Feb. 18th, 2010

tezcatl_ipoca: (all roads lead)
It's raining when I arrive, hot close drizzle. Stare out of the cab window; it's not the city I remember, and it is. Gives me a tight sick sort of feeling, like the beginnings of a hangover.

His apartment's in a better building than I expected, a solid middle-class neighbourhood. The super, short and broad and scowling, lectures me as she takes me up there, gives me the key: Everything paid up, she says, as if it's an insult, until the end of next month, and how can I let it? Who will rent it when a man has died there? When all his goods are there, still? I shut the door firmly in her face, lean my back against it as if she's going to break in.

The sparseness of it's too familiar, too like my own place. Nothing of the boy, the young man, that I remember. He was always neater than me, and he's gone about this like he went about most things, methodical, respectable. No clothes discarded on chairs, the kitchen clean. The fridge empty, though that could have been someone else. Bed against one wall, sofa against the other, tiny kitchen and bathroom. Almost a hotel room.

The bed's made up, hospital corners like my mother taught us. I feel my jaw clench hard.

I drop my suitcase to one side, my carry-on on the sofa. I'm tired and stiff from the flight, and I just want a fucking drink.

[continued in comments]
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
[NOTA BENE: THIS IS NOT CSI!CANON. This is purely for rachelm's and my personal amusement.]

My flight's late, and I'm not back until midday. His key's in my pocket, but I still think about going back to my own place, sleeping it off. Dealing with it all later. But at the last moment I tell the cab his address.

The concierge must recognise me by now, because I'm not stopped, tired and sweating and disreputable as I am, dragging my suitcase. Look at myself in the mirror in the lift up to the penthouse; I look a wreck. I've lost weight, and my eyes are so sunken they look like pissholes in the snow, dark-shadowed. Managed to shave, but managed to cut myself, too.

So fucking relieved when I get into his place. All I want to do is sleep. Go to the fridge, drink half a litre of water, and then climb the stairs painfully. Pass out full-length on his bed, shoes still on.

Open to Al.

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tezcatl_ipoca

September 2010

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