Her heart starts to race.
Lili sets her glass aside on the nightstand beside her journal and lip balm, spare hair elastics. Scared by her half-thoughts—conclusions waiting, cold water, pulse in her throat—she slips back under the sheets. Burying her face against Aleksandr’s shoulder, she wraps her arms around him.
Grasping after something, trying to linger in something.
But it’s a growing weight. Heavier, each breath, with meaning, with consequences.
Past the point of tolerance.
“What’s wrong?”
Aleksandr grimaces, a flinch of distaste. “Just work,” he says, looking down at his phone, morning light. “Michael’s apparently downstairs, our flight leaves soon.”
“What, now?” she asks, sitting up in bed.
“Yes, unfortunately. He had to move the flight up,” he replies, flicking through trip details. He’s irritated, she can tell. He’d woken before her, already fully dressed as he’d kissed her shoulder, setting down coffee for her on the nightstand. “When do you start classes again?”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
“I was thinking we could go on a trip.”
“Oh.”
A buzz, iPhone going off again. “Sorry,” Aleksandr says, glancing back at the screen. “I’ve got to go—I didn’t realize he’d rebooked these flights so early. But let me know, okay? What dates, where you’d like to go. I’ll take care of the details.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“I’ll be back home tomorrow night,” Aleksandr says, shrugging his suit jacket on. “It’s a short trip.”
Lili nods, quiet.
“Any plans today?” he asks. He gently tilts her face up to him.
“No,” she replies. “Just writing.”
He leans down to kiss her, quick before he goes, but Lili grasps his shoulders, holding him close. After a moment, she feels his arms wrap around her waist.
Like carving out sweetness, a moment to hold onto.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs. “I’ll text you when I land.”
“Tomorrow,” she whispers.
She tries to focus on work when he’s gone.
Pen tapping against the wooden dining table, blink of her text cursor.
“Fuck,” she winces, accidentally tearing the skin of her cuticle too far. It starts to bleed.
When it proves impossible to write, she slaps her computer closed. Outside, the city is loud. She darts across Canal, running between cars. It’s Friday, downtown already alive for the weekend, packed with people, restaurants busy, laughing. In Chinatown, the sidewalks bustle with fruit seller stands, the swing of scales, subway rushing by underfoot, the rustle of plastic bags stuffed with mangosteen and lychee, exchanged cash. The gutters smell of seawater, fish markets cleaned out and closed for the day. It’s like her whole head is filled with traffic, with noise; a thousand thoughts racing towards conclusions she’s trying to outrun.
Afterwards, back at the loft, in the kitchen, her tea stash is lined up neatly in the cupboard she can reach. In the bathroom, her fluoride-free toothpaste rests against his Sensodyne, her Dr. Bronner’s beside his ridiculous, expensive body wash. In the closet, a few of her shirts and dresses hang, an overnight tote with fresh clothes.
All around her, consequences are looming.
She can’t sleep that night.
Sitting in bed, she watches the empty lofts across the street. Lives full of things she cannot see, meaning that isn’t hers to touch.
