Roads That Cross...

... with Interruptions (Part 1)

Once she had tamed her hair with a brush, she turned to him and smiled. Simón stood up and she walked to him. Ámbar stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, holding his face. "Go ahead and have breakfast, I'll see you downstairs."

He circled her waist. "What if I wanna stay here watching how you embellish yourself?"

"It's a slow and long process and you gotta go change your clothes," she pointed out and kissed him once more. "Go. Save me some toasts. Or anything sweet Monica has made."

He chuckled and kissed the tip of her nose. "Roger that."

Ámbar grabbed some products from her dressing table and disappeared inside the bathroom. Simón grabbed the shirt she had gifted him and walked to the door. He put his ear against it first to check if anyone was out there. Not hearing any footsteps, he opened it slightly, searching for prying eyes before he walked out and closed the door behind him.

He didn't take one step before stopping cold in his tracks.

Maggie was there, holding a basket with laundry, staring right at him.

Simón failed to say something or act casual fast enough. He stood frozen as Maggie looked at him up and down, surely taking notice of his still-somewhat-damp hair, the same clothes from yesterday he was wearing, and the fact she had just caught him trying and failing to leave Ámbar's room without being seen.

Maggie made a face of indignation.

"That's it." She walked up to him. "From now on, you two are washing your own sheets," she spat and continued down the hall, muttering about how she didn't get paid enough for this.

Simón stood there frozen for a little while longer.

So much for no one finding out.

He hoped Maggie didn't tell anyone. And he hoped Ámbar didn't kill him when she found out.

**********************

Ámbar slid the dress down her head and pulled up the zipper on the side. She fixed her hair and turned to look at herself in her closet's full-length mirror.

The dress was pretty— Black with a fitted waist, a skirt just above her knees and some details in lace. But the instant she saw her reflection, she got a sickening feeling.

It looked like a funeral dress.

Ámbar took it off and dropped it on the floor. She knew the dream would fade and she'd forget about it, but right then the gun, the screams, the dark splashes of blood... they were still too fresh in her mind.

Pants were a better idea anyway. Now that she paid attention, her knees were still slightly reddened from pressing them against the tub.

She stood in front of her open closet. All around there was black. Some grey. Minimum hints of white.

She turned to the dresser on her right side, which she hadn't opened in a while. Her old clothes were in there— or half of them. She had thrown away everything in her closet to make room for her new black clothes, but she hadn't taken the time to throw all the other clothes away. Both her dressers still had them.

Ámbar kneeled on the floor and opened the second to last drawer. Immediately she was met with color. So much color.

She went through some clothes. Some of them she still liked; some she never wanted to wear again. They looked too much like... like a young version of clothes her godmother would wear.