Prompt: Crystal
oOo
Later that night, when Edward had returned to his own home in Maida Vale, he lay down on the sofa, the muted TV flickering against the high walls.
He and Rosalie had talked for almost two hours before he'd left. She had made him a bowl of soup and a sandwich, insisting he get some food into his stomach. Rosalie wasn't a motherly type, but she had a caring side to her, clearly inherited from their own mother. She, too, always asked Edward to take better care of himself, to eat properly, to drink more water (and less liquor), to maybe start practicing yoga again…
He'd always argued that he was walking Milo at least for two hours a day, even though Milo had gotten slower and more tired over the past year. His death had not been a surprise for Edward, but it hurt all the same.
That dog had been his companion for so long. He'd been there for him when human company could do nothing to mend his broken heart. Of course, it had gotten easier over the last few years, and therapy had helped. So had time, and six years WAS a long time. He had slowly returned to life with the support of his family and friends. Not that he had very many friends, being the loner he was.
But then, part of that was dictated by his occupation. Painting was something you did on your own. He never had minded the fact. He wasn't very good at being the centre of attention. Michael, his agent, always had to psyche him up before a vernissage. Well, Edward would mostly medicate himself with one or two glasses of Scotch.
Which led him back to last night.
He knew that he sometimes drank a bit too much, but there hadn't been any of the excessive boozing in at least three years.
Directly after, it had been bad, and there was a blank of about six months. The crystal carafe of Scotch on the sideboard had been his best friend back then.
There was a blank now, too.
Last night.
He had no idea what had happened. He remembered taking a taxi to Ro's after she'd talked him into it, saying he shouldn't be alone, with that dead dog in the trunk of his car. He'd had two beers before he left, and however-many tumblers of Scotch when he'd arrived at Ro's. All on an empty stomach.
He dimly remembered yelling at this girl, this waitress, and that Ro had scolded him.
There was a recollection of dark eyes, of warmth, but that had been in his alcohol-induced dreams. Still, THAT memory was strong, and oddly comforting, even though he had no idea where it came from.
He fell into his too large, too cold bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, falling asleep to the images of black-and-white roses and luminous, dark eyes.