How Lace Violets Happen

 He didn't like visitors. That Chris, living down the Oregon coast in his small studio. He's such a shut-in still stuck in the past─ an odd duck even as a kid. We were coming home for New Year's and Chris wouldn't even pick up the phone. He probably never planned to see a soul. So we decided to change that.

Benny and I appeared at his doorstep Thursday afternoon with vodka and Chinese take-out─ his favorite. He slammed the door in our faces. Couldn't even get a word in. Benny jimmied the door open, the salt wind blowing into his stale apartment. Chris didn't try to push us out, but he didn't look at us, either. He grumbled about unplanned adventures and us bleeding him dry in the past. He threw clothes and take-out packages off his couch onto the floor.

Chris took his food, a bottle of vodka, and folded his body into a small square on one side of the couch. He tucked in with the chopsticks. I didn't know how he piled so much food onto those chopsticks and into that tiny body of his.

Benny sat on the counter, and I sat on the floor, each of us picking at our food. The utensils clicked. Benny smacked his lips as he chowed on his food. Muted ocean breezes whistled through the open window.

"Nice place," I volunteered, craning my neck about. Benny noised agreement through his Chow Mein. Chris didn't look up. He just chugged his bottle of vodka. He paused to call us jackasses, then returned to chugging. He got wasted quick. Hiccuping and giggling, he ranted. Something about us leaving to the other side of the world. Which was an exaggeration, it was just three states over for college.

But some of his comments hurt. So I chugged my own bottle of vodka. Benny copied us. I remember dancing about the apartment, destroying what we will. But after that, it's a bit fuzzy.

Next thing I knew, Chris was tripping over Benny and I curled on the cold wood floor. Eyes half-open in drowsiness, I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror hanging on the wall. I waved him away and rolled over. But seconds later, Chris screeched like an air raid siren. Benny and I stumbled up, clinging to each other in confusion.

Chris pointed at the exposed skin on his left shoulder tarnished by intricate black violets. The skin around the fresh ink blossomed in red irritation. He screeched words again, pointing. I shrugged. Must of happened when we were piss drunk. Don't know how or where we could have done that in this dump of a town, though.

He glared at his shoulder in the mirror, then froze. He scrambled towards his desk. Ripping through the drawers and boxes, he searched. He stopped on the bottom drawer. He shoved his hands in, feeling around the inside. Then he yanked the drawer out and flipped it over in the air. Pieces of paper and fluff spilled on the floor. He still held it up, waiting and hoping something would fall out. Then he clunked it on the desk and whispered, "My rent money. We used it."

The glint that appeared in his eyes startled me. An apology came up my throat as Benny shoved me towards the door. Chris flew at us like a Greek fury on a mission for vengeance. We escaped the apartment only to be locked outside in our underwear, shivering in the winter air. He screamed through the door to never come back.

We did, though. On Sunday. With a gift.

But he was gone.