Page 72 of Queen of Nothing

The fire escape leads me all the way up to the long window that opens into the bedroom area.

I stumble in, my sneaker snagging on the windowsill.

With a flushed glance at the double bed that we all cram into at night, I notice Serena hasn’t gotten around to refitting the sheets.

Sal had another accident in the middle of the night.

The mattress is bare, stripped of the sheets, but the fresh set are nowhere to be seen as I step over empty laundry baskets.

I move around the partition and find that the kitchen is empty.

Serena is nowhere to be seen.

But she has at least cleaned a bit.

The two-seater couch that faces the old bulky television has been brushed free of crumbs, and the ugly wooden dining table that can only fit two chairs has been wiped down.

I toss my bag onto the scratched surface of the dining table, then drop onto a wobbly chair and tug my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans.

The screen lights up.

No texts, no missed calls.

I set it down, then fish out the cash I stuffed into my front pocket.

I only just start to count it when I hear the familiar slap of slippers coming up the corridor.

I don’t look up at the door as it opens directly opposite me, but out the corner of my eye I can make out the basket perched on her hip.

It’s a generous hip. Both of them.

Serena never lost the birthing curves.

She doesn’t say anything before she shuts the door behind her.

Neither do I.

No need to ask where she’s been, since she carries the basket to the bed and starts fitting the sheets. The laundry room is downstairs at the back of the shop. Maybe she got stuck with the owner for an hour or two.

That’s my kind of hell.

Maybe more than this life…

I shove out the thoughts.

Save them for bedtime, like I always do, so I can toss and turn the night away, then work a shift with sleep deprivation, then come back to the apartment where Serena and I hardly speak outside of the things we need to say.

I finish counting the cash.

Her terse voice comes from the bedroom area, “How much is it?”

“Three hundred and ninety-three.”

A pause before she says, “That’s more than last week.”

I secure the stack with a rubber band. “Because last week,” I retort, and there’s undeniable snark in my tone, “I worked the weekend shifts.”

The silence that comes is predictable. Serena grasping as scraps of patience. Then, “Add it to the small treasure.”