Dante
The bathroom door has been closed for eleven minutes
I know because I've been counting. Listening to the muffled sound of Marina's voice through the thin walls.
She's talking to someone. The words are too quiet to make out, but the tone shifts. Angry. Then soft. Then something that sounds almost like laughter.
I could listen. Press my ear to the wall. Catch every word.
I don't.
Whatever she's saying, she's saying it to someone who isn't me. Someone she trusts. Someone who hasn't cornered her against a wall like a jealous animal over a pair of sweatpants.
Christ.
I push myself up from the bed. The movement pulls at my wound, sends a sharp reminder through my side that I'm not healed. Not even close.
I don't care.
I can't lie here anymore. Can't stare at the ceiling and count the minutes and think about the look on her face when I grabbed her wrist. The fear. The anger.
The way she didn't back down.
I'll hit you.
She meant it. Every word.
And instead of entertaining me, it made me want her more.
I'm a sick bastard.
The hallway is dark. Marina's apartment is small enough that I can see the living room from here, the kitchen beyond it. Everything neat. Everything in its place.
Except me.
I don't belong here. In her careful, quiet life. In her apartment that smells like lavender and looks like a magazine spread.
But I'm here anyway.
I make it to the kitchen.
I open the refrigerator.
Eggs. Milk. Some vegetables that look like they're about to go bad. A container of leftover soup.
I close the refrigerator.
The sink has a few dishes in it. A bowl. A spoon. A coffee mug with a ring of dried liquid at the bottom.
I turn on the water.
The sound is louder than I expected. Loud enough to cover the muffled conversation from the bathroom. Loud enough to give her privacy.
I start washing the dishes.
It's a strange thing, doing something domestic. Something normal. My hands know the motions—I've lived alone for years. Cooked my own meals. Cleaned my own apartment. The penthouse in Chicago has a cleaning service, but I never let them touch the kitchen.
The kitchen is mine.
