Yet, in a strange way, the seething resentment toward Jared and Jason that Eddie and I had kept bottled up had, unwittingly, channeled itself into an earnest energy that we then put toward altering and modifying our share of the home into the inherently beautiful specimen it suggested to be in its bones. As the days went on, Eddie continued accruing more trinkets and small, quirky furnishings. Similarly, with the more space I was given, the more attention I felt that it deserved: something modest for the banister; a set of stockings for the large, ornate fireplace beside my bed, for when Christmas came; a few animal furs on the floor and textile tapestries to be tacked on the walls; and, eventually a small array of house-plants to be strung from the balcony’s banisters. As it was, our section of the wrap-around porch had already come furnished with a pair of twine chairs, which peered at perfect angles over the whispering treetops that sat as a buffer between us and the city. It felt, all so suddenly, as if Eddie and I had reached a pinnacle neither of us would have previously been able to imagine: this was the world at new heights, and the two of us took full advantage of extracting its worth. In turn, many mornings were spent chatting in those twine chairs over coffee; and, it was here, in his most spirited attempts, that Eddie would attempt to cajole me to uproot myself and focus on finding a nice girl – if nothing else, to add a little zest to the place.
“Isabella has changed my life, yo,” he exclaimed one evening, as the sun was beginning to set and we got comfortable with a couple of cigars. “If nothing else, she keeps me in check.”
“Yeah? She sounds strict,” I teased. “No. Good for you, man.”
Rolling his eyes, Eddie retorted, with an edge, “Well. Let’s just put it this way, I spend less time wasting time, watching TV, scrolling the Internet. I’ve actually started to outline a few of those projects I’ve talked about.” Just then, he began fumbling through his pockets for a few blueprints of dioramas and paper pinwheels to show me.
Outside of the art, that stuff Eddie talked about was still elusive and otherwise unclassified; but, inferred in its prowess was an invigorating – perhaps even infinite – property, which could only be obtained from great attention to detail. Sometimes his hands shook when he spoke of it; other times, the dark brown pits of his pupils would vanish and then glaze over as he became mesmerized by the substance. At last, one night it happened: a close encounter with God; the inevitable (sort-of-accidental) result of tilting the scale on his stratosphere until the world melted into a single, linear passage of energy. In the weeks following, and for the first time in our friendship, I felt the aura that Eddie maintained shift from an imposing, fiery red to a supple, yet vulnerable, shade of blue.