He softens. “If you were anyone else, I would say no, Piccolina…”
For him to stay late means I have to endure a long-winded story about these two “punks” who tried to dine and dash earlier today. Droning on about our generation and our lack of respect these days…
The phone call takes up the majority of my car ride there. But, as promised, Sal greets me at the door with burgers in hand. By the time I make it to my apartment door, it’s 10:30 p.m .
My limbs drag across the threshold, so exhausted that not even the greasy smell of these delicious burgers can revive me.
I leave my purse on top of the table. Sal’s burgers are probably cold and mushy. The best part of the burger is the pickles,which are most likely so soggy that even a quick reheat in the microwave won’t fix them.
I find Aidan already in my apartment when I arrive, hunched over with a blanket draped across his back, blonde head of hair facing the TV.
On the verge of collapsing, Aidan remains oblivious to my current state as I walk toward him.
Another quest within his game, I assume. A quest where if he loses focus, his whole army would all die. You would think he was actually dying from the way he yells at the screen when he dies in one of these quests.
It isn’t until I cut the burger in half and place it in front of him that he says, “Hey, baby.” Smiling wide, picking it up to take the first bite, he adds, “I brought you your favorite T-shirt of mine. Left it on the bed for you.”
His band tee of the Killers that I clung to whenever I would sleepover at his place. I think I wore it more than him.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, barely holding my eyes open. He tries to let out a response, but his words are muffled by the chewing.
“Dammit, Charlotte. You forgot to ask for no pickles.” He picks them off slowly before taking a few bites and returning to his game. I watch him for a few moments, repeating my speech in my head.
As he takes another bite, I see him kill yet another zombie. The intensity grows behind his eyes as he screams at his buddies for leaving him hanging.
Kissing his forehead, I gather the last bit of energy I have from the floor. I mumble the words, “I know we had plans tonight, but I think I am going to go to bed. Today was longer than I thought and I’m beat.”
Aidan reaches for another fry on the plate. “Didn’t you say you were going to leave early?”
With a deep exhale, I mention, “I tried.”
“It’s okay, Charlotte. Go to bed. We have the whole weekend.” Giving a quick half smile, his eyes remain glued to the screen, only slipping for a fraction of a second to grab a fry from his plate.
As I am a few feet away, he yells, “You mentioned you wanted to ask me something today?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “I meant to ask you if you liked pickles on your burger. I couldn’t remember…”
He studies me from across the room a moment longer, narrowing his eyes. Like he knows that isn’t the question I wanted to ask him tonight.
“Oh.” He nods slowly. “Yeah. I don’t.”
I purse my lips tightly together, pulling myself away from him on the carpet.
“You can have my burger too. I’ll leave it covered on the counter.”
Aidan doesn’t say anything. I hear loud button smashing as I walk away, gliding to my soft, warm bed waiting for me.
The next three hours before I actually fall asleep will be reserved for contemplating my life’s existence and why I didn’t ask him the real question—until then, I’ll just stare at the ceiling until my eyes give out.
Before my eyes can drift off into sleep, my catatonic gaze catches a bright, blazing red spot. A red spot that is only growing bigger and brighter the longer I look at it. I blink slowly, giving myself a moment to try to wrap my head around what I am looking at.
Pushing myself off the bed, the redness morphs into the rise and fall of flames, an image pouring through my bedroom window, from my neighbor’s apartment in the building next to me.
“What the hell is that?” I whisper to myself. The flames only grew higher and higher. My eyes are unable to look away from the sight. A window I never bothered to look through before is now consumed by destruction.
From head to toe, I am immobile. The red shoots up faster, this time making an ear-piercing, crackling sound. My whole bodyjumps backward. My fingertips hover over the numbers 9-1-1 before I finally press the green call button.
“Hi, my name is Charlotte Tate, and…” Just for a second, I see a young woman’s face in the windowpane. She’s hanging onto the window. Her jet-black, wavy hair and hazel-brown eyes are unfamiliar and terrifying; her hair pinned back, with a blue necklace hanging around her neck. I can’t do anything, my whole body is frozen in place, almost feeling the heat wrap around my own neck.
