“That’s a nice place,” I comment, even if I have no idea what I’m talking about.
“Have you ever been there? To see a show, I mean?” Her voice takes back a shade of colour.
I smile instinctively before looking at her over my shoulder.
“Do I look like the theatre-going type?”
She smiles too, lowering her head, and I can luckily still hide the effect it has on me.
“Done. That was easier than I thought,” I say, opening the lock.
“I don’t want to know where you learned how to do that,” she says, raising her hands, and walking into the apartment.
“You’re welcome,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“I would invite you in…”
I don’t let her finish as I hurry inside.
“Make yourself at home,” she says sarcastically.
I take a quick look around and am left speechless. I don’t know how long she’s been living alone here, but this place is barren; it’s completely bare, cold and impersonal. It’s a small, oppressive apartment with an odour of mold that fuses together with loneliness, and I’m not sure which one is harder to take.
It’s a scent that’s been imprinted in my memory – one that continues to torment me at night, forcefully taking control of my soul.
A table, a chair, a sink, a counter full of glasses, with empty wine bottles covering every inch of available space. A second-hand sofa takes up almost the entire space dedicated to the living room area. There’s a bed, a night stand. Nothing personal, no photos.
There’s no light. There’s no life.
She isn’t here.
I turn to look at her and something inside me breaks. My toughness crumbles in her eyes, so wide and lost, plummeting me into an endless vortex I’d like to remain in forever, to avoid being spit out into the sunlight again.
She tries to escape, heading towards her bedroom, but I grab her arm before she can make her getaway. I don’t squeeze hard this time.
My touch is delicate. It’s a strange sensation, touching her again. It makes my head spin, and for a second, my sense of balance feels off, like I’ve been hurled into another dimension where feeling something for myself and for someone else is not a sign of weakness or something to be avoided at all costs.
“It’s just a house,” she says, reading between the lines of my silence. “A place to live, that’s all.”
Good Lord.
“But why…”
“I needed a place for myself that wasn’t in Jamie’s shadow.”
A place of her own is understandable, but this: the neighborhood, the apartment, the emptiness. All things that, I’m afraid to admit, I have an intimate knowledge of myself. I try to shoo away the thought, that indelible mark on my soul that I’ve tried to shake off for years with no result, because what you are and where you come from cannot be changed, no matter how hard you try. One moment is all it takes, a brief encounter with the past, and everything comes rushing back, catapulting you into a memory of something you never wanted to be – and yet, here you are, unchanged.
“This is not who you are.”
“This is exactly who I am, Ian.”
“That’s not true.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she says in a tone that tells me I will probably never know.
“You can’t live like this,” I tell her, hearing my voice soften.
“Why do you care how I live? I’m not your problem,” she says with an edge, freeing herself from my grip.
