Advice

Malcolm's world resolved in front of him from a thick haze. A weak winter sun cast itself onto his rumpled bedspread, which was not on the bed at all but on the floor, covering Malcolm. Malcolm stared up at the ceiling, allowing himself to wake up slowly as he pondered the world from this rarely observed angle. The ceiling seemed like a cathedral above him, miles away from where it usually was. A dusty fan looked down at him with its single eye surrounded by five blades. Malcolm tried idly to remember the previous night, but it was lost in a vague haze of alcohol, the stale taste of which still lingered in his mouth. Suffice it to say that at some point last night, sleeping on the floor seemed like the most wonderful and natural thing to do. In fact, it was strange that fewer people thought to do it. Or so it seemed at the time.

Malcolm rose and did a casual examination of his body, unsure of what else may have happened the night before. He wore boxers and, from what he could see, he was intact. He liked his body; tall enough to be better than average but otherwise unimposing. He was strong enough, fat enough, skinny enough. Sleeping on the floor, however, had not done him any good. He walked, stiff-legged and sore, out of the room.

The small apartment was lit solely by the glow of morning sunlight through window blinds, giving the place an even, preternatural glow. The apartment was clean, but not in the sense that everything was put in its place. It was clean in the sense there were so few items that it could never really be messy. A small sofa and a television on a stand were all that comprised of the living room. Water was running in the kitchen.

"Did you sleep on the floor too?" he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Elizabeth was standing at the sink filling a coffee pot with water. She was wearing the long T-shirt she kept at Malcolm's apartment. On the front of the shirt was a faded logo for a company or a band that probably hadn't existed since the mid-nineties. It was the one piece of ratty clothing that Malcolm ever saw Elizabeth wear. It hung loosely on her and did nothing to flatter her form, but, as Malcolm noted, her legs looked good. Plus he had seen everything beneath the shirt and knew that that looked good, too.

"No," she laughed, placing the pot in the machine and turning it on. "You seemed pretty set it on it, though, so I grabbed a blanket off the couch." She walked over and pecked a kiss on his cheek. "I'm getting in the shower," she whispered.

Malcolm poured himself a bowl of cereal and stood at the sink to eat it, taking in the morning glow and listening to the shower run in the bathroom. He continued to wake up and his mind began going over the plan for the day. Work in an hour, lunch today would be at one and he'd be meeting Eddie at the Mexican place, after work he'd go to Elizabeth's place. He didn't know what he'd do after that; it was still too early to plan that far ahead.

* * *

Eddie was already waiting at the restaurant when Malcolm arrived. Malcolm had shed his hard hat and vest but was still covered in the grit and smell of the construction site, a nearby medical office building. A new wing was being added and Malcolm, among others, was adding it. Eddie's dark hair was as wild and unrestrained as ever, but his face was clean-shaven. It had been nearly a year since Malcolm had last seen his brother.

Lunch progressed. The food came quickly, as both brothers had ordered a sufficiently simple arrangement of tortillas, meat, and cheese. They ate without speaking much save for an occasional commentary on the decor or people surrounding them. An observer might have mistaken the meal for a weekly ritual, an uneventful meeting of two long-time friends. The real conversation, however, did not begin until after the plates had been cleared.

"How are Mom and Dad?" Malcolm asked.

"They're... how they always are. I don't know." Eddie lived closer to their parents and hence was expected to be more up-to-date on their well-being. "Mom's started that thing where she emails you every annoying cartoon or joke that gets sent to her."

Malcolm nodded. "And you? What've you been up to?"

It was half a question, the unspoken part being, "since you tried to kill yourself?" A year ago Eddie had taken a razor blade to his wrists while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Malcolm and his parents had flown out to South Carolina to visit Eddie, only to make small and unimportant conversation as he recovered. To this day no one had received an exact explanation of why he had done it. Malcolm tried once to ask him if he regretted it. "Yes," Eddie had said. "Razor blades are such a cliche. I like to think I'm a little cleverer than that."

"I've been good," Eddie answered. "I'm writing some more." Eddie had published a novel when he was eighteen but had written virtually nothing since. "I like it. I like living in New York, too."

"That's good," was all Macolm said. It was not that Malcolm wasn't engaged; he simply meant what he had said. It was good, both that his brother was writing and that he enjoyed living in New York.

"And you?" Eddie asked. "What's new with you?"

"I'm working in construction. We're adding a wing on an office building. I like it. And Elizabeth and I are still together," he added. "Been about seven months now."

"Tell me about her."

"She's a legal aide. She's wants to be a lawyer, though. She's going back to school in the fall. We're not living together, but really we're just taking turns between each other's apartments. We'll have to figure something else out when she goes to school, though."

Eddie nodded, and a silence followed. There was a question floating in the air around them, waiting to be grasped. It was Eddie who finally voiced it, though it could have been either of them: "Do you think Mom and Dad will ever forgive us?"

"Forgive us for what?" Malcolm had an idea of what his brother was talking about, but followed him anyway.

"'Edward Clarence the Second,'" he said in a mocking British accent. "'Malcolm Harold.' They always wanted a lot more out of us than we gave them. You know they did."

Malcolm shrugged. "We are who we are. They love us."

"They do," Eddie said quickly. "I know they do. They just... wanted something else, I guess. I don't know." The brothers were quiet for a moment. "Do you love her?" Eddie asked.

"What?"

"Elizabeth. Do you love her?"

"I... yeah, I guess. I mean, we don't really talk about it. I like being with her, she likes being with me. We love each other, I suppose."

Eddie nodded. "Good. Maybe you should tell her that."

Malcolm grinned. "Is that a bit of brotherly advice?"

Eddie laughed, too. "No, I don't think so. Just advice, I guess."