Headlights

07 Call

See my face; hear your voice in the dark.

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She was tired of the routine that had taken over her life for the last few days. Everything was flavorless, from the orange juice she drank in the morning to the flat water from the water fountain outside her office at work to the tequila that she downed in shot glasses at 11 p.m. God, she couldn't feel any more numb—even the hangovers she always had in the morning weren't painful anymore. At least it made her feel something, anything.

God, she missed him so, so much.

She hated crying herself to sleep at night. It made her pillows wet, and she hated sleeping on wet pillows. So she stayed up as late as she could, hoping that the alcohol could make her stop. She never stopped. She never stopped remembering his eyes that night, the way he shook in her arms, the long way home...

Tonight, she couldn't drink the alcohol. She had already set out the shot glasses. They were ready for her, laughing at her, as if they were saying, "Come and get us if you dare! You will drink yourself into oblivion eventually." She had a bottle of chilled vodka in her trembling hand. She had already poured some into three of the glasses. Now all she had to do was to drink them and to keep on going until it was New Year's. Maybe then she could start over. But she just couldn't put the damn bottle down.

Of course I can, she thought. She wouldn't drink.

She put the bottle away and sat at her kitchen counter, staring at the vodka blankly. Then the phone rang. She started, nearly pushing all the cups off the edge of the counter, and reached for her phone. "Hello?"

"You left your purse at my place," his voice said.

She had to take a breath before she could do anything. She couldn't start imagining his face again—she had ended up in tears in the middle of the day the last time she thought she saw his eyes as she stalked the streets of New York City. She could pull through this. She would.

"I'm sorry." So that was why her favorite tube of lipstick had been strangely missing. "I can... come pick it up during one of my lunch breaks."

It sounded like he was in the car from the background static. "No, it's okay. I can drop it off." Why did his voice sound so flat?

She resisted the lump in her throat. "No, it's okay. I can survive without it. Don't waste your time."

"I won't."

She wasn't sure how to respond, so she kept silent for a second. Then, she said, "I'll come over. Please. Let me get it myself."

He took a breath and let out slowly. "If you insist."

The static on the phone was deafening. She reached for one of her shot glasses now. Still, she couldn't down it, not like this. Not with him listening to every sound she made. She set it back down. "Are you back?"

"I'm driving home right now," he said.

"Your work isn't going to be disrupted?" She cursed herself the moment she said it. Why would he care if he missed any work? It was his mother, after all. What in the world was she thinking?

That was the problem. She hadn't been thinking at all these past few days.

As if he heard her thoughts, he responded, "It'll be okay." And he stopped, like he hoped the silence would speak for him.

"And... Paula?"

He sighed. It absolutely broke her heart. She clutched at her phone as she leaned her elbows on the surface of the countertop. Finally, he said, "She's sleeping. Still."