Devon Claytor

What is Distilled Spirits?

Episode 1:  “Icing Over a Secret Pain”

Geno

Note: Because of reasons, this chapter clocks in at 1,970 words, the second to exceed the limit this episode.

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          The day was supposed to be perfect.  Hours and hours of alcohol and Mario Kart and no people who tell embarrassing stories.  Maybe Sidney and Caitlyn would even fix whatever weird shit was between them.

By 4:00, Wednesday was ruined.

Geno paced in his apartment.  “Dad, you can’t be here.  Why are you here?  Was it Mom?”

Mr. Roark leaned his suitcase against the coach.  “I just wanted to see you.  Maybe I could meet your—”

“Did Mom send you?”

“No, actually.”  Mr. Roark bit his lip, maybe thinking up a lie.  He was a very good lawyer.  “Her sister is over and, well, you know your aunt.”

“I know that you can’t stand her,” Geno said.

“Can anybody?”   Mr. Roark looked at the assorted alcohol on the kitchen counter.  “Are you busy tonight or something?”

“We’re hosting a tournament upstairs.  It was supposed to be on Saturday but we couldn’t find all of the controllers,” Geno said.  “If I leave you some beer, will you promise not to leave the apartment?”

“How much beer?”  Mr. Roark asked.

“Enough,” Geno said, his phone vibrating with a text.

GLENN:  Do you have any papers?  Molly brought some.  And hurry up with the booze.

Geno walked over to the counter and pushed one six pack of his favorite IPA to the side.  “Look,” he said, “this will get you started.”  He pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and picked up the case of cheap beer.

“And that?”  Mr. Roark pointed.

“Is for other people,” Geno said.  “Shower if you need to.  Make a sandwich.  Just—stay here, please.”

By the time Geno got upstairs, not many people had arrived.

The one bedroom flat was perfect.  The old tenant had even left behind a coach.  They had three total which was all of the furniture other than a few mattresses in case anyone needed to crash, and a table for alcohol and snacks beside the fridge.  Molly, Scarlett, and a few people that Geno sort of knew were chatting on one of the mattresses.

Geno had spent the past ten days getting everything ready.  Three TVs were set up with three Nintendo 64s—good controllers were harder to find and came from all over the place.  Glenn was setting up the last system and he looked up when Geno cracked a beer and sat down on the coach.

“What took you?” Glenn asked, turning back to his A/V wires.

“Guess who’s staying at our place tonight?” Geno said.

“Matt’s here?  Oh man, invite him up,” Glenn said.  “I haven’t seen your dad in a while.  Hit the power, will you?”

Geno didn’t move.  “He’s not coming up.”

Glenn crawled back to the console and flipped the power on.  He adjusted one of the cables in time to hear: “Welcome to Mario Kart!”

He picked up two controllers.  “Couple of practice rounds?”

By 6:30, most of the contestants had arrived.  Sidney came with David and someone else that Geno didn’t know, and a little later Caitlyn walked in, looking upset already.  Twelve of them would be entering the tournament and maybe six others hung around—boyfriends, girlfriends, and one person who Geno wasn’t sure if anyone knew.

The preliminary round was in four player format across the three TVs.  The person in last place in each group after four races would be dropped—this round was then repeated with three players per TV, until only six players remained.

The first two rounds went quickly and they took a break after the second, most people gathering near the fridge.  Two of the losers, disgusted with their performance, had already left and one dragged a bored girlfriend behind him.  The only surprise so far had been Caitlyn—reluctant to even play, she had finished second to Sidney in the first round, before narrowly being eliminated in the second.

Geno played safe and advanced while almost managing to get Glenn eliminated with a good banana in the last race.

“I never realized how big your units are if you take out most of the furniture,” Scarlett said, pouring a drink beside Geno.  She was wearing her short kilt today without any leggings—out of nowhere, the last few days had been sunny.

“Yeah,” Geno said, “and this is just a one bedroom.”

“I’ve been thinking about looking for a new place.”  Scarlett added more vodka.  “My lease is up in a few months, you know.”

“Where are you looking?”

“Everywhere,” Scarlett said.  “How many openings does this place have now?”

Geno spilled coke on his hand.  “This building?”

“What else would I mean?”

“I’d have to ask Glenn,” Geno said.

Scarlett eyed him over her drink.  “What if we took a unit? Together?”

“What?” Geno put his drink down and looked elsewhere—at the TV where Sidney and David were goofing off in Battle Mode.  “Do you mean live together?  Like, in the same apartment?”

A window opened.  Molly and a few others were going out on the fire escape.

Geno saw his chance.

“Hold on,” he said.  “I gotta—just, hold on.”

He left the kitchen and ducked through the window.

There was a couple outside with Molly—Geno thought they might’ve been friends from the soup kitchen, but he didn’t know their names.  They were sharing Molly’s skinny joint but had their own, semi-private conversation going.

“That was quick of you,” Molly said, passing it to him.  “Escaping something?”

Geno coughed into his sleeve, his thoughts still racing.  “Molly, how long before a couple should think about moving in together?”

“Do you mean, like, with lesbians?  Or everyone?”

“Everyone.  Anyone,” Geno said.

“I don’t know—I guess it depends,” Molly said.  “I think any time after a year is not too scandalous.  Wait, are you—?”

“No,” Geno said.  “But I think Scarlett wants to.  That is crazy, right?”

Molly shrugged.  “You know her better.  Christ, I bet she’s a handful in bed.”  Her face froze.  “Forget I said that.  Please.”

There was silence for a minute and Geno tried to not listen to the couple’s conversation.

“Actually,” Molly said, “I have something I do want to ask.  Um, has Caitlyn been, like, seeing anyone?”

“Caitlyn?”  Geno thought.  “No, I mean, I haven’t heard anything.”

“Do you think,” Molly started, biting her lip.  She flicked the near-finished joint down to the street.  “Do you think Caitlyn could be—could Caitlyn—could she be persuaded to . . . try new things?”

It took a moment for Geno to process what she meant.  “You don’t think you could—you don’t think she really would, do you?  Well, Sidney could tell you better,” he said, laughing, “but, he sometimes would have to leave the building.  We’re talking like full-on porno sounds here—not every time, but—I think it’s safe to say she likes the penis.”

Molly smiled.  “So did I.  For about a month.  I don’t know.  She’s so tragic.  There’s something so tragic about her.  She makes me want to hug her, and never let go.  I can’t believe Sidney and her never . . .  Have you ever read Tristessa?”

“Kerouac?”

“Yeah,” Molly said.

“No,” Geno answered.  “Maybe years ago.”

The window opened behind them and the couple climbed back inside, and no one spoke for some time.  Geno let his eyes lose focus and the city lights became a fuzzy blur.

Something poked him in the side.

“Hey,” Molly said, “they’re calling for you.  Think it’s your turn.”

There were only four players left when Geno got inside.  The format for the semifinals was time trials, taking the total elapsed time after three races.  Out of two, paired people, whoever had the fastest time advanced to the Battle Mode finals—a three player free-for-all, first to three wins set using the Block Fort map.

Glenn had lost to Sidney in the time trials due to a couple of mistimed mushrooms, Glenn had said, and Geno looked at the man on the couch, waiting to play.

“Coin flip!” David yelled when Geno sat down.  “Call it!”

“Tails,” Geno said.

It landed heads, and a few seconds later David realized what that meant.  He might not have been the drunkest person there, but he was in contention.

“Has Snowland been played yet?” David asked.  “Let’s do that.”

“I’m going with Yoshi,” Geno said, picking up his controller and inspecting it.

“Toad,” David chose.  They would alternate choices like this until they were finished, and no character could be picked twice.

When the first race ended, their times were less than three seconds apart—in David’s favor.

“Geno, what’re you doing?” Glenn said.  “What’s with your power slides today?”

“Shut up—I know,” Geno.  “This guy’s shit, too.”

“Fuck you too.”  David tried to hit Geno but he scooted further away.

Geno chose his best course, Toad’s Turnpike, for the second race, and managed to pull into the overall lead.  He was nearly four seconds ahead after they both completed the long course.

It came down to Kalimari Desert—a strong track for Geno, but David probably didn’t pick it randomly.

David put up a good, but beatable time, and Geno was on the third lap when it happened.  Later, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to blame Scarlett or Molly.

“You’re not gonna make it,” Glenn said as Geno’s kart sped toward the train crossing.

Geno had it timed perfectly—he hit ‘Z’, and nothing happened.  A second later he crashed into the train, popping him in the air.  He stared at the TV and his unmoving kart.

“I had a mushroom.  I thought I had one more damn mushroom,” he said, putting the controller down.  There wasn’t any point in continuing.

“Man,” Glenn said as Geno shook David’s hand, “I was sure you had him.”

Geno glanced toward the booze and saw that Sidney had been watching from the table, probably sizing up the competition.  Geno forgot about Mario Kart and joined Sidney, not noticing Scarlett following until he started pouring a drink.

“You’ve been avoiding me for an hour,” Scarlett said.

Sidney glanced at Geno, and backed slowly away.

“No I wasn’t,” Geno said, “I had to find, uh—”

“Geno, it was a joke earlier.  Relax,” Scarlett said, “I was fucking kidding.”

“No you weren’t.  I don’t believe you.  Look, can we stop talking about it?”  Geno glanced at the door when he heard knocking.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Scarlett said.  “It’s too soon, anyway.”

“Too soon?  What if I just don’t want—” Geno stopped talking when he saw his Dad standing in the doorway, still wearing his suit and loose tie.

“I ran out of beer,” Mr. Roark said to the room, sizing up the kitchen bar.  He spotted Geno and quickly walked over.  “Mind if I . . .?”  He saw the amused girl standing beside his son.  “Hey, and who is this?”

Geno sighed.  “Dad, this is Scarlett.”

Mr. Roark shook her hand.  “A new friend of yours?”

Scarlett crossed her arms and looked up at Geno, and he wondered if the two of them were conspiring somehow.

“No, Dad, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh, wow, I wish your mother was here.”  Mr. Roark smiled at Scarlett.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’m surprised he didn’t tell me all about you.”

“It’s not a big—she’s just my girlfriend, Dad.”

Scarlett stepped lightly on Geno’s foot.  Then harder.  “So, Mr. Roark, Geno hasn’t told me much about you, either.  What do you do for a living?”

Laughter came from outside the window and Geno looked.  Caitlyn and Molly were alone on the fire escape, leaning against each other.

Geno ran a hand through his hair.  “How long are you going to be in town, Dad?”

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PREVIOUS ENTRY

What is Distilled Spirits?

Episode 1: “Icing Over a Secret Pain”

Sidney

Note: Sidney’s updated Season 2 image is delayed until I get home and can take the picture

 

10:45 AM.

Too early for lunch.

Too late for a third coffee break.

Sid kept scrolling down his Facebook newsfeed, not reading the words.  A half-second glance at the pictures—he stopped at one fun memory.

“Wow, look at her,” David said, standing over Sid’s shoulder.  “Can you introduce me?” His voice gave no clue as to whether he was serious.  Sid didn’t know if that was a New York thing or a Jewish thing.  Or maybe just a David thing.  “Are you two friends?”

It was a picture of Cait in a bathing suit on the beach, taken maybe when they were both sophomores.  Sara Powers had uploaded the image and Sid couldn’t remember who else was there that day.  Even then, Cait was starting to lose weight, a year or so into her addiction.

Sid CTRL-W’d, closing Facebook.  “Not your type,” he said.  “She’d tell you to fuck off, then tell your wife that you tried.”

“Speaking from experience?” David said and laughed.  He stretched his back and walked in circles, avoiding his desk.

It didn’t really matter—they had already finished their ‘co-op mission’ and the Project Manager didn’t need them for a few hours.  They would be alone in the small, two-person office until after lunch.  All over the no-where-near-waterfront, downtown building, the same scene was playing out, scattered across thirty-five floors.  Wherever Shinrad Company could lease space.  It sounded like some new age way of running a business—teams spread around, sharing work through their cloud—but Sid was pretty sure it was just the cheapest way to do things.

“Does anybody think that pun is funny?” Sid asked, opening up the plot-tree for their current project, an Action RPG.  “I mean, Shinrad?”

David sat back down, spinning in his chair.  “Jason was six when FF7 came out.  He’s the same boss who thinks calling our partnered jobs ‘co-op missions’ is hilarious.”

Sid glossed through the Act and Scene list, selecting something they had already edited.  “Are we really sure about Act 1, Scene 4?”  He looked at David who started up a Goldeneye ROM.

“We already did that one,” David said, choosing ‘The Facility’ level for another speedrun.  “Christ, the grammar they gave us.  I wanna anonymously e-mail them a treatise on semicolons.”

“No,” Sid said, watching David start the level, “I mean, are we sure about the Marcus character.  Why kill him before the player really knows him?”

David paused the game.  “We already talked—”

“Why are we killing him off before the player really cares?”

“Because the Senior Writer is a childhood friend of Jason’s?”  David continued his game.  “You know, I still have no idea where Jason’s family got all their money, and I’ve been here for three years.”

Sid didn’t say anything.  He listened to David blow through Russian soldiers while staring at the script.

*          *          *

David was on his fourth or fifth attempt at the level when Sid’s phone vibrated.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the same few lines of dialogue.

“That the boss?” David asked, pausing and taking a sip from an old Subway soda cup.

“No,” Sid said.

“We’re in the lobby.”  It was Geno.  “You gotta get us past security.  You’re able to get us lunch, right?”

“Down in a sec,” Sid said.  He had forgotten that he promised to give Geno a tour of the building today.

“You’ll be back for the 1:30 conference call?”  David scrolled through his emulator’s ROMs.

“Yeah,” Sid said, opening their office door.  “If you can’t find a good game, why don’t you double check our work?”

The 17^th floor was a maze of hallways and closed doors.  Unoffensive paintings hung on walls and potted plants were spaced out like they were part of the architectural plans.  Ringing most floors of the building though, was a wide walkway with great views of the city.

Sid stepped off the elevator.  Geno and Scarlett were waiting beside the security desk—Jon was working today and had already turned back to his thick Tom Clancy novel.

“They’re with me,” Sid said.

Jon waved them toward the elevator.

Sid asked Scarlett, “No class today?”

“Taking the day off.”  Her eyes took in the high-ceilinged lobby, the passing suits, and the more casual executives like she was at a zoo.  “Geno said you’d get us free lunch?”

“Yeah,” Sid said as they got into an empty elevator, hitting ‘30’.  “It’s Mexican today.  Free for anyone in the building and guests.  I checked you guys in yesterday, but no one really cares.”

“There’s a pretty good bar around the corner,” Geno mentioned as they shot upward.  “You ever go?”

“McNulty’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes after work,” Sid said, “with David.  He’s, uh—you guys’d probably like him.”

“Your partner?” Geno asked.

Sid nodded.

Scarlett hummed to stock elevator music.  “Geno said you work with the same person every day?”

“They make everyone do it,” Sid said.  “Except senior staff.  It’s like—like the buddy system for adults.  He’s all right though.”

“They hiring any part-timers?” Geno asked.

“What would you even do here?”

“Well, I, uh, maybe I don’t write as good as you, but . . .,” Geno trailed off as the doors opened on the 30^th floor.  “Yeah, I don’t know.”

There wasn’t much of a line in the cafeteria.  They had timed their lunch in between the power-eaters who rushed back to their desks, and those who genuinely forgot that their bodies needed food.  After grabbing some tacos, they found an empty table with a view east—the buildings got shorter and shorter until a massive highway seemed to mark the edge of New Portsmouth, though it technically continued further.

Only a few bites in, Sid knew Geno had something to say.

“So, when’s the last time you saw Caitlyn?” he asked.

Sid chewed slowly.  “Glenn’s tenant party a week ago.  The one he threw for those who actually agreed to stay—even with the homeless.”

Geno nodded.  “You know it’s not your fault she moved out.”

“Who said I thought that?”

“Glenn.  There’s nothing you coulda done,” Geno said.  “Shit, Caitlyn always does her own thing.”

“I’m not angry at her.”

“Then why aren’t you with here?”  Geno said, stabbing what fell out of his taco with a fork.

“What do you mean, ‘with her’?” Sid said.
Geno opened his mouth and then winced, rubbing his side.  Scarlett took a long drink, staring out over the city.

“I mean,” Geno said, scooting a few inches away from Scarlett, “why aren’t you hanging out with her anymore?”

Sid took the last bite of one taco.   “You said it—Cait does her own thing.  If she wants to, she will.”

Scarlett muttered something under her breath.

“Well,” Geno said, “are you coming over for Mario Kart this weekend?”

Sid shrugged.  “I hear there’ll be a crowd?”

“Glenn turned one of the empty flats into the tournament room,” Geno said.

“And Cait?”

“She lives in the building,” Scarlett said, piling her trash on Geno’s plate.  “Where else would she be?”

After they ate, Sid killed as much time as possible.  There were some weird art installations a few floors up that Scarlett rolled her eyes at, and Geno pretended not to enjoy.  They ended the tour just above the lobby—the building’s bar was staffed from 11 AM to 10 PM, and every week something was added.  A pool table, recently.

Before he saw Geno and Scarlett out, Sid promised to show up for the weekend tournament.

When he got back to the office, David was playing a lazy game of Tetris.

“Did you show them the communal ball pit on 13?” David asked, not looking up.  “That’s a hit with visitors, but I swear someone peed in there last week.  Fucking kids.”

A couple of empty soda cans were next to David, but otherwise nothing had changed.

“You using Dr. Peppers as a mixer, or chaser?” Sid asked, locking the door.

David coughed, and didn’t rotate his line piece in time for the slot.   “Wha, what?”

Sid rolled his eyes.  “Dude, your burps smell like Altoids and whiskey.”

“Huh?”

“I know you’re a drunk, David.”  Sid reached behind the fire extinguisher in one corner and pulled out a bottle of Stinger Whiskey, a local liquor.

David nodded slowly a few times.  “Great,” he said, fishing out a second cup from the bottom drawer.  He held out his hand for the bottle and poured a small drink, pushing it toward Sid.  “Now I don’t have to hide it.  How’d you figure it out?”

“You were in the bathroom and texted me for emergency toilet paper,” Sid said, downing his cup and pushing it back.  “I forgot where we put it and checked everywhere.”

David smiled, and something flashed on his computer.  He scanned his newest e-mail.  “Shit.  Shit.  They want us upstairs.  Like, a physical meeting.  No conference call.  Thirty minutes.”

Sid eyed the half-full bottle.  “You got more Altoids?”

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NEXT ENTRY

What is Distilled Spirits?

Episode 1:  “Icing Over a Secret Pain”

Note: This is the extended chapter for this episode, at 1,850 words.

Caitlyn

          Cait couldn’t remember the last time she had a girl’s night out.  No boyfriends, no lovers, no friends, no brothers—it must’ve been back in college.  And probably at the same place they were hanging at now.

The Crane Wife had changed its name a hundred times.  When Cait was still studying and living a few blocks away, the close-to-campus bar was called Art Fuel and brought in a different crowd, but it was the same place soaked foundation-deep with decades of memories and spilled drinks.  Dimly lit with darker patches, The Crane Wife began as a coat-and-tie bar for professors and businessmen and pretenders with enough money.

Traces of the upper-crust remained, the kind of stuff that Fitzgerald wrote and revisited—worn but washed hardwood floors, dormant chandeliers, a thick, dark brown serving bar lined with a brass rail, and a grand piano in one corner held together with band stickers and gum that a small girl sat behind, playing softly.  The place had weight to it.  And history in its hanging, unsold paintings by students long since graduated and moved away.

A few were Cait’s.

Students took over the bar maybe twenty years ago and turned it into a dive, and only recently had it taken on a specific appeal—those who wanted to get drunk and listen to unobtrusive poetry and music, and girls who wanted to meet girls.

“She’s not bad, huh?” Molly said, gesturing with her beer.  “At playing, I mean.”

They had taken a table close to the piano and the bar was quiet enough that they didn’t have to shout.

Scarlett was barely visible over the top of the piano, trim hair bobbing and body swaying with the boy beside her—a black student with a harmonica.  Together they embellished jazzy tunes that didn’t need names.  They had been playing for thirty minutes with breaks to drink and talk with the small crowd of twenty or so.  Almost all were students except for some veterans that could find their way to the bathroom with the lights off.   These older few stuck out while fitting in—hunched on their barstools, looking at the rows and rows of bottles that no one ever bought.

“I see why the music program grabbed her,” Molly said, elbowing Cait.  “Where’d she find time to learn?  Doesn’t she work?”

“A couple of part-time jobs,” Cait said.

“I told you this would be fun,” Molly went on.  “If I could just avoid any ex-girlfriends a bit longer.”

If Scarlett was anything like Geno, she found her niches and excelled at them.  While Geno exploited them until he had enough money to pay the rent, Scarlett was different—she enjoyed her work.  Cait was a good judge of tiny smiles, and the one on Scar’s face was a sincere, pressed line that curved more when she was happy with her previous notes.  As she neared a quiet crescendo, she gave the spotlight to the harmonica player who really worked it, letting his foot keep the rhythm on the floor.

The two of them let their notes drift and the audience knew to applaud.

“She’s way too good for Geno,” Cait said.

Molly laughed and watched Scarlett bend over to pick up her coat—she was wearing a short kilt over black leggings.  “Mmhmm.  Cute, too.”

“Don’t start anything,” Cait joked.

Scarlett plopped down in the booth next to Molly, straightening herself beside the taller girl.  Scar’s neck and face shone with sweat and she flicked her long-sleeved shirt to cool her body.

“Those lights,” Scarlett said, sipping her water.  “It’s a sauna.”  She took a long drink of her dark beer, probably as warm as her now.

“That was awesome,” Cait said.  “I almost forgot about this place.  Good thing you didn’t bring Geno—he’d probably get in a fight with any girl who checked you out.”

Cait felt someone kick her under the table but Molly was looking toward the entrance of the bar.

“Oh, Geno wouldn’t come out for these—I don’t ask,” Scarlett said, not sounding upset.  “I think he’s jealous, really.”

“He plays like four instruments,” Cait said.

Scarlett shrugged.  “He’s weird about some things—but I’m happy you guys came out.  This is much better than practicing at school.  It’s all so sterile there.”

The boy with the harmonica came by wearing a collared shirt, no tie, and he had a smile for each of them.  He put a thick wad of bills on the table in front of Scarlett.  “Same time next week?  I got a guy—he can sing all right.  Like a black Bob Dylan.”

“Pass,” Scarlett said. “We got a good thing here.”

The boy just nodded and walked to the bar, signaling with his hand for a drink.

Scarlett smiled at Cait.  “Say, he’s a bit cute.  When’s the last time you—”

“Enough talk about dudes,” Molly said, playing with her empty glass.

Cait stood up.  “Anyone?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Molly said, and Scarlett waved her on, counting the money.

The large woman behind the bar started pouring before Cait could even cross the room.  Sam had been working at The Crane Wife for a decade as other servers came and went.  Nearing her 40s, she was a patient pour and could guess what someone wanted, but that wasn’t what she was best at—Sam often played matchmaker whether a customer wanted to hear it, or not.  If she thought someone was single, she’d scan the bar and find someone that fit them.

Cait made to pay for her local IPA and asked for another of the same, but Sam waved the money away.

“It’s on the house,” she said.

“Huh?”

“I almost forgot,” Sam said, hitting a few keys and popping open the register.  She laid a $50 bill on top of Cait’s beer.  “This is for you.  We sold one of your paintings a few weeks back.  You should come around more often.”

“Which one?”  Cait glanced at the walls of the bar while pocketing the money.

Sam started wiping down a mug, thinking.  “It was a pair of tits—I remember,” she said.  “Like you pressed painted red breasts to a canvas.  Some guy bought it.”  She sounded disappointed.  “It was a nice, modest pair, too.”

Cait felt herself blushing and grabbed the two drinks, but she could use all the money she could get right now.  She put the drinks down and quickly scribbled her phone number on a napkin.

“In case you sell any more—you can reach me there, Sam.”  Cait pushed the napkin across the bar.  “Only if you sell something.”

Sam laughed and put the napkin away, moving down the bar to serve someone else.

*          *        *

An hour later the three girls were outside the bar, saying goodbye and waiting for a taxi to come get Scarlett.

“Molls, haven’t see you here in a while.”  A deep, girl’s voice called from behind them.  The 44L pulled away from the curb after letting its passengers off.  “You get someone new?”

“Shit,” Molly muttered under her breath, turning to the voice.

The girl was small and plump and had a permanent frown to go with her pierced nose and lip.  Metal chains connected different parts of her outfit but Cait didn’t see any point to it.

“Yeah,” Molly said, “I found someone.”

The girl jerked a thumb at Scarlett and gave a low whistle.  “Not bad.”

Scarlett tried to hide a laugh, coughing..

Molly grabbed Cait’s hand and squeezed it tight.  “No,” she said with a big smile, “I’ve been seeing her.”

The girl looked Cait up and down in a way that removed her clothes and skin and bones.  Her eyes paused on every place that Cait didn’t want them to.

“Heroin chic, huh?” the girl sneered.  “You’ve done better.  At least I eat food.  What, are you fresh out of rehab?”

“Still a bitch, huh?” Molly said.  “There’s a reason no one can stand you for more than two weeks.”

The girl stopped examining Cait.   “Let me know when you get tired of her,” she said to Molly, walking inside the bar.

Cait dropped Molly’s hand.

“Thanks for playing along,” Molly said, putting a hand on Cait’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry.  Ignore—”

“No,” Cait said, shaking Molly off.  She wiped her face and wished it was raining.  “It’s fine.  It’s late.  I—I gotta get going.  I’m gonna walk to the 19.”

The bus stop was six long blocks away but the ride over the bridge to the Inner Harbor went by in a flash.  The lobby of Glenn’s building was looking nicer—the receptionist’s desk had arrived in a giant box from IKEA.

Glenn had gotten economical with his units.  Calling Cait’s place a studio was generous—more like five closets taped together.  She didn’t blame Glenn—it was a place for herself.  She hadn’t lived alone since sophomore year.  Still, it was obvious.  Glenn didn’t really want her here.  Sure, Cait knew, Glenn would never say anything and never kick her out, but he wanted her to move back in with Sid.  Sometimes Cait wondered if she was the only one who didn’t want that.

Cait thought about putting on music but instead opened a window and let the car and truck noises wash over her with the breeze.  It was chilly but she liked the view of the street—better than the brick wall at her old place.  She opened the drawer on her bed side table and saw the seven little plastic boxes linked together.  Drew had given it to her when she left the hospital—the last time they had seen each other and probably the last time, for good.  Cait didn’t think either of them were sad about it.

In each little box was a tab of morphine, broken in half.

The previous days up to Friday were empty.

It had been enough to keep Cait regular.  To feel in control.

One half to fall asleep—one half to tolerate daylight.  Never more than that.

She picked up a half and saw the piece of paper under the tiny boxes.  Cait took out the note that she had written to herself on the night she spent with Sid.  She had memorized a lot of it.  She could tear it up right now and it wouldn’t make a difference.

Cait always felt something when she held the note—that yesterday was fine, tomorrow would be good, and that she just had to get through today.

She kicked off her jeans and checked her phone: two voice messages blinked and she knew who they were from.  After putting the note back, she put her phone on ‘silent’ and swallowed the half tab, flicking the lights off.

Cait closed the drawer firmly.

Distance was always good.

Cait wrapped the comforter around her body.

The beer helped—everything grew quieter and quieter, the outside sounds just white noise, and soon her thoughts were the same.

Distance was safe.

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