You look forward to mornings like this. When Negan loads his men into the grey trucks and they don't come home before supper, perhaps even the day after that. Most times he returns in such high spirits, far too tired to do anything more than talk and boy does Negan love to talk. He would have made a great politician if he wasn't so short tempered and foul mouthed.
Still, he's gone now. The rumble of trucks has faded away and the entire Sanctuary seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
You don't know what the other girls do when Negan isn't around. None of you are close enough to share that kind of information. But you suspect a couple of wives have partners outside of their arrangement with Negan. If they do, it's better you don't know, better to be ignorant than fake ignorance.
So without a word, everyone scatters. Frankie hides in her room, the others disappear down the halls and you do the same. Except you aren't looking for company. Solitude is the friend you crave and, to get it, you're willing to face the disapproving glances of every man, woman and child in the Sanctuary.
Being a wife may afford you countless privileges but it certainly doesn't command any popularity or respect. No, you're a joke to them. Hurrying by with the click of outlandishly tall patent leather heels and a miniscule dress which barely covers your rear.
Years ago, you would have loathed the person you'd become and, part of you still does, even if you understand what it means to survive. Some people do it on their feet, others on their back. Either way doesn't matter. If it's the difference between staying alive or shambling around the world with the rest of the dead, you'd choose living every time.
Rounding the corner, you cut through the mess room which is always empty at this time of day and make your way through the windowless corridors to the fire exit which leads onto the south walk.
Out here, you can breathe without scrutiny but the view isn't much. Just rows of wooden spikes buried in the ground. They remind you of BBQ skewers except they're not impaled with the kind of meat you'd want to eat. They collect the bodies of the dead who stray too close, some still moving, some turning to dust. Beyond that, the small patch of forest is still recovering from a fire which ravaged the trees two summers ago.
Sometimes when the breeze picks up, the stink from down below can make your eyes burn but today the air is still, the sky overcast and much too cold to be standing outside without a jacket but you're not going back to the apartment. At least not yet.
Walking to the railing, you brush your fingers over the rusted flecks of paint. They had been yellow once, bright and cheerful like a rubber duck or a child's raincoat but like everything else they're losing all colour and succumbing to dull grey. Old and tarnished. You know the feeling well.
This morning you'd discovered your first grey hair and plucked it from your head, staring at it like a traitorous thing. Youth was fading and it was all you really had. All that had kept you alive. Youth and beauty. Fickle survival tools but you hadn't expected to rely on them for so long.
Too preoccupied in thought, you don't notice the man idling further down the walk until he clears his throat, letting you know he's there.
Watching.
Your heart jumps just as your head whips round to see who is daring to intrude your own personal bleak view.
Tall, broad, flecks of grey creeping into his hair and beard but a man can afford such age and wisdom. Like a fine wine, full bodied and nicely matured which is exactly what he is. He's also a stranger to your eye but even your friends are strangers in the Sanctuary.
"I haven't seen you before," you break the silence which has begun to stretch between you, wondering what kind of man Negan has dragged home from one of his grey truck adventures.
"I've seen you," he replies matter of factly and, though you can feel heat beginning to blossom on your cheeks, you ignore it. Embarrassment seems like such a trivial emotion these days.
"I guess I'm pretty hard to miss," you say, laughing softly at your own expense.
"Just how Negan likes it?"
His voice has an edge of disdain which you don't ordinarily hear from the other men. Most of them have been here too long to have any fight left and the newbies tend to fall into one of two categories. Desperately grateful and willing to lick Negan's boots or pitifully terrified and willing to lick Negan's boots. That's how Negan wants his men, underfoot and under control. Just like you.
Absent-mindedly, you pull down the hem of your dress but you can't tell this stranger that you don't own a single decent item of clothing. So you tell him your name.
"Joel," he replies with some uncertainty as if he's forgotten how to say it and you can understand. Sometimes small talk feels like an ancient practice that doesn't belong at the harsh end of the world. Other times it feels like a deliciously indulgent treat.
Like now. With the sun daring to peek through the clouds, touching you with a warmth so comforting you can almost ignore your surroundings. Almost believe the last few years were all a vivid and terrible dream. No before or after, only now. This moment. The sun and the stranger but in the blink of an eye the warmth is gone and the Sanctuary isn't just in full view, it's all encompassing.
Resting your hip against the railing, you wait a little longer to see if Joel offers any information beyond his name but he doesn't. He remains still, his eyes filled with suspicion.
"You're not from around here?" you guess, moving closer, letting your fingers brush away the flecks of paint until your hand settles beside his.
"Texas."
"A cowboy?" your tone is light, flirty though you're not really sure why, he doesn't seem like the playful kind. Maybe he had been once but his face is hard now.
"A carpenter," he replies and your eyes graze his flannel shirt and waxed cotton jacket. Old and dirty, you wouldn't be surprised if that jacket had been old and dirty the day everything started.
Letting your eyes slide down to his boots, you stifle a small laugh.
Joel is the epitome of everything you would imagine a veteran survivor should be. Rough around the edges and almost painfully stoic, not the kind of man you would have noticed in a past life but these were strange times and you were noticing him now.
He isn't scrawny, so he knows how to find food. He isn't afraid, so he knows how to protect himself. Most importantly, he isn't looking at you like a piece of meat he'd like to taste and you can't quite remember the last time a man had stared at you with so much disinterest.
"So what brings you to this little slice of paradise?" you say, still flirty, old habits die hard and you've been playing this part for a long time now.
Joel holds off his answer for a while, his dark eyes still accessing you, still uninterested. "Just passing through, looking for my brother, Tommy."
A sharp laugh escapes your lips. "I don't think anyone just passes through the Sanctuary," you say and his eyes widen, surprised by your candour and maybe you're a little surprised too.
"I can see that," he admits and, for a moment, you think maybe you can trust this man but the moment passes without a word before his attention turns to the door.
"I should get going."
You don't blame him, you wouldn't want to hang around with you either. You're a walking red flag, Negan's painted doll. To look at but not touch. To laugh at but not with. To talk about but not with.
"Maybe I'll see you here again sometime," you say, unnerved by your sudden urge to know this stranger, to crave more than solitude.
He stops in his tracks, turning to look at you once again, closer this time and his eyes are a shot of espresso and so impossibly sad. They remind you of the stray dog your father had rescued when you were a girl and your heart hurts with a pang of longing to nuzzle your face into fur and warmth.
"Don't count on it," he says and there's no warmth, only bitterness as you watch the door close behind him before turning back to stare at the world beyond the Sanctuary where death and freedom walk hand in hand.