I took my sweater off as we crossed the threshold, my skin itching to escape the cloth. I could already smell Hitch's smoke on the fabric as I placed it on my rolling chair.
It would take at least two washes to rid it of the toxicity, and two rounds of deep scrubbing to rid myself of feeling it stuck to my skin.
"So how exactly do you want to do this? Should I just write out everything I've ever wanted to do in life? Only the things that can be done in a month? Two?"
"Come on. You act like this is business. Have fun with it." He chuckles. "Define fun." I snark. I look around my apartment, thinking about how few people have visited me here. Now Hitch was one.
"Did you ever start a list when you were young? Things you wanted to do before you became an adult. Treat it like that."
Thinking of happier times always felt like I was taunting myself. My memories a place I didn't belong in. They were home to a stranger.
"You can think about things along the way. Every time you yearn for something before you die, we'll add it to the list, and vice versa." He slipped out of his sweater, a dark mustard shirt underneath.
There was no excuse to feel as calm as I do right now. A symbol of stillness amongst a roaring sea. Soon I would get worked up over something, and the cyclone would commence. A torture of unpredictability.
The air inside the apartment is warmer now, and the chills are gone from my skin. The sun is still peeking through the curtains.
I flip on a lamp, preferring the artificial to the natural. I curled up on the couch, instinctively pulling my phone to my chest.
It felt like a Bible at this point, something I held when I felt lost, which was constant. I can't help but laugh to myself.
I unlocked the device, clicking on the notes app when I felt something light fall into my lap. I looked down to see stark white against the blue denim.
"I'd prefer you'd write it out physically. Makes it seem more real. Tangible." He dug into his bag, pulled out an orange pen, and passed it in my direction.
My hands clapped together, catching the pen in between them. I tucked it between my fingers, the plastic rubbing against my middle finger.
His shoulder rubs against mine as he plops down next to me, falling into the cushion. "Buck up. Keep moving your eyebrows like that and you'll get wrinkles. Just write down anything you want to do, there's no idea too dumb."
"You'd be surprised." I scribble the pen against the paper, watching as orange ink slowly scratches against the white.
I shrug, all ideas gone from my head. He shoves my shoulder playfully. "Don't be so crabby. Not everybody is looking to tear you down. And you never know, your dumbest idea could turn out to be your best one."
"God, I hope not." I stare down at the paper, tracing the circles of orange with my eyes. "Language." He taps a pencil against the paper.
"I know. Trust me, my dad hates it when I say it too. Which is so weird, because he doesn't even believe in one anymore."
"It's probably ingrained in him. When you're told something enough times, it takes hold in your brain. Even when you stop believing it's true. It just becomes a habit. You mostly keep it in honor of the person who taught it to you. Especially if there's nothing left of them physically." His eyes look sad, not close to tears, just slightly lifeless.
Chilling.
"I have zero interest in doing this." I narrow my eyes on him. "You should've mentioned this in your online messages."
It felt easier to change the subject, easier to argue than to sympathize. Anger felt better than sadness.
"Instead of blocking my account. What was up with that?" I turned my body towards him, my knees grazing his in the close proximity.
His mouth drops open. "What kind of person do you think I am?" I let the pen go onto my skin, lightly scratching against me. "The kind you are. Interested in other peoples' suffering."
"If I was so interested in your suffering would I be doing this whole list thing? Answer me that." He looks cocky, as though he believed he had won. "Yeah, probably. Just prolonging the inevitable for your gain." My hand gripped the small notepad, the top few papers crinkling beneath my fingers.
"And yours. We're both getting something out of this. You're getting what you wanted and more, I'm not sure why you hate this deal so much." He laughs.
"You don't seem very adventurous. And I'm probably right in my assumption..." He gives me a knowing look. "Your social media has been barren the last seven months. And I don't think people have even bothered to notice. You've pushed everybody else away, I'm all you have left." He's wagging his eyebrows, taunting me with something we both know to be true.
"Oh my gosh. I hate you. I am not going to complete a couple of little lists just so you'll kill me. You are truly feral."
He laughs, deep and genuine. As though we were two people arguing about where we'd be eating dinner.
He gets up, heads towards the sink, and pours himself a glass of water. My mind is racing. The odds were leaning further towards him than ever before. And I was terrible at math. All of my thoughts end with me still being alive right now. I chuckled aloud, the type that would sound crazy to most. One that crushed my chest as it came out. Things were not getting better.
He took a couple of sips, the water going down his throat slowly. "You don't have to like me to do this with me. I don't particularly like you. I don't hate you, more indifferent in feelings."
With my head resting back on the soft leather, I pulled my legs underneath myself. "So where exactly are you planning on staying for this? Do you live nearby? Gonna find the nearest hotel?"
He wrinkled his nose, taking another drink out of the glass. "No, the hotels here are horrendous. They look like they have more roaches than guests."
I allowed a breath to escape my nose as I fixed my gaze on the ceiling. "I'm sorry if they don't meet your expectations. I'll say it again. Where will you be staying?"
I turned my face toward him, tilting my neck as I heard him laugh again.
"Your couch seems comfortable enough. It's not a pull-out, which is a shame. If you were polite enough, you'd offer your bed."
I would have ruined my apartment with wine if I had any in my mouth. "I'm not offering you anything."
"Well, that's rude of you. Usually, when someone says they'll do a favor for you, you do one in return." He placed the glass on the counter, the liquid sitting low in the cup.
"Killing someone is not a favor." My fingers gripped my phone tightly, my knuckles turning a light shade of cream.
"Usually it's not, but I think this situation is a bit of an exception." He leaned his elbow on the countertop, the picture of homeliness.
"You're not sleeping in my apartment." I had few safe places in this world, I wasn't going to let go of a single one of them.
I had trouble sleeping enough at night, sharing a roof with him was a recipe for sleepless nights pushing me further into insanity.
The images becoming clearer, the paranoia dragging me down into a river. The dark water filling my lungs, drowning me from the inside.
"Fine. I'll sleep in the car. If it bothers you so much." He looked at me with pity, as though he could read the thoughts through my face.
"I'll survive, but my back will kill me."
I wondered how much of my records he read. If he knew of the darkest paths my brain pushed me to. The stories that could easily paint me as a nutcase.
"My space is 104."
"I know. I wasn't about to get myself a ticket." He finished the water, his Adam's apple bobbing once as it went down.
"You haven't written anything down. You had better get going." He gestured once toward the pad with his finger.
Unprepared for what I would fill it with, I stared into the void. I hadn't thought much about what I would miss out on. I thought more about the things I would avoid with an early death.
I would never witness my parents' demise, or even aging. The prospect of never having children didn't concern me because I had never desired children to pass my trauma down to.
I had no career aspirations, having long given up on my talentless existence. My days were unpredictable. Ranging from a dark ether of negative energy to an abundance of spirit that pushed me towards doing activities I'd later regret when my sanity returned.
I never planned anything anymore. Afraid those around me would finally realize I was too much to love, or I'd have to do the message of shame. Letting them down by blaming something that I should've had under control by now.
When I pushed myself, I had erred. Drunken nights spent with strangers I never planned on seeing again. Throwing up on the lawn of a stranger. Having to look up exactly how many shots it took to become poisonous to my system.
The feeling of my fingers touching the back of my throat at a party. Knowing one person there, glad for once they were too preoccupied to notice I was gone, my knees bruising on the hardwood floor. Praying nobody tries the door with a broken lock.
I could feel the familiarity of acid touch my throat, swallowing it down along with the nausea that always came with these memories.
"Do you need more wine for inspiration?" He looked at me, crossing one foot in front of the other.
"No. Definitely not." I swallowed once more, the tightness of my throat keeping the moisture from falling fully down.
"Didn't think so. So what's keeping you?" His words were casual, as though he were a teacher wondering what was keeping you from your work.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" I ask. I needed to know exactly what he thought was going on underneath the harsh lamp light. If the smoke had clouded his brain in the same way as his lungs.
The man in front of me pushes up his sleeves. Rubbing his hand along his forearm. The repetitive motion gives off an air of soothing.
"I've already made my sheet." He taps his pocket three times, his hand resting slightly inside. An image of paper going up in flames fills my mind. The lighter setting it ablaze along with the devil himself. An angel once beloved by God.
Wordlessly he makes his way over to me. He sits back on the couch, his feet going up onto my white coffee table.
"Not much of a fan of staying in one place, are you?" I ask. His legs are opposites to mine, taking up room where they don't belong.
He shakes his head. "Not much of a fan of dormancy. I prefer to always keep moving." I laughed quietly. "Like a shark." My finger traced a small cut on my hand. Long since healed over.
"I hate sharks." My voice is neat, and the sound is concise. The tone a business woman might hold during a meeting.
"Is your name really Hitch? You don't look like a Hitch." I couldn't tell you what name would match him better, I just knew there had to be one better than Hitch.
"Yes. Don't bother with a nickname, I've always hated them, they're so lazy. Nothing's worse than taking away a letter to create uniqueness. Isn't that right Eaven?"
He turns to shake my hand. "I feel like we never properly got introduced." His hand is stable, so dissimilar to my shaking one.
"What brought you here?" I ask. His grip on my hand is tight, willing me to be the first to pull mine away.
"The money." He smirks, his eyes following my hand as it returns to my lap. "Also it's always great to have someone to spiral with."
His feet have returned to the ground. His knees are lightly grazing the table. They're long and his right knee is bouncing slightly.
"How about you? For what reason did you reply to my message? Presumably, I wasn't the first one." I shook my head. "You weren't." He nods singularly. "I know. I saw. He made your mouth look like it'd been washed with soap." We laughed together, our voices coming together in slight harmony.
I didn't want to like him. I didn't want him to know that I didn't hate him. I didn't know how I felt about him.
"Right? I didn't know it was possible to be less likable than actual murderers." This time a singular laugh rang through the air. My own alone.
I shrug nonchalantly, the laugh dying as it hits the room. A silent decision made that we didn't have to continue this part of our conversation. The notepad pressed towards my chest.
"When was the last time you had fun?"
I'm jostled from my thoughts as he speaks aloud. His cocky grin shining brighter underneath the lamp light.
"I don't know. Which probably isn't a good sign." I answered honestly, my fingers gripping tightly to the papers.
"I guess the easier question would be, when was the last time you wanted to have fun?" His arms crossed, leaning back to get a better angle to look into my eyes.
"I don't know." Another honesty spilled from my lips. A touch of terror within the words. I truly didn't have a recollection of when I last wanted to experience the fun most 30-somethings wanted to live.
"What about now?" He looked at me honestly, the judgment in his gaze long gone. A stability in his eyes.
"I feel a little uneasy. By now, I think most people don't have to try as hard. Like they got some kind of cheat sheet when they turned 18, and mine's blurry. I can have fun, it just takes more effort for me. It takes time to read the sheet." I rub my thumb along the smooth paper.
"That's the case?" Hitch snags the notepad from my hands. "Not too shabby of an analysis. Mind if I borrow your pen?"
I passed the pen into his hand, the smoothness running through my two fingers. The emptiness feels heavier than any object would weigh.
"What have you always wanted to do?" He tapped the pen along the paper, the cap making a light sound as it hit the pad.
"Go ahead." Hitch remains staring at the sheet.
"Do you want me to come up with something out of thin air?" I ask.
"No. You've got this. Just sit there and think. Let me know when you've thought of something. We've got plenty of time together. Make sure you choose something you want to do."
He's encouraging, guiding me towards a part of my brain I haven't visited in ages. A part I was sure had died off by now.
When I look him in the eye, he winks.
"I appreciate the patience." I extend an offer. Hitch gives a nod. Small chat has never really appealed to me. A preference for the more crucial aspects of dialogue. My watch continues changing numbers as I glance at it. I'm relieved time is still moving with us frozen in place. A laser focus on the world we live in now. We work oddly well together. Sitting in peaceful silence.
"This isn't so bad" I say aloud, a need to ensure that I truly understood the difference between insufferable and comfortable.
"I know, it's not. It's not complicated at all either. Do you want to read some of my list?"
"Not unless you want me to," I say. "You seem to be pretty solitary."
"I am." He nods, as though learning the fact for the first time. And that's the end of it. The silence becoming darker than before.
Our game has come to an end. We stayed on opposite sides of the couch. There was a quiet hush between us both.
His trim khakis crinkled slightly as he adjusted his legs. An easy air gripping his stature. "Eaven?"
I suddenly return to this moment. I must have lost my mind temporarily. "Hmmm?" I inquire.
"Are you ready for me to fill out the first item on the list? We have to start somewhere."
I feel my face redden. Heat traveling upwards through my body. A craving for relaxation to fill my system. With the push of a button, my phone screen lit up, but there was no escape for me to travel to.
I'm lucky to have someone to ground me, his hand sending vibrations through the couch with his taps. He is an easy distraction from my spiral.
His face has a slight smile to it, one that seems natural on him. A youthful addition to his mature ambiance. A joy that shouldn't fit his fierce nature. It all sends an uncomfortable tingling through my skin.
"I don't know what to tell you." I hate how empty my hands feel. My thumb continually turns my phone on and off.
"I'm ready to go now. I have no regrets." My thumb strokes the side of my case, rubbing against the smooth black plastic.
"There's nothing I'm missing out on. I've had two months to accept it, I'm ready to go." A finger traces the smoothness of the screen, my nail dragging across the dark screen.
He took a deep breath, his stomach lifting slightly underneath his shirt.
"Well, you better think of something. Just doing what I want doesn't feel very fair." Leaning back, he laid the pad across his sternum and rested his hands on top of it.
"Consider this your Make-A-Wish." He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes squinting slightly against the harsh lamp light.
We sat in silence for a few breaths, the sound of music pumping from a nearby unit filling the loneliness.
He handed me the notepad, the paper gently resting on my lap. "You take your time." Raising his hands above his head, he stood up.
He made his way over to my fridge, opening the door and scanning the empty luminescent landscape.
"Not much of a foodie, are you?" He moved a couple of condiments around, discovering more of the same.
He shifted down towards the freezer, pulling the door open and looking between the two barren shelves.
"Toast it is." He pulled part of a loaf out, unwrapping the plastic. "Do you want a slice?" He lifted a piece of frozen bread, turning it slightly in his hand.
I wanted to say no, but the churning in my stomach made me think otherwise. "I'll take one." I wrote haphazardly on the page, making it more orange with my pen strokes.
He took out a tub of butter, shaking it slightly. Testing out the light weight of it before peeling the top off.
"You know there's a grocery store just down the street, right? You don't have to keep surviving on scraps. You don't have to worry about paying for my services anymore, so maybe buy some good food. You know, fruits and vegetables, maybe a steak or two if you're feeling generous."
He was pushing the toast down, and I could hear the toaster cooking the two slices of bread. "I don't eat steak." I followed the trail of orange, as it continuously trailed over the snowy background, the lines of blue becoming harder to follow.
With a clinking sound of cutlery, he pulled open a drawer and took out a butter knife. "Chicken, beef, pork, even fish if you're into that kind of stuff."
The orange swam in my vision, my brain struggling to create a readable image out of the gibberish.
"I'm not into any of that stuff." My thumb ran along the paper, feeling the slight indents the deep lines had made. Reading like their own type of language.
With a small laugh, he took a few plates out of the cabinet. "Your liver will be destroyed, but not your heart. Seems a little ironic, don't you?"
I shook my head, causing the orange to sway. "I don't give a shit about my health." From the corner of my eye, I noticed him nodding while washing his hands in the kitchen sink.
He made his way to the bathroom, cupping his hands within themselves in an attempt to stop the dripping.
I could hear the water begin to run as he rinsed the bathroom soap off of himself. The water stopped as I moved my gaze to follow his trail to the kitchen countertop.
He looked over to me, before pulling both slices from the toaster. "What is that, pomegranate? Plum?" He placed one piece on each plate, rubbing some crumbs off his hands and onto a wrinkled dishtowel. "Definitely pomegranate. I like it."
He dipped the knife in the butter, scraping the sides of the container as the smooth white coated the harsh silver.
He held the toast in one hand, spreading it onto the slice, loose crumbs making their way into the knife.
He took a towel, and wiped it over the knife, clearing it of the mess before he made his way back into the butter, spreading it onto the second slice.
Once done, he placed it into the dishwasher, the blade pointing up along with other pieces of dim silver.
He took one plate in each hand, walking over to the other side of the counter, placing them in front of two of my grey stools.
He sat in the middle, picking up the toast and taking a careful bite of one corner. Crumbs spilled onto the white plate.
He gave me a sidelong glance and nodded toward the other stool.
It resembled an odd dinner shared by acquaintances. A mesh of awkwardness of eating for the first time with a stranger.
Something only done on first dates, but all the romance of the experience is non-existent at this moment.
The bread felt dry in my mouth, the burnt edges spilling pieces of black onto my lap. No amount of butter would improve the feeling.
His foot pushed himself continuously side to side, swiveling the stool as he held the plate carefully underneath his bites.
"Do you have a headache yet?" His words came out as he swallowed a large chunk, the meal almost halfway gone within his body.
I shook my head, the throbbing it once contained temporarily gone. At least for the moment.
He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, eyeing mine while he did so. "Did you notice the couple checking out your forehead earlier? I wonder what they think caused it. They looked like it was covering a battle wound." He winced slightly, a subtle reaction to his own words.
My hand raised to my head, rubbing along the smooth bandage. A memory long since forgotten on the back burner. Setting everything around it alight.
He peered down, slowly chewing a tiny morsel. "I truly didn't mean to hurt you." He looked almost ashamed, as though he couldn't imagine how he had lost control of the situation so quickly.
I didn't know how to respond. In all honesty, he didn't deserve forgiveness. Everything about this was painted as though I were color-blind. Nothing but morally grey coating every corner.
So I just nodded, sucking on a bite, my jaw moving by memory. Not wanting to swallow too quickly and speak too soon.
He seemed to understand the meaning of the silence. The consequences he'd now have to endure from his poor actions.
He looked down at his plate as he placed the last bite into his mouth. Nodding slowly in a solemn acceptance.
He picked up his plate, taking mine as well. Almost unaware that I had only eaten one side of the toast. As though he were on autopilot.
Dancing choreography he knew by heart while a song he didn't recognize plays in the background. Always taking a step before the beat fully drops.
As an audience member, the mistakes were clear, but the movements were so smooth, that you almost wished to ignore them. As though you weren't witnessing the swan on stage plucking out their own feathers. Streaks of red follow every twirl, as you pray it doesn't splatter onto your pristine skin.
And you begin to wonder if you'll be the only one standing at the end. A sole ovation amongst the silent crowd. Becoming a spectacle yourself as you cheered for the carnage.
So you remain in your seat, watching from the back row as the swan collapses. The curtain closing atop its corpse. Silence filling the auditorium. Everyone lining up to leave, to return to their perfect lives.
As you hope those around you fail to notice the black feathers sprouting beneath your skin. You fold up your program and greet the dark rain outside the theatre as though it were an old friend who could wash you away into a pond somewhere.
One that would swallow you whole as you tire of struggling to stay afloat. The sand at the bottom holding you tightly.
Coating your darkness in gold.