The bars were just clocking out at 3 a.m. Shiny surfaces and stills of abstract painting on the walls. The kind of place that used to be their workplace three years ago.
That's right. Workplace. Blake an agent in the International Police. Whitley a part of an underground crime op, Team Plasma. They both sold their bodies for the sake of information. They'd laughed about it before. Blake especially. About how all his lovers were convinced he was in love with all of them equally. They could sometimes go at it for hours, while laying in bed, enwrapped with each other. Windows open, wide rooms and strong sunlight.
Their job wasn't a big deal to them, until it was.
Now three years later, Whitley was acting like a stupid idiot. The bar was closing up. A glass of bourbon whiskey on the counter next to her, bubbles simmering. Her third. There was no way he'd forgive her. Probably wouldn't even see the stupid text message.
Before she could convince herself it was an illusion, three dots popped up on her screen.
Traces of regret. And her heart clawing itself inside out from hope.
But then it disappeared.
Whitley was the one who got jealous first. All those instances of Blake leaving their apartment at late nights. How do you deal with it? The thought of someone pulling the person you love into their well-lit hotel room, your person touching them the way they touch you. Pain. She was in pain.
And then the name of clients began coming out of his mouth. A certain client, who just wouldn't give in. Yancy, he was sure she had some important information about one of the directors in her agency. Deflected all his flirting. And there were others, of course. Suzy still slept with her socks in bed. And Meg didn't know how to use her washing machine. Blake had to help.
Once they had clients, there was never a certain time they thought it was going to end. They could come up with new info. They could be displeased- threaten to reveal the dark secrets of the agent. For all Whitley knew she may have to please her clients forever.
One thing they agreed on, though, no matter how much they cried about it late at night, no matter how many missed calls they had- they'd never sleep with another person. Just not- the only thing they had, this divine connection they had with each other when they were making love, no other client would ever have it with them.
But Whitley was hurt. She was tired. She wanted to save up enough money for him, so that they could have a family- without any worries on his side, at least, that she wouldn't sleep with any other person besides him.
So she took the last offer someone gave her. Finally. Had sex with someone other than him, for a huge amount of money.
She cried about it after.
Blake didn't. He didn't know. But he probably didn't even love her anyway. The first thing he texted when Whitley wanted to break up was, "Okay."
Okay.
She was hurting inside. And that was all he had to offer her. Alright then, she'd move on without him. She didn't need him.
But she did. Though.
Why did she still think about him, after all these years? Why did she go through their texts, trying to find out everything she'd done wrong in the past?
I know it's 3 a.m.
She texted.
[Seen.]
I knfw it's 3 a.m. and it been thee yeas sie we broke up.
I'm drunk.
That, at least, she could spell with proper punctuation.
Whitley missed the warmth of his fingers. Wanted to touch him again, imprint herself on his skin this time so he would never forget her.
Her reflection looked back at her from the glossy black counter. Her eyes were wet, mascara smudged.
I know. Blake texted.
She nearly dropped her phone.
Where are you?
Whitley wanted not to believe it. That'd make things easier. But Hope. The brief flicker that never died. That strange resounding light.
Whitley felt like she was seeing things again for the first time.