Like 1920s got drunk, passed out,
and never woke up.
There’s a chandelier throwing shadows across green wallpaper. Velvet sofas. Wingback chairs. A cold fireplace. The door swings shut behind us, eating the noise.
Andrew lets my hand go slow.
And for the first time in five days,
it’s just us.
Alone.
He turns, gripping the back of his neck,
keeping himself from combusting.
The thought of him being nervous should make me feel better, should make this easier, but it doesn’t. I want to speak, say a word, any word, but I don’t know where to start.
So Andrew does?—
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
He hooks a thumb behind him.
“I’ll whip somethin’ up for you real quick.”
I nod. Because I can’t find my voice yet.
But even my nod is broken.
He nods too, stiff, mechanical.
And with one last look?—
“Just—don’t vanish on me again.
“I can’t take that shit.”
Then he’s gone,
and the room's suddenly too big and quiet.
I drop onto the sofa,
squeeze my thighs together,
drum my fingers against my knees,
every nerve on the loose,
wondering if there's enough time to rub one out.
He returns a few minutes later with one drink.
He hands it to me,
turns the wingback to face me,
