It has been two months since Ruidan Kilney lost Gimble. When asked how he is holding up, Kilney usually responds in one of two ways: hysterical laughter or a growl that means it is no one’s business.
Selling the townhouse is proving to be rather difficult. At the advice of his closest and dearest friend, he has shifted out of the house and into a one-bedroom apartment. The apartment is serviceable and the landlady knows not to disturb him or coax him into joining the building’s rather packed social calendar.
All in all, he is doing okay. It’s only the nights that are difficult. Nothing smells the same. Of all the things he had thought he would miss, he hadn’t thought it would be Gimby’s scent.
He has also become somewhat of a hermit. He shared a few friends with Gimble so it doesn’t feel right to still be in touch with them. Some have the irritating habit of loudly proclaiming their opinion on the Kilney and Gimble situation, right where he can hear it. And some are doing a rather poor job of hiding their glee that the two of them broke up so spectacularly. Lunar is the only person who is his channel to the outside world.
“The problem, my dear Cherry,” says Lunar one evening, down three kamikaze shots and two pints, “is that you have forgiven her but you still feel guilty.”
Lunar is in a suit. It’s white in its entirety and Kilney is sure if they had found a white lipstick, they would have used it too. They look so white that Kilney has made at least thirteen snow-white jokes. Lunar’s way of shutting him up is to ply him with more alcohol.
Kilney sighs, rubbing his face. He is feeling dramatic and out of sorts like he will burst into song. He has never had this urge so he cannot understand it.
“Have you ever had this feeling,” he says, slapping his chest, “that a song is trapped and the only way to get it out is to just,” his hand is now a claw.
“Rip it out?”
“Exactly, rip it out?”
“What was the question?”
Kilney pushes Lunar’s face away. Or tries to. His vision is blurry. “I want to sing Lunar.”
Lunar pats his thigh. Or tries to. They’re not entirely sober either. They may have tapped the chair for all they are aware. “No darling. What you want is to scream.”
They scream and Kilney joins in. The two sound like out-of-tune wolves, howling at the moon. Their conversation continues once they’re done.
“I feel like I’m Icarus. Trying to fly but drowning in the sea because I have fake wings.”
Lunar knows he is trying to make an important point but they’re in no position to really process the analogy. “You have to let it go.”
“How,” asks Kilney, standing up, realizing how bad an idea that is before thumping back in the chair. “My parents say she was a bitch and I shouldn’t spend any more time on her. Her parents need me to forgive them. Everyone else thinks she’s a horrible person for doing what she did but Lunar, I loved her. I cannot just accept that she is, was, a horrible person and move on.”
“I don’t think her actions will ever make sense,” Lunar says sagely. Then, they shout and point a finger at him like they have had the most marvellous epiphany. “You blame yourself.”
Kilney shakes his head.
“You don’t blame yourself?”
Kilney shakes his head again. “I feel I share some responsibility for what happened.”
There are more shots on their table even though neither of them has ordered any. They pick up the glasses, cheer and down them in one go. They gasp, punch their chests and laugh. They laugh until tears are running down their faces.
Since Kilney entered their life, Ramshackle has taken no new clients. There isn’t a shortage, it has simply turned them away from the door, not even giving them the courtesy of listening. The house is confused and worried. Ramshackle is far from hunger but the melancholy that has settled on it is permeating the house as well.
“House, it doesn’t seem fair.”
Not having an identity makes Ramshackle uncomfortable, even when it is in the privacy of the house. It turns into the woman it had been with Lowena. Having a face and voice feels better.
Fair? What does any of this have to do with fairness?
“You don’t think Gimble should have spoken to Kilney about what was troubling her? Don’t you think people deserve a second chance?”
If we take that argument, choosing your service was Gimble’s second chance.
Ramshackle knows she isn’t explaining her dilemma very well. “But is what we do really worth it? Had Gimble discussed her issues with her family, instead of twenty-four hours of fleeting happiness, she could have had a lifetime.”
For some, twenty-four hours is akin to a lifetime.
She rolls her eyes. If she doesn’t understand humans, the house has little chance to decipher their motivations. The house after all depends on her understanding of humans and hers is imperfect.
“Maybe…as we help him, he can help us?”
If that means you’ll take more clients, we support the decision.
She doesn’t respond and a shiver goes through the house. Something is changing. Both of them can feel it.
12 of 26 of an ongoing series The Dream Maker. You can read all posts here. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.
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tales of Suchita 
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