Chapter Three.     Hope, How It Drains

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I fasten the button on my trousers. The clasp is hardly visible in this dimly lit bathroom. It's our little sanctuary. Secluded. Our faces obscured. Lined in filth and things left unsaid. I eye her through the mirror, watching closely as she slips her arms into each sleeve, or lack thereof, of her little black tank top.

My hands fumble against the cream fabric and I bite back a curse. I lower my eyes as her voice slices through our shared silence, "Need some help?" she says, as if afraid I'll retaliate against her with a spear of vexation.

Instead, I surprise her, "If you don't mind."

Obedient, she pivots on the balls of her feet. Her fingers, like quicksilver, are against khaki cotton before I can so much as blink. When I catch a hint of a smile tugging at her cheeks, I realize I've made a mistake.

It always happens this way. I give, ripening her cheeks and jolting her heart awake, and then I take just as quick as I allowed myself to give.

Her lower lip slips between her teeth, brows contorting and conveying demure perplexity. Her eyes are free of the black shadow she smears along the outer edges. It's more subtle than it sounds. I grant myself another second, long enough for her to sort out my difficulty, and long enough to steal that expression for me to reflect on tonight when I'm alone in my bed wondering whatever it is she's doing.

She peers up at me through her lengthy lashes, both sets coated in a charcoal mixture, as the button finally slips through the slit in the fabric. I step away immediately after, leaving little room for another error.

She turns her back to me, a glimmer of hope still laced in her gaze. I can make out the shape of her shoulder blades, battling against smooth caramel. She stands before the mirror, her hands fumbling between the faucet lever and the container of lavender soap.

"So I was thinking," she begins. I worry at my sleeves, hiking them up my forearms and securing a button through the top split in the white material. "Maybe . . . I don't know, after my shift, you'd want to come by? Just for a little?"

"Can't." I reply, both affirmatively and cavalierly.

"Oh," she murmurs. The air releases from her lungs. I watch a look cross her face, quick and painless. Like she isn't surprise, and she shouldn't be. This happens every time.

I don't owe her an explanation, but my lips are parting before I can restrain myself. "It's been a long day. I won't be much company."

She catches my eyes through the glass. A small smile touches her lips, but doesn't reach her eyes this time. "I understand, Jonny."

A muscle in my jaw feathers at the tag. Albeit harmless, it irks me given that it sets her apart from others. Something only spoken between the two of us. Something that murks my mind against my will.

I turn away from her. My hand approaches the handle of the door, soles prepared to flee, when her candied voice calls out, "Sleep well. See you soon?"

The hope. It drains me.

I turn my head, peering back to find her front-facing, her bottom pressed against the edge of the sink. Her hands are clasped in front of her leather pants. Confines, those damn pants. That small smile remains, expectant as ever.

"Goodnight, Cosette."

And then I make a swift exit, aching.

I spin my key ring, rifling through the four separate pieces of metal, all designed to fit into four separate locks. Car. Home. Mom's place. The storage unit on Rutherford St.

I nestle my key into the front door of my cabin abode. A home invaded, luckily only by me for now. Once inside, I draw in a breath of air. Smells unremarkable. I take a gander about, surveying each and every decor piece. I examine the bookcase, the stereo stand, the refrigerator, each and every room and closet inside of the logged interior.

I find that everything is in its rightful place.

Deciding against a shower, instead I focus on the only bottle of liquor I own. One I indulge in on special occasions. Tonight's an exception.

One glass. A few sips. That's what I rule.

I press the rim to my lips, satiating the ache I seem to feel all over. My eyes grow increasingly blurry as the liquid races down my esophagus. I didn't plan to bury it down the hatch, but the temptation persists.

I bite back a wince, lowering both palms onto the countertop. I spare a glance at the stove, noting the time.

1:28 AM flashes in a vibrant red.

I return my eyes to my hands, finding them clenched against mahogany finish. I seal the liquor bottle, return it to its place on the shelf, and amble toward the living room.

Insomnia taunts me. Figuring a book will coax me to sleep, I make a clean dash to the master, undressing with ease, and return to the living room in something more feasible. By the time I've reached the couch, bouts of nausea have began to torment me.

My skin is akin to fire. Dizziness invades my senses, and suddenly I'm unaware of my thoughts. My muscles relax against the couch.

Then everything is veiled in darkness.