You left for work just after ten this morning and there's no way you weren't still high, but you didn't look it. It was actually quite impressive. Last time I did white drugs was forever ago, a past life. I don't do this anymore, or I didn't, except you do so maybe I do too. I can't think about any of this in too much detail, except it's all I'm thinking about.
You said you should go home after work, to your home, not mine, and I wanted to argue but I didn't. Maybe you wanted me to ask you not to. Or to tell you not to. I don't know. I should have made some sort of arrangement, to see you tomorrow or to call you later, something more than just letting you go.
I paced and drank coffee and paced some more, then I stood in the shower for forty-five minutes because the heat trapped me there and I wanted my body to turn to vapour. I got dressed and sat at the computer, staring at nothing on the screen until it started feeling like someone was watching me and time's breath on my neck was a cold whisper. I gave up. I slept.
It's dark now and I'm not sure what day it is or if it's morning or night. My watch says it's eight o'clock on the thirtieth of November, so I've only been asleep for a few hours and it's fine. I haven't lost a day. Nothing's happened. Part of me wants to take my watch off and smash it. I used to think it was beautiful. Now it weighs too much.
There's a dull ache in my neck, something like tension, something like lack. The scar on my shoulder used to make itself known in times of discomfort, but now I only feel places your hands have been, places they aren't now, places they should be.
I'm meeting with Max and Dinah Ford and Darrell Neil tomorrow, and everything's going to change. Darrell's going to get Alchemy at a good price and Dinah's going to find a house I want to live in and two flats I hope other people will want to live in. There will be contracts and signatures and things will happen. Things will move forward.
And all I can think about is how someone I've known for less than two weeks is going to fit into all of this. And I know that's insane. Or I'm insane. Or everything's insane, so nothing really is.
I need to hear your voice. I shouldn't, but I do.
So I call you.
But I do.
You answer. "Hey."
I don't know what to say. "Brett, it's Noah."
YOU ARE READING
Winter FollowsGeneral Fiction
One month, one city, five lives colliding with the forces of fate. A thrill-seeking tech genius with an appetite for dangerous extremes. A retired contract killer fighting to escape his past and himself. An underworld driver tempted deeper into a li...