeam en route. Jason tracked her movements but refrained from comment. The sunbeam repaired itself and attracted a fresh swirl of motes.

In the kitchen, Demarara clicked on the kettle, creating a sonic cover for her next move.

She awoke her phone from its toaster-side slumbering, opened a music app, found the song. Played it low, too low for Jason to hear (she hoped) as the kettle begat its electrical seething,

Pleasant jangling, a harmonica. And then:

Demarara skipped back and listened to the opening stanzas a few times, mumbling along to the words. It was important to remember these words’ sounds, not necessarily the lyrics’ structure or meaning. Meaning, in this case, would come from the gesture. From remembering that night at the Irish pub near the airport. She had to reboil the kettle twice; it was important that she learn Ellen Kristjánsdótti’s sounds well. Also, learning Icelandic lyrics on the fly would be hard for anyone to do.

The second reboil saw the kettle run dry and led to Jason calling out, “Dem . . .?” questionably. One thing they could not afford was to trip and break the kettle. That would be worse than the discovery of a communicable midriff disease.

Demarara closed her eyes, leaving her phone, the kettle, the kitchen behind her. Standing in the doorframe, she cleared her throat of its mumbling and sang out.

Jason smiled and hummed along.

Jason sang and Demarara hummed along.

The two sang together, and the world hummed along, filling the silence that the long, muted weekend had lacked.

You can access the previous Jason and Demarara stories right here on Vocal!

J&D#1: Stupid Pigs

J&D#2: The Man Who Liked Dogs

J&D3#: Silverfinger

J&D4#: Protocol Issue

Hope you enjoy these. They're fun to write. I aim to have a new # out every week or two.

JS Harding is a writer of satire, short stories, and novels.

Novelist (writing as LJ Denholm) - Under Rand Farm - available in paperback via Amazon and *FREE* via Kindle Unlimited!

Short story writer - Mr. Threadbare, Farmer Young et al

Humour writer - NewsThump, BBC Comedy.

Kids' writer - TBC!