It's one of those days again. The kind where she gets out of bed and only manages to pull on her robe, wandering around her apartment with a cooling cup of tea. That kind of day has been happening too much.
At least today she has the excuse of rain to stay inside.
She shrugs her shoulders, the silk of her robe sliding against her skin; she wants to shake the bored restlessness that has been haunting her the past year. She's stolen less and less the past six months. She can't stand when a mark touches her now, a hand too high on her thigh like he owns her or lips pressing against hers and there isn't even the desire to take to fuel some kind of passion. She doesn't understand why the lies falter on their way out of her mouth, and she doesn't know what to do to make things change.
She misses Nate, honestly, and her heart clenches at the thought. It's been three months since his son died. She sent him a light yellow orchid and a letter, and she hasn't heard a word. She's left a few messages on his cell phone, but she keeps trying to shove her feelings for him into a tiny box and lock it away.
She can't keep from wanting her friend back, to feel him chasing at her back, almost just about to catch her; it's a secure thrill that she craves, and these past months have wreaked havoc on her self-control until now she's only a moment away from hopping on the next plane and hunting Nate down. Which would be a horrible idea since she certainly can't put him back together; she needs to be a whole person for that to work, and she only has pieces of different people, faces and memories that aren't really her own.
She smiles a little bitterly and sits on her windowsill. The rain has stopped, but there are still clouds hanging over the horizon that promise more for later. She traces the path of one drop as it works in a winding path down the window, the cold glass leeching the warmth from her fingers.
It's the loneliness that spirals out of her in an aching pulse that makes her realize it's time for a change. She's tired of Europe and the museums and the history and the itch in her fingertips to steal that never really goes away, no matter how much she takes. She wants to be someone different, try a different life and see if she can't hack it. Maybe she'll even try to be someone who lives a honest life. It's probably not a solution since this will lack just as much truth as every one of her various identities. But it can't be any worse.
She'll make it. She's a survivor, as fluid as the water dripping down the glass. She just wants more.
Her life is a carefully constructed lie, perfect for a thief, and she is so tired.