For this to have more of a…connection, I suppose an introduction is in order. So hi, my name is Arthur Jacobs. I was born in a hospital in Crewe, England. My favorite color is purple. I once kept a notebook filled with time travel conspiracies after obsessively watching Steins;Gate over and over. Is that enough? Probably.
Right now I’m sitting in the living room of my house. On the other side of the room, laying down on the sofa, is my sister, Grace. She might be the only person I can give sincere eye contact to without wanting to squeeze my eyelids shut and duct taping them closed. Our conversation revolved around a wheel of topics. What she did with her day. That Nick Cage film where he plays Nick Cage. And now, about my most recent counseling session.
“You do know he’s only trying to help?” Her gaze stuck to me, bringing a slight discomfort. But again, not duct tape worthy.
“Surely it's such a strange thing to pick up on though right?” I sat one leg over the other, using my hands to emphasize my complete annoyance with the character deconstruction Mr.Pearson forcefully provided. Yes, I know how ironic the hand gesture thing is in light of this. “I should buy him a deer hunting cap if he wants to play Sherlock Holmes so badly.”
Grace shuffled and sat cross-legged, raising her hand with her index finger pointed upwards.
“One. Sherlock Holmes can only be played by Benedict Cumberbatch or Robert Downey Jr. That is a sacred rule of life.”
“Very true.” I replied, nodding in agreement.
“Good.” Grace raised her middle finger alongside her index. “Two. It’s his job Arthur.” She gestured her hands around the room. “This room then, how do you feel about it? Full video commentary style.”
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I chuckled at this notion, but Grace remained silent. I took a look around. The living room wasn’t small, more like, medium sized. Two sofas, a coffee table with clay coasters on each corner, a TV. Picture a stereotypical British living room, and that's pretty much what it was. Its stupid to try and compare my room and this one, I mean, I could definitely fit more bookshelves in here. I’d have more room for my things. Neatly packed away, dusted once in a while, viewed but not picked up and read, or glared at. Just packed away. Something a friend or loved one would look at and not acknowledge you know? More space.
“Uh…it's a room?”
My sister laughs.“Wow, very descriptive, I diagnose you as brain dead.”
“Fuck off.” I reply jokingly, and we both share a laugh. I like Grace’s laugh. A genuine ‘I am happy in this moment’ laugh that just makes you happy by just hearing it. She had always been like that.
“Right,” Grace slaps her hands on her knees, a classic dad move that we both picked up from childhood, and stood up, “I better get back to typing. That Psychology paper won’t write itself.” She smiles, and turns to leave the room.
“Wait, Grace.” She turns around to face me, raising her eyebrows in question.
“Scale of one to ten?”
She thinks for a moment.
“Seven.”
I smile.
“Good, talk soon bro.”
I had always called my sister ‘bro’. Sis just felt weird coming out of my mouth. Bro has a more friendly, loving feel I think. ‘Hey bro!’ ‘I love you bro!’. It has a better ring to it.
I never asked Grace about it, but I think she feels the same way.