“She’s not around anymore.”
Cindel stops pouring, placing the pot down.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
I reach toward her, taking her hand in mine before reminding myself to get close. Learn what I need to. I kiss the top of her hand, then take the other and repeat the action. Her eyes became heavy with lust or exhaustion; I’m not sure which was the lesser of two evils. She peers into my eyes as her hands remain in mine, then slowly her gaze lowers to my lips.
I’m no priest. I know what she wants. Will kissing her help? I’ll give her what she needs, if it means gaining her trust. I pull her to me and close my eyes, her glossy lips easy to part. My tongue finds hers. Deepening the kiss, I continue exploring just enough that I have her panting in my arms. We part gradually, her once shiny tinted lips, now puffy and smeared. I wondered if I performed okay, it felt different.
“I should go,” I admit before pulling on my discarded jacket. I was feeling conflicted. If I stayed here… if I thought too much about it, I might lose that expensive wagyu before I made it out to my car.
“Do you like music?” She calls out.
I halt just in front of the door. “Yeah. Mostly just enjoy it as background noise, but I like it.”
She bounces the teabag in the mug of hot liquid, then sits down at the wooden table in her tiny kitchen.
“How about Stone Temple Pilots? Do you like them?”
I consider and nod my head, side to side. “They’re not too bad. I don’t listen to them very much anymore. I prefer stuff like MUPP or Sadfriendd.”
She squints her eyes, seeming to analyze my answer. As if it is some graded points scale. She shakes away whatever was transpiring in her mind and blows on her cup. “Goodnight, Eamon. Thank you for a lovely night.”
I show myself out, hoping my time spent wooing Cindel wasn’t lost on my inability to get my head into the game.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
CINDEL
My date with Eamon went surprisingly well. Initially, I went along with it simply because I wanted answers, but somewhere along the evening things changed. He listened to me, asked me about myself, and even understood how the pain of losing someone is ever present, despite years passing. Maybe it’s just because I’ve never seemed to find a partner who showed more interest in what was in my mind than between my legs. Eamon was a gentleman and very easy on the eyes. Could I see myself going on a date with him again? Probably. Is dating your boss breaking some kind of ethical work code? Most definitely. Do I think Eamon is my musical stalker? I. Don’t. Know. However, one question has repeated itself in my mind multiple times. “So you think there was foul play?” What an odd question.
Emerging from my bedroom, I find Andrea bumping around the kitchen, making herself a sunrise smoothie. She is dressed in a wide legged pants suit vs. her usual athletic wear, which tells me she has meetings today. She is a go-getter. If my roommate wasn’t working crazy long hours, she was arrangingconsultations with potential customers to take on even more projects. At least, that’s what she tells me.
If I’m being honest, I’ve never even been to any of the buildings she works from. Not even during a lunch break. The thought made me wish for our college days, when she only worked twice a week at Scoops. Thinking back on how close we were then makes me feel like we're practically strangers today.
Just behind me, I dangled the basket of goodies from my parents’ trip to Martha’s Vineyard. I clear my throat loudly, but she continues scooping powder into the blender. Her back still to me, she asks, “Where’d the flowers come from?!”
Luckily, I already had my hearing aids in. “Eamon. He came over last night after our date?—”
The blender comes to life, tearing through chucks of frozen fruit and ice. It’s an obnoxious way of getting her point across, but message received. Pouring her orange-colored drink into a to-go tumbler before turning to fully face me. She sees that I have something behind me. “What’s that?” Nodding her head in my direction.
I bring the basket to my front. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since I got back. It’s from my parents. Soaps and dressing from Martha’s Vineyard.”
Andrea smiles and steps forward to take the basket from my outstretched hands. Peeking inside the woven bin, before looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t want them, did you?” Her ability to sniff shit out is unparalleled. Setting the gift down, she begins to lift soap bars of various sizes and colors to her nose, exploring each scent.
“Can we talk?” I sit on the first piece of furniture we found together, when we started living here. It was a pedestal dining set we discovered on the side of the road, after someone moved out of the building. Three of the chairs were unstable, but after we lugged it back up to our apartment, we set to work. A littlewood glue and a few nails, it was gold! It’s been extremely reliable, holding our asses up through countless meals.
Andrea finally sits across from me, pushing the vase of roses to the edge of the table. For a fraction of a second, I expected her to send the whole thing shattering to the ground. Lackadaisically, she peeks at her rose-gold watch then seems to study every inch of the room, while she sips from her frozen beverage. I breath out audibly causing her eyes to finally snap back to me.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. That was dick of me. Who you're with is your own business…”
She’s right in front of me. I know she hears me, but she remains neutral as she examines her black fingernail, while tracing the outer rim of her drink.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, truly meaning it.
Her eyes wander back to me. How is it that she can manage to be both melancholy and irritated, all wrapped into one? “So, you're dating him now? You and… Eamon?”
