sunday prompt: dare

nolan and his brother on the sidewalk. snow, but not the predicted blizzard - a light, fine dusting. bald patches of asphalt show through on the roads. the sun hides its face behind bandage-thick cloud. neither brother speaks - this is their sunday ritual, the morning thud of booze's clamor in their heads, cigarettes in and out of their mouths like lazy pistons. on their way to breakfast, a greasy spoon a few blocks away known for the classic rock on the stereo and shifty, grizzled clientele. besides being brothers they are also roommates, and the apartment they have left behind is littered with the detritus of a post last-call party. phalanxes of beer cans line the counter and tabletops, an exhausted army with deserters and wounded alike. cigarette butts crushed out in red plastic cups; the chrome bottom of the sink littered with the same. a cat - Melvin - prowls around and in and out of the rubble, nosing at these unfamiliar objects, ears pricked at the sound of the door antecedent to their exit.

they ease into adjacent stools and are given coffee without having to ask. neither take cream or sugar. they order. nolan drinks faster than his brother, and upon being refilled by the plump, arch-browed waitress, turns to his brother and says

"so what was her name?"

his brother doesn't respond immediately. takes his time with a slow draught of his mug. "angela." pauses. "or maybe marian."

nolan nods, then laughs, almost as an afterthought. "she left her number."

"where?"

"she left it on the fridge. used a magnet and everything."

"i didn't think we had any magnets."

"it was one of her own - one of those magnetic poetry ones."

"really."

"you don't remember?"

"no."

"she had them all over the fridge. i think she wrote you a poem. or you wrote her one. i don't know."

"that's gay."

"well she left you 'inferno'."

"on the note?"

"yeah."

the brothers' breakfast arrives. tabasco is applied to both plates - nolan's brother more liberally than he - and silverware is taken up like weaponry. brown one-ply napkins settle on right thighs. all these tiny moments, going unnoticed by the brothers - they are machine-like in their sunday devotional, eating with controlled gusto. following breakfast they will return to the apartment, sit on a couch with television and share a joint. a phone will eventually ring, and they will leave one another to their respective days. the sun sets, the lights come on. Melvin puts in an appearance and keeps a carefully disinterested company with whichever brother is left behind. the kitchen will go as it is for a day or so, with nolan's brother idly assembling the cans in neat arrays on the table. eventually nolan will take it upon himself to toss them into a bin in the closet, separated by bottles and cans.

on this sunday neither of their phones ring. this has happened, but it is rare. after the third hour of mindless television, nolan straightens up in his seat, eliciting a melisma of disgruntled noise from the newly-dislodged cat. "why don't you call her?"

as before, during breakfast, nolan's brother takes his time in replying. it is as though he frames and then re-frames the question in his mind before answering it, almost as though he's just a little dull, a little slow. he tilts his head to one side slightly, narrowing his eyes, and then shrugs. "dunno."

"she left her number."

"it's happened before."

"did you like her?"

nolan's brother shrugs again, or releases the previous shrug, and chuckles a little bit, rubbing his chin in the way he imagines people do when they're amused. "sure."

"then call her!" nolan is playing a part too - that of dutiful brother: coaxing, nudging, pushing. "you know you want to."

he sighs. "i was thinking about going to get a beer."

"ask her if she wants to."

"i don't know. she was kind of ... weird."

"weird how?" the television blares something about monster trucks, self-importantly.

"you know. i mean. magnetic poetry or something."

"so?"

"who brings that to a party?"

"maybe it was just in her backpack."

"maybe." nolan's brother is considering. the phrase 'why not' enters his head like a cold breeze from a door opened to the outside. "i don't even remember her name."

"maybe she never told you."

"i think she did."

"but you can't remember."

"right."

nolan shrugs and stands up, pacing idly. fixes a slightly crooked picture on the wall. it is a print of Dogs Playing Poker. "i dare you."

"don't. nolan."

"i double dare you."

"i hate this. you know i hate this."

"i double dog dare you. call her."

a different silence settles on them. something more electric, yet not excitable. it's a sad silence. nolan's brother loses the color in his eyes, bends his head and cracks his neck. refuses to meet nolan's pressuring stare. "fine." he pulls his phone out of his pocket and stands up, heading to the kitchen. there is the number, as related. he holds it in his hand and laughs to himself. written on the small slip is a number:

1-900-BLOW-ME

he can hear his brother's laughter coming from the living room.