Late Night Bites

00

     QUINCY KNOWS THAT SOMETHING IS AMISS the moment she enters her apartment and sees Evan sitting on her blue suede sofa reading a Cosmo magazine from circa 2008. She knows this because:

1: He always insists on meeting up at his place ("your neighbour freaks me out, dude") , not hers.

2: He detests her blue suede sofa with a burning passion ("what is this, the seventies?").

3: He thinks that Cosmo magazines, especially those printed near 2008 ("the year of the devil; did you see the recession?"), are the most tasteless things ever.

     So the fact that Evan Li is reading a circa 2008 Cosmo magazine on her couch in her place denotes that something fantastically horrible has occurred. The last time he was in such a position was when he'd accidentally let out her cat and watched him get run over by some teenager speeding in a Buick in helpless terror.

     (Rest in peace, Mr. Whiskers.)

     "Oh my god," Quincy says emphatically, "what have you fucking done this time?"

     "Hey, Quincy," Evan responds instead, his voice over-saccharine as he flips a page. Quincy moves to hover over his shoulder anxiously as she takes in the room. No fires, no dead cats, no sign of a comet hurtling towards the Earth at supersonic speeds. "I'm great, what about you?"

     Quincy's eyes narrow instinctively as she takes a heavy whiff. Evan smells... Normal, which is a little reassuring.  When she came home after the whole Mr. Whiskers fiasco Evan had reeked of fear and desperation so pungently she could smell it from half a block away. But today he just smells like soap and aftershave, clean over the warm scent of his type AB blood. Like he does on every other day.

     "I'm fine," she says, apprehensive.

     Evan nods. "That's good."

     No, it's not good.

     Evan's calm manner frazzles her. He can't be doing the three things he explicity hates and be this calm. It goes against every rule Quincy has ever known about Evan Li, yet there he is, sniffing an expired perfume sample like he hasn't bitched and moaned ever since she moved into her apartment six months ago that the complex sucks and that her landlord is definitely taking advantage of her, so he refuses to voluntarily visit on principle unless it's Christmas or he's in the area and really has to piss or something.

     "Evan," she whines, which, yikes. That voice and intonation does not sound good on her at all. "I gave you that key for emergencies, and the fact that you actually used it to casually visit me without telling me beforehand is making me really anxious right now. Did something happen?"

     Evan puts down the magazine and turns to face her. "Quince," he says, amused, "Everything's cool, seriously. It's just that I got off early today and thought of something I wanted to ask you, so I figured I'd come over."

     She raises her eyebrows. "That's it? Really?"

     "Really," he says, smiling. "Though if I'd known visiting would have given you such a panic attack I would've called ahead or at least planted a camera and staged a prank or something, Christ."

     Quincy scoffs, flopping down over the arm of the couch in relief. She feels like all her bones have turned to jelly now that she knows Evan hasn't, like, accidentally killed someone else's cat. "What, and you couldn't text?"

     "I would, but I was nearby and it was about the whole..." Evan trails off and looks at her meaningfully, making little pretend fangs with his fingers in his mouth. He looks like a toddler trying to role-play Dracula.