I don't wanna
The tall brown haired man walked down the street, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He absentmindedly muttered something to himself, lost in his own thoughts. Had he been paying attention to his surroundings he would have noticed the strange glances that others gave him and perhaps even noticed the whispers of gossip and uncertainty: what was wrong with him?
If they had taken the time (as if), to Today. I’m going to do it today, he thought and muttered to himself. Mrs. Smith is right, What’s so hard about it? Everyone can do it. I mean what’s the worse she can say? No, right? All she can say is N… “I can’t do it,” He moaned, startling the woman next to him. He shuffled over to the side and placed his head against the brick wall. He remained there, oblivious to the people walking past him. I can’t do it, he thought to himself, No way. It’s going to end badly. I-
“Turner? Something wrong?” a familiar voice brought him out of his thoughts and into a panic. He spun around, nearly knocking the person behind him over with his bag, and froze.
There she was. She had obviously been out jogging, her rainbow hair slick with sweat, half-empty bottle in one hand, and her IPod strapped to her belt. Her headphones were pulled down, resting on her neck and the faintest sounds of some 80s pop song played.
“I said, you alright?” She asked again, “You got a headache or something?”
“No, Dash, I’m…fine. Ish.” He flashed an awkward smile at the woman, Dash, only for her to raise an eyebrow. “Really,” he tried to assure her.
“Yeah, you’re a really bad liar,” a slight chuckle accompanied her response, “What’s in the bag?”
“What? Oh, um…stuff. For later.” He quickly hid the bag behind him
“What’s later?” Dash cocked her head to the side.
Turner’s shoulders sagged, She hadn’t forgotten already had she? “…Lunch?” Awkward silence followed as she blankly stared back at him. Several more moments of awkward silence passed before her eyes widened in realization.
“Oh shit, was that today? I completely forgot!” she slapped her forehead, “C’mon, let’s back to my place.” She grabbed Turner’s hand pulling him along.
“Wait, wait!” He begged, stumbling and struggling to keep up with her as she ignored him. Dash bobbed and weaved through others on the sidewalk, effortlessly avoiding them. Behind her, Turner struggled to do the same. He apologized profusely as his bag wildly swung around, smacking into the backs and legs of people that he barely managed to avoid knocking over. He twisted his body around, avoiding another couple and collapsed to the sidewalk as Dash skidded to a stop in front of an apartment building.
“Here we are.” She beamed as Turner groaned in response. She turned to face the exhausted man, “You alright?” she asked offering her hand to him.
“Me?” Turner struggled back onto his feet, taking the offered hand, “Oh I’m fine. I love being dragged through crowds and bumping into things.”
“Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “We got back here pretty fast, didn’t we? C’mon, lemme go shower and we can go out.” The two entered the building and started up the stairs.
“Do we always have to take the stairs?” Turner grumbled, “The elevators work perfectly fine.”
“Gotta stay fit,” she grinned back, “Besides, it’s only four floors up.”
Turner groaned as he began to lag behind her. “I appreciate your devotion to fitness, but not all of us are that devoted,” he muttered to himself.
The two continued up the stairs, finally reaching the door for the fourth floor. Turner pushed against the door, only to find it stuck. With a frown he pushed against it again, This time putting all his might into it. Dash shook her head and motioned for him to move to the side. “It opens the other way, Turner.” She chuckled as she pulled the handle.
“I knew that,” he quietly muttered to himself as he followed her out into the hallway. They walked down the shabby carpet as he checked the contents of his bag and she fiddled with her iPod. She stopped as the music player slipped from her hands.
“Shit,” she fumbled to snatch it as it fell, only to succeed in pulling out the headphone jack. The IPod landed on the ground and continued to blare out the lyrics: “-I must react to claims of those who say that you are not alright/ Sex Bomb, Sex Bomb, you’re my Sex Bomb-”. Dash quickly snatched it off the ground and turned off the device. She pocketed it before turning to face Turner: she flushed with embarrassment as an amused smile crept onto his face. “What?” she turned her attention to her apartment door as she unlocked it, “its Thunderball.”
“What, no love for his other stuff?” Turner asked as he followed her into the apartment, “Just ‘Sex Bomb’? No love for…Oh I don’t know, ‘Resurrection Beat’, or ‘It’s Not Unusual’? Not even-”.
“I have ‘What’s New Pussycat.” Dash grumbled as she tossed her keys, water bottle and iPod onto the countertop, “Where are we going anyway?”
“No where, I’m going to make something today.” Turner placed the bag on the counter and began to unload it, “I found a nice little vender at the farmer’s market selling fresh vegetables.”
“They all sell fresh vegetables,” Dash muttered as she headed deeper into the apartment room, “I’m gonna shower. Oh, and I’m letting Tank out.”
“…Do you really have to?” Turner grumbled.
“Yeah, he doesn’t like being cramped up in my house.” A door creaked open and something began to whur. The whur of something spinning through the air made it’s way down the hallway and paused at Time Turner. Turner looked up as the tortoise looked back at him, suspended in the air by his helipack. The two stared at each other in silence, before the tortoise turned around and went back into the hallway.
“Anyway like I was saying,” Turner turned his attention back to his bag, “Nice little spot. Picked up some fresh anchovies, tomatoes, red onions, basil…You’re not listening are you?”
“What? Lemme finish showering, I can’t hear you.”
“Thought so.” He sighed as the tortoise came out again. He looked at the tortoise as a slow slime crept onto Tank’s face., “You. You’ll listen to me at least.” Turner sighed as Tank landed on the kitchen countertop. “What am I going to do?” He asked the tortoise. “I mean…its normal for someone to ask his girlfriend to move in with him right? I mean, all I have to do is go ‘Dash, you want to move in with me?’ I mean, what do I have to lose? How hard can it be?”
“How hard can what be?” Dash echoed
Turner looked away, “What?” He turned around to find Dash standing over the two, hair still damp, “Oh, you’re done?”
“…Yeah? It was just a shower.” She reached over, picking the d out of Turner’s hands. Tank immediately turned his attention to his owner slowly making his way towards her. Dash smiled at him, rubbing his shell, “Anyway, what’s all this?”
“Ah, right, like I was saying, I got fresh ingredients today,” he held up a small package of anchovies, “See? Fresh Anyway, I was going to make panzanella today.”
“This isn’t going to be like your, what was it? Ravioli castrato is it?”
Turner paused, “That means something entirely different from what you think it meant. It was Pasta alla Norma. And no, panzanella is more like a tomato and bread salad.”
“Wouldn’t that just be a veggie sandwich?”
“No, the bread is torn up and added to the salad, more like croutons.” Turner said as he placed a loaf on the table. Dash broke off two small pieces and popped it into her mouth as she fed the other one to Tank. After a moment of chewing she spat it out onto the table, where Tank took a bite and chewed..
“It’s stale.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be, that’s part of it.” Turner shrugged as he pulled the rest of the loaf away from Tank as the tortoise looked at him, begging for more. “Anyway, this isn’t going to take too long.”
“You have something on your mind.” Dash said.
“Of course; I’ve never made a panzanella before.”
“No, no. About something else. You’re doing all your normal signs: I found you with your head against the wall, you’re grumpier than normal, you’re talking to Tank, and you’re cooking Italian food.” Dash continued on, counting off each of her points, “So you have something big on your mind.”
“…Oh what the heck. Dash, I got space. More than this place anyway,” Turner gestured around with the bunch of basil in his hand, “So…You want to move in with me?”
“…Doesn’t your place have some rule about animals?”
“I checked. It’s only for big animals, Tortoises are alright, provided that,” Turner shrugged, “you know, as long as he doesn’t make a nascence out of himself with the helicopter attachment.”
“Well then, alright.” Dash shrugged. Turner stared at her, a slight look of disappointment in his eyes, “What?”
“That’s it? Just a ‘Sure’?”
“What, were you expecting me to leap into your arms or some romantic bullshit?” Dash laughed, “You’ve been reading too much romance crap.”
“I guess.” He shrugged. Turner turned his attention back to the assorted vegetables and his salad.
“I got a question though,” Dash paused. Turner nodded telling her to go on, “Why do you always cook Italian?”
“It’s romantic isn’t it?” he shrugged, “besides, it’s better for you than eating frozen garbage and Chinese take-out everyday.”
“I don’t eat take-out everyday.” She huffed.
“The take-out place around the corner knows you by name,” he countered, “You don’t even need to tell them what you’re getting, they just know. It’s either very impressive or really depressing, depending on how you look at it.”
“I prefer to think that I have good relationships with local businesses.” She pouted.
“Whatever makes you feel better.” He shrugged, “Pass me some red wine and olive oil, would you?”