Disclaimer: I own nothing.
THAT TIME OF NIGHT
The name stood out in the store and without thinking, Sasha dumped a couple of cookie packages into her basket. It was late and she was close to the hotel but she needed to eat and this store was the only place still open. So she was stocking up – breakfast only went so far anyway and catering never had everything she wanted.
Thing was, Sasha didn't eat a lot of baked goods anymore and Kimberley biscuits; they weren't her thing at all. Becky had talked all the time about missing Irish food, the way tea tasted so different in America, how chocolate wasn't right at all. She'd also found plenty she'd liked in the States though, usually sweets. Wherever Becky was, she always missed something. Sasha did not miss that.
(She used to roll her eyes and say I bet you can't go a day without...it'd gotten slammed back like oh I fucking bet I can!)
Becky had tried to get Sasha to try Kimberley's; marshmallow filling sandwiched between ginger cookies. Becky had loved them.
"Used to eat so many of these."
Her mouth had been gummed up with marshmallow and a dribble of it had been smeared at the edge of her mouth. She'd been a terrible eater. For some bizarre reason she'd loved liquorice, it'd always been stashed in her purse, and whenever she'd eaten it, bits had gotten stuck in her teeth. Sasha's nail polish matched her hair and she viewed the world through tinted jewelled lenses. She didn't wear goggles, she didn't headbang, she didn't like liquorice. She hadn't understood even half of what Becky had talked about.
(She missed the way Becky's accent changed every single word).
When Sasha eventually got ready to pay, the cookies were still in her basket. But this was not a meet-cute. There'd been Divas; there was NXT, now there was the Boss. That was what mattered, with gold on the line and limited headline space.
Sasha loaded up crummy paper bags to take to the Beamer waiting in the parking lot. Sasha's stomach rumbled and she needed to hit the gym in the morning. There was a song playing fadedly over the store's speakers, it reminded her of long car journeys and matching t-shirts. Becky could never sing in tune. Travelling alone definitely had its advantages.
(Sasha missed their cracked harmonies, Becky's hair streaming out an open window, one hand beating out a melody on the roof of the car. Sasha remembered catching her breath.)
The parking lot was virtually empty, except for fumes from just-left cars and the laughs of a tiny group clustered opposite with the dull taps of their cans. Sasha locked herself behind the wheel, checking her phone. She needed to get her lowrider out of storage. She'd never understood the appeal of limousines. Sasha liked quality, not a vehicle that couldn't turn or make the right kind of statement. Charlotte had it all wrong.
(Becky had never been in awe of Charlotte's family. Her nose had wrinkled and she'd talked about Japan and the UK, the kinds of grapplers, as she'd called them, that she'd fervently wanted to be. She'd talked excitedly about seeing Eddie Guerrero wrestle, her fingers drawing out scenerios on Sasha's palm).
Sasha thumbed through her messages, her free hand flicking away (grasping) the scent of ginger cookies. There were official messages waiting; travel details, the custom place she got her jewellery. Everything was addressed to Ms Banks.
(Becky had called her 'Bubblegum' and had tasted salty-sweet, like liquorice).
-the end