CHAPTER 2
She lifted a lock of hair to her nose and dropped it with disapproval. She smelled of coffee still. It was in her clothes, her skin and even her breath every day that she returned from work. If she had crawled into a barrel of grounds and slept for days she would smell no different. It was dreadful. She placed her cup of tea on the counter. The smell was obnoxious. She went to have a bath
He watched the moon. 1:00 a.m. He had heard her door click shut more than 30 minuets ago. Standing in front of it now, he turned to face the handle he was holding. Silence. He was sure she had left. It was a Friday night, a Saturday morning. Perhaps she had friends to see. But this was not possible. She had no friends. He knew this and after weeks of studying her patterns and lurking on his balcony he was sure. Her work hours were easy enough to learn and he'd done well to memorize them over the weeks. She was never off before four and always had at least a three day weekend. Now was a reasonable hour to accomplish what he had been waiting to do. People were sleeping and the skies were dark. He opened the door by means of a metal wire which he snaked through the keyhole then stepped silently into the room. It was dark and still, the scent of tea hanging in the air.
Everything in the room seemed to have an odd sort of organization to it. There was a chair in the first room which distantly accompanied a table and bookshelf. On the table was a basket, brimming with clothes. He rummaged through them. They were sweet with the smell of coffee and sweat. Perhaps she was doing laundry, he considered and she would be back shortly. The bookshelf caught his eye and he swept over it with a glance. Empty. Everything seemed empty. No possessions, no decorations. It was all in the clothes. He released a handful of the oddly scented cloth back into the basket. She was a creative soul. He went into her bedroom and turned on the light. He began to develop an idea of her personality. The walls were hung with long draping cloth of different colors and patterns all throughout the rooms, even covering doorways. All were dark in color making this particular room feel small. Still, there were no possessions. He sat on the end of her bed and stared into the short hall that led to the living room. "What is it like to be you…" his mind narrowed. The cloth walls began to close in and spin around him. Sleeping was lonely. She slept alone always. She dreamed alone; nightmarish dreams he concluded from the boxes of herbal tea and sleeping pills which took the place of any lamp or alarm clock. Poorly mixing herbs and medication did well to make on fall into a deep sleep. Once there, you were trapped by the imaginary hell caused by the chemicals.
He could feel the imprint of her routines. Every night she would sit on the kitchen counter tapping her gingers, swinging her feet while across from her a cup of hot tea sat steeping with a saucer covering it. She favored orange; it was the only other scent in the entirety of the apartment, though it was quite faint in all rooms but hers where stood most prominent over the coffee. She didn't drink coffee at home. He ran his fingers along the patterned quilted into her wine colored be spread. He recalled the texture of her clothes. Silky.
His mind was lost with this new information when he heard it; the sharp intake of breath usually accompanied by a diving scream. He looked up to see her standing at the end of the hallway, hand to her throat, eyes wide as saucers. "You gave me quite a fright sir. How did you get in? Is everything alright?" he had expected more of a shock from her such as the scream that never came. She simply disappeared then, into the bathroom with no reply. "I'm almost surprised to see you." Her voice was muffled through the door and the layer of cloth that covered it.
"I dreamed of you." This sparked no emotion in his voice. It was as absent and cold as it had ever been.
"Well that's quite flattering love," she said, tone converse to reply.
"No. It isn't."
She could not feel reprimanded by his tone. "Oh really, and why is that?" She stepped out of the bathroom.
He looked at her, now partially dressed. She had put on her pants from earlier that day when he had watched her leaver her room. They were quite a curiosity, all dirty and torn, quite different from the dark, silky dress she chose to sleep in which she now wore under a sweater. He watched her without a hint of passion. She was all wine and silk. "Just like before then, love? Well you've already had a seat so I suppose I'll take mine." At this she sat near her pillow, his back to her, and waited for him to speak.
"You smell like orange tea. I dreamed I killed you." He felt no relief in telling her. "I thought you'd be dead when I woke." She said nothing. He looked up into the mirror on her wall to see her face. For a moment she held his inquiring stare then twitched a smile and broke the contact he had been so grateful to have. Her nervousness crushed him but he found it impossible to show on his face.
"Is there anymore, love?" She uncrossed her arms and sat up straight.
"No. No, not at all." At that he gave up, taking his eyes away from her reflection and began studying the fluttering ceiling. Its sections of fantastic clothe billowed and hung like the sails of some foreign ship. Scattered gold patterns and brushed velvet textures convinced his eyes that he was in a distant exotic place, the room of a courtesan or card seer.
"No need to worry, eh?" Her voice was normal; no distress was present. Perhaps his words had loosened their grip. "I'll be gone soon, to some place where you won't likely find me." She smiled. "I don't know quite where it is, myself."
"Is it because of what I've told you." His voice was unbiased as to how she answered.
She considered confirming this. What did it matter to this robotic man; this person who no emotions past anger and absence? Why she chose to leave was her affair and she found his question to be more of an accusation of distrust. "Well no love, I've made this decision far before just now. No, I simply cannot manage it. I live alone, work as one. I have only one job because of new regulations and my hours are hardly efficient- I simply cannot dream of being able to stay her any longer."
"You can't leave," he spat the words, his most prevalent emotion betraying him. Although veiled, it shone easily through his forced personality.
The corner of her lip twitched but not into a smile. It seemed to her that he was ignoring the situation which he was more than well aware of. "It's not that simple," she said, moving a strand of hair from in front of her eye. "I don't want to leave, you know."
"Then don't." He stood: an act of defiance to her words. In righting himself he had thrown a blanked of dominance over the small conversation. The veil had lifted fully from his anger but dropped again suddenly like a curtain on a broken rope. He took a new seat beside her and did not speak again for a long time.
She touched the corner of his eye. Thoughts of the future were streaming down his face which held no allusion to what he was feeling. His muscles were still relaxed and not a single knit appeared in his brow. "I'll pay your expenses or you can live with me. You will have your own room. We will live the same and converse the same as we do now. It will be no different." His tone was wistful and his eyes dull. "I'll take care of you. Even if you choose to stay for your own benefit, please feel no regret in doing so." He sounded as if he were making a business arrangement. Everything about him held an air of profession, although she was clueless to his what he did for work. She assumed it to be profitable. This aroused her curiosity. A man that killed people, a man that was hardened to any thought of displaying a positive emotion could not possible work with people; could never have a normal job. Inwardly she sighed.
"Excuse me love." He stood so that she could as well. In the living room she found a comfortable pair of sleeping shorts and a robe, then, after placing her dirty clothes on the table beside her clean laundry, she returned to her room. He was still standing when she saw him, looking up at the patterned ceiling with a vague expression. "Let's go to sleep, hm?" Her nervousness had dissipated and she smiled at him with all of the serenity she had compiled on her return to the room where she intended to spend the night with a man that dreamed of killing her. She pulled back the blankets on both sides of the bed and took her place.
"Promise me you will consider it." He said while loosening his collar and crossing the room to his side of the bed.
She glanced at him and he understood to turn off the light. "It is considered, love."
