Romance In A Column

chapter sixteen,

    Truly unsettling, Eryn Sallow is convinced, are the things that strip of comfort those people, places, objects one finds solace in whenever a storm hits the harbor.

    Droplets follow the roundness of the domed lid and seep through the gap intended for the straw –  likely, diluting the strong taste of chocolate that wafts from it's scent have hinted at and eating away the perfect scoop of whipped cream atop of the hot mocha in Eryn's clutch as an ember would, a heap of coals.

    Like tears, the cold splotches of water gather in her mascara-coated lashes and Eryn tips her head down in hopes they'll fall straight to the pavement rather than streak down her cheeks in a mock of spilt ink – Eryn is certain it'll be further ammunition for Deniz Gursel if, on her doorstep, the Sallow girl comes to stand with frizzy hair from the humidity, matted by the rain, and claw marks of makeup down her round face.

    After all, it seems Deniz's unspoken point is that crystal boned Eryn doesn't have a sliver of journalistic might and composure in her system.

    The entrance hall of the apartment building Eryn has been in only once before shelters her from the thickening rain and fog that has blanketed the streets of New York since a sunrise whose colors failed to filter through these hues of grey.

    Her kitten heels weight down her steps as she maneuvers through the ongoing and upcoming crowds of residents in a haste to leave; and though she'd chosen to wear said shoes for the exact reason that they anchor her to the world, to her steps, to her present – Eryn now regrets it.

    To halt their quivering due to the cold, Eryn's hands grip the handle bar on the farthest edge of the elevator once the compartment exhales the New Yorkers inside its steel doors.

    Her head lolls back and she blows a breath while her lids shut out the world for an instance. For composure, she tells herself. To wrap herself in the scraps of armor she knows better than to come without; they aren't much she reckons, but thin as it may be, the iron spreads across her skin once she recalls the sensation of Wren's arms around her that first night together.

    Not the salty water lapping against her bare legs and cooling skin that midmorning sun has beat down upon. But the call of the tires against gravel streets, smell of borderline isolation and livelihood that crystal skyscrapers and rotten brick buildings can harbor – the warm realization that, while she'll always love California, the sweet taste of cotton candy at Santa Monica Pier has long been outmatched by the bitter steam that rolls off her coffee on foggy mornings in Midtown Manhattan.

    Slowly, her eyes blink open at the beat of squeaking steps against the elevator's floor just to be completely ambushed by a sight that unhinges, ever so slightly, her jaw.

    In a red sequel dress, a girl whose eye shadow and liner appear to have been cleared with rain and transpiration; yet those couldn't fully manage the foundation – which lays in thick patches in mismatched places of her model-like face. Her hair spills, knotted, onto her hickey lineded neck and streams down onto the dip of her cleavage, where some love bites beat bright red.

    The little dress allows the coolness wrap around her toned legs, arising goosebumps on the exposed skin from beneath it's hem, her bruised knees and to her feet – tucked into a pair of oversized Crocs.

    It isn't the coffee in her right hand where her pinkie rests upturned but the bright pink dildo and lacy black thong in her left grip that makes Eryn untouched mocha stain the elevator's floor. And at the realization of how absolutely fucking rude that is of her, Eryn slaps her aflame face in embarassment as a bout of giggles carry atop of the music playing lowly to ambientalize.