Disclaimer: If you recognise anything or anybody, the chances are that CBS owns it, and I don't. If you don't recognise it, it's likely that I do own it. Any mistakes are mine (duh… who else's would they be?), and I apologise for them. Please make me aware of them so I correct them. Thanks!
Apollo City Chapter 1
The first time she saw him, she was on the subway, and he was on the platform, waiting for the train at Georgetown. He had been listening to music, and she saw the beat pulse through his mind, even in the split second that she'd seen him. The headphones were silver, and rested on his short fuzzy brown hair. His skin was a chocolate brown, and he had a neatly cropped goatee to match his impressive eyebrows. A glint in his right ear told her that he had a diamond piecing. And he stood there, eyes closed, probably humming, although she couldn't hear over the grumble of the trains. His thumbs were hooked into the pockets of his black jeans, and the angle of his arms showed off his muscles. He had been wearing a v-neck navy shirt, and his chunky black belt contained two cell phones and an empty holster. The watch on his left hand was a heavy and black, and there was a small sore patch just below his elbow on the opposite arm, presumably where his gun rubbed when he was wearing it. He was swaying slightly, his eyes still closed, oblivious to her staring. Then, the train had pulled out of the station. The next stop was hers, she thought, her mind still on the man she'd seen at Georgetown.
"Apollo City," announced the recorded voice, and she grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder as she exited the train. The metal doors swung shut behind her and the train moved on. She hurried up the many stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator, and jogged out of the station, slightly out of breath. The bag bounced up and down on her one shoulder, rubbing a little on the bare skin. She had been wearing a white spaghetti strap tee and coffee coloured skinny jeans with her black converses. She wondered if he would like it.
A light spattering of summer rain had started to fall, and she jogged a little faster, past the corner store and the little preschool, and inside the store she visited the most: the liquor store.
"Hey Jim," she said, shaking her side fringe out of her eyes.
"T'sup Jenny," the shopkeeper replied, raising a hand in a casual greeting. He was single, 34, tubby, and smelt of downmarket cigarettes and beer. Today, he wore what he wore the previous day: a grubby checked shirt and old faded jeans that trailed bits of white string where he had stepped on them at the back and worn down the denim. "How are ya?"
"I'm good, you?"
"M'okay. What can I do for such a beautiful lady like you today?"
"Just the usual Jimmy," she replied, as ever, embarrassed by his banter.
As she looked down, she felt the touch of red that she would not let appear on her cheeks. She flicked her long blond hair out of her eyes and stared at the meaningless adverts behind the counter. He handed her a carrier bag, with a packet of Marlboro's, a small bottle of cheap red wine, and a fifty gram bar of extra dark chocolate.
"I really need to quit," she said quietly.
Jim said nothing, both of them knowing that if she quit her daily fix of red wine, Marlboro's and dark chocolate, she would never set foot in the tiny liquor store again.
"You're quiet," Jim commented, wiping his sweaty hands on his backside. "Whatchya thinking Jenny?"
She didn't reply, only smiling serenely as she left the shop. "I'll see ya Jimmy," she called, as she let the glass door close and heard the tinkle of the bell to indicate that she'd left. She walked fast, her converses dampening with every step. Five minutes later, and she was fumbling in her bag, trying to find her keys. She felt a pen and a notebook, both labelled "Troy Stewart Architecture", her cell, and finally, her keys. They jangled as she shoved them in to door and stepped into her tiny house. She inhaled. It smelt of stale smoke and old alcohol. She flicked the switch and the dim overhead light came on, illuminating the trash can, overflowing with take-away wrappings, and the sagging bed in the next room. It was only three rooms; her bedroom, the bathroom; with its community of tiny spiders, and the kitchen; with the microwave, table for two and old kettle. That table for two. One chair had a stack of un-read hardback Dickens books where one cheap wooden leg should have been, and was swamped by stacks of clothes. The other one had peeling paint and little black dips where she had been two drunk or too tired to find her ashtray, so she'd stubbed out her cigarette on the arm of the uncomfortable wooden chair and burnt small circles in it.
She sat on the second chair, and cracked open the plastic cover on the red wine. Then, it was the seal on the eighty five percent dark chocolate. Lastly, it was the little gold tag she had to peel off to open the cardboard box of cigarettes. She stayed there for two hours, smoking all twenty cigarettes, and drinking the whole bottle of sour wine which tinged her lips and tongue red. The chocolate disappeared square by square, leaving small shavings on the table, which, when she tried to pick them up to eat, melted onto her slender fingers. She sucked at them to get every last morsel of chocolate. Then, not feeling hungry, she stripped down to her underwear and climbed into her bed, ignoring the creaking of the springs. She flicked the switch by her head, and was plunged into darkness.
After being woken harshly by her alarm, and she groaned and crawled out of bed. She stumbled into the kitchen, running a hand through her unwashed hair, and started the kettle with yesterday morning's water. She found a clean teaspoon, and ladled the instant coffee powder into her mug. Then, she poured the water over it, stirred, and sipped. She walked sleepily back to her bedroom and sat down heavily on the unmade bed. She drunk a little more coffee, and then stepped inside the shower, trying to wash away the cobwebs, both in the corner of the shower and in her mind. The water was cold. It always was. She finished quickly, and hurried back to the bedroom, naked and shivering, to find some clothes. Finishing the cooling coffee, she brightened her eyes and coloured her face with her some ancient No7 makeup, and pulled on her now-dry black sneakers. The laces had once been white; so had the toe. Now they were grey, edging on that delightful hue of sludge. She grabbed her keys and cell, and swung her "Troy Stewart Architecture" bag onto one shoulder. The last thing she did before leaving the house was to brush her hair messily with her fingers and turn off the lights before leaving her house.
She hurried to Apollo City station, and managed to get a seat on the train. She sat staring at the pointless ads and her boring fellow commuters for seven stops until she got off and her station: Campbell Place. The walk to the office took the fifteen minutes, but she stopped off at a café on the way for another watery coffee, before entering the building. She said hi to her boss, Mr Troy Stewart himself, and got settled at her desk. It was then that she realised that she had made it all the way to work without thinking about him. That man at Georgetown.