Status: Updates may be slow at first, but they will be steady.
Breakfast at Holly's
chapitre trois
The next morning when I woke, I could barely even remember Kat’s late-night visit. It all seemed so far away and unrealistic, gossamer strands of memory that I was desperately trying to hold on to. And it seemed as though the more I tried to recall, the more that slipped away, until all that was left was the image of her curled up in that red velvet chair sleeping regally, like a fallen queen. As I showered and dressed for work, I briefly wondered if the whole night had been a dream, some kind of hallucination triggered by the intense heat.
But when I walked through my living room, ready to head out for a twelve o’clock meeting at the Pepsico headquarters, I caught sight of a pair of black sunglasses propped up on the bookcase that definitely did not belong to me. I picked them up curiously. They had to be Kat’s. So she really was here, I mused. I checked my watch and headed to the door, intending on dropping them off at her mailbox.
The New York Times had already been delivered that morning, thrown carelessly onto my green doormat. I locked my door and picked it up before heading down the stairs, keys jingling in my pocket as I unfolded the Times and glanced through the headlines. My footsteps slowed as I reached the bottom of the staircase, and I was just about to fold it up again to continue reading on the subway when a familiar face caught my eye. I paused, reaching the mailboxes that stood in a row outside the dingy doorway, and took a closer glance.
There was Kat, featured right there in the middle of the Style section. For the first few seconds, I was too engrossed with her – the stunning dress, the glittering jewels, the laughing, carefree expression on her face and the brightness of her eyes – to take in the rest of the spread. When I could lift my eyes off her, I realized that she had been pictured arm-in-arm with a well-dressed man, with slicked-back blonde hair and a smug expression. I squinted at the caption. Manhattan socialite Kat DeMorriss pictured with rumored beau, Aaron Vanderbilt, at the Kafka Ball.
The smug expression on the man’s face now made sense – if Iwas a fucking Vanderbilt and owned practically half of the city, with more money than I would ever have use for, I would be looking pretty damn pleased with myself, too. I glanced back at Kat’s face and was reminded of my purpose: the sunglasses. I tore out a piece of blank ad space and, using a stub of charcoal I always carried with me, scribbled on the flimsy paper: Hi Kat, you left these in my apartment last night. – Connor
I tucked both the note and the sunglasses in Kat’s mailbox. Then, with another glance at my watch, I raced down the street, leaving behind all thoughts of socialites and sunglasses as I hurried to the nearest subway station.
By five o’clock, I was heading back to my apartment, feeling thoroughly disgruntled after a string of unsuccessful meetings, where I was yelled at by pretty much everyone, from my boss to the fucking janitor, for not making progress on the prune juice ad. Oh, how I love being the art department’s new punching bag, I thought sarcastically to myself as I trudged along the street.
I was so preoccupied by these thoughts I almost completely overlooked the red flag indicating new mail on my mailbox. I did a double take and walked over curiously.
Inside my mailbox was a single folded sheet of paper. On it, in lopsided, childlike handwriting read,
Dear Connor,
Thank you for the sunglasses, and thank you for last night. I hope I didn’t bother you too much. Wanna meet up for drinks tonight? There’s a bar called Keller’s a few blocks down, let’s meet up at eight-ish. Let me know if you’re up for it! – Kat
I turned the sheet over and scribbled, Sure, see you then, as blasé as I could, but my heart was pounding.
That night, I made myself wait until it was five to eight, then waited ten minutes more before heading out. Outside, the darkening sky provided a cool relief to the blazing heat of the day, and the light breeze felt nice against my overheated skin. The street was strangely quiet and still, the only sounds coming from the cars honking at the intersection two blocks down and the tinkling of the bell on the door at Holly’s, the twenty-four hour diner, as a lone man walked in.
The bar was a short walk away, only a few blocks down on 74th and Amsterdam, and I reached there by eight-twenty. I stepped in hesitantly. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, with romantic settees scattered cozily around the room and low tables placed between them. A faded chandelier dimly lit the shadowy corners, and the walls behind the bar were covered in old-fashioned mirrors. The whole room had a kind of musty feel to it, and a sultry voice sang out scratchily from the record player in the corner, adding to the mood. The floor was carpeted in plush red, but the floorboards below creaked a little as I made my way to a barstool.
As soon as I sat down, the bartender made his way over to me. He looked as though he came from the same era as the bar – he had well-combed silver hair and was dressed in a dapper suit that matched the throwback feel of the bar. “You want a drink, son?” he asked in a deep baritone voice.
“Not yet. I’m – uh – waiting for someone.” He nodded and drifted off; I checked my watch – 8:23 – and glanced back up to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors across from me.
My dirty blonde hair looked darker in the dim light, and it was getting a little too long and shaggy, almost completely covering my light brown eyes. I flicked the offending strands away and made a mental note to get a haircut soon. I glanced around curiously at the only other people at the bar. All couples, dressed to the nines in heels for the ladies and dress shirts for the men. I immediately felt ridiculously underdressed in my Williamsburg plaid – it was the Brooklyn uniform, I hadn’t worn anything else for years – and dark jeans. I turned away self-consciously and then through the mirror, I saw Kat enter the bar. I spun around, almost falling off the barstool in the process and thankfully hastily recovering before she caught site of me. Smooth, way to go. “Kat!”
She saw me and waved, smiling as she made her way toward me. She was dressed in a light pink, almost nude slip dress with a zipper running down the front, and her long dark hair was in pretty waves. She strode across the bar confidently, and the few people there – whether male or female – turned to watch her. It was the Kat effect, I’d soon realize. People couldn’t seem to help it. She turned heads everywhere she went.
“Hey!” Kat exclaimed as she reached me. I had stood up to greet her, and she gave me a light kiss on the cheek before slipping daintily into the seat beside me. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“No, not at all,” I rushed to assure her.
“Good.” She smiled brightly. “Have you met Henry?” I shook my head soundlessly. “Henry!” she called out.
The dapper bartender glanced up. “Kat, my dear!” he boomed, a smile spreading across his face as he approached us. Kat leaned over the bar and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “How have you been, darling?”
“Excellent.” Kat turned to me, beaming. “This is my new neighbor, Connor,” she introduced.
His large hands swallowed mine in a brisk handshake. “A friend of Kat’s is a friend of mine!” I gave a quick smile, feeling thoroughly confused. But before I could try to piece things together, he moved on. “Now, what would you two like to drink? Kat, your usual?” She nodded. He turned to me. “And you?”
“Uh – I’ll just have a beer, thanks.” He nodded and bustled off. I turned to Kat.
She read the unasked question in my eyes and scooted closer to me. “Henry Sullivan,” she revealed quietly. “When I first moved to New York about a year ago, I had three dollars in my pocket and a change of clothes. By complete chance, I walked in here. He helped me out, gave me a place to stay for a little bit, then helped me find an apartment. I drop in from time to time to see him. He’s got some amazing stories, you know. Real interesting. And, of course, I basically owe him my life.”
She shrugged casually. Our drinks arrived. Henry placed my Corona in front of me and a martini on a white napkin for Kat. “Thanks,” I said distractedly. When he was out of earshot, I asked Kat, “Where had you moved from? When you came to New York, I mean?”
“California,” she replied vaguely, in a breezy tone. But I hadn’t missed the way her back stiffened before she answered, or the slight hesitation before she gave her answer. Her body language was perfectly clear: personal questions were off-limits. “What about you?” she asked, taking a dainty sip of her drink. “What brought you over the bridge to Manhattan?”
I took a swallow of my beer. “Well… It’s a funny story, actually.”
“Do tell, Monsieur!” she exclaimed dramatically, as she speared her olive and slipped it into her mouth.
I shot her a grin and launched into the tale of my after-hours graffiti sessions in Brooklyn, tipping back in my seat. “It all started when a few of my friends were just messing around,” I began. “Me and a few buddies went around and spray painted empty buildings and walls and stuff. Just for fun, you know. We were bored; it was a good time. But then I got really into it. I’d start going out at night on my own to spray. I loved experimenting with colors and shapes and…” My voice faded as I struggled to think of how to describe it. There was no other feeling in the world like the rush of power I felt holding a paint can, knowing that a whole other dimension of art was just a spray away. Nothing else in the world had made me feel like that before. Like I could do anything, absolutely anything, and I could die knowing that I had left my mark on the world. I was lost in my thoughts for a second before I refocused on Kat. “But then I got caught. Police took me in.”
“What happened?” Kat asked, those long-lashed eyes wide and martini completely forgotten.
“I was being charged for vandalism and disturbing the public peace, or some shit like that, and my mom couldn’t pay the bail,” I recounted, somewhat bitterly. “It’s such a stupid thing to lock someone up for. I mean, there are murderers and rapists and all kinds of criminals running around in New York, and they chose to arrest some kid who painted pictures on a wall?” I shook my head, still enraged with it all. “But then a representative from Pepsico came and said that if I agreed to work for their art department, they would bail me out.” I shrugged. “And that’s how I ended up here.”
“So they basically blackmailed you into working with them!” She laughed.
“Basically,” I admitted. “But anyway. That’s what brought me here. How bout you? What do you do?”
Kat leaned back in her seat and picked up her martini, a mysterious expression creeping onto her face. “Well, you could call me a collector,” she divulged unwillingly, pushing her glossy hair away from her face.
My brow furrowed. “Of what?” I was thinking paintings, art, museums, but her next words took me completely by surprise.
“Of rich men.” I must have given her a completely blank expression, because she went on, carefully choosing her words, “It’s very simple. I go out with them; they give me money.”
“You mean like a hooker?” I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
She slapped my arm lightly, offended. “No! Of course not!” She downed the rest of her drink in one swallow and leaned closer to me. I got a sudden whiff of a honey aroma from whatever shampoo it was she used, and had a sudden inexplicable urge to run my fingers through her dark hair. I mentally shook myself and focused on what she was saying. “Here’s how it happened,” she began quietly, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. “Henry’s well-connected, you know. He keeps this bar just for kicks; he doesn’t even need the money. Anyway, while I was staying with him for a few weeks, he introduced me to a few people. One of whom was my ex-boyfriend, by the way.” She rolled her gray eyes. “Quel bastard. But he used to take me to all these ‘high society parties –,’” she made dismissive air quotes over those last words – “and I realized, I can make money off this.”
“How so?” I asked, still suspicious. It sure as hell sounded like she was a prostitute or something. A high-class one, but a hooker nonetheless.
Kat rolled her eyes again, seeming to read my mind. “Nothing too bad. I tell the men I date I’m an heiress from down south whose parents give her a meager allowance, and they’re happy to give me some money to help make ends meet.” She shrugged innocently. “And now I’m considered a bona fide Manhattan socialite, thank you very much.”
“How crafty,” I commented, finishing my beer as I remembered her picture in the paper I had seen that morning. Huh, I thought to myself. So she’s telling the truth.
“Oh, don’t judge,” she chided. “It works on both ends. They give me money to pay for dresses and gifts, which I then use to pay for my rent. And in turn they get my company!” She flashed a dazzling smile that made my head spin. “Enough talking about this. Let’s have another round. Henry!”
It was past twelve when we finally staggered out of the bar onto the quiet street, after several rounds of pool with two bow-tied strangers. We somehow managed to lose every single game, and we were giggling drunkenly over the injustice of it all.
“You know, I just do not trust people who wear bow ties,” Kat declared as we set off back to our block.
“Not a good look,” I agreed. My mind was comfortably spinning – I’d had just enough beer to lift my mood, but not enough to make me really plastered.
“My dad used to wear a bow tie,” Kat rambled on, even more talkative – if that was even possible – with alcohol in her system. “Or maybe he still does. I have no idea, I mean, I haven’t seen him in forever…” I completely lost focus when she tucked her arm into the crook of my elbow and leaned on me for shaky support. It was such a simple gesture – she could have done it a million times before with anyone – but it made my senses go into overdrive as she continued her incoherent rambling.
I only noticed when she fell completely silent. I glanced at her; she was gazing up dreamily at the sky, as though in another world. Talking would only ruin the comfortable silence that had settled between us, and so I walked on without a word, enjoying the feel of her arm entwined in mine and the scent of her faint sandalwood perfume. We passed under a streetlight as we turned onto 70th Street, and the fluorescent glow threw her face into a gentle focus – her long dark curls blurred in the midnight, and her cheekbones looked softer, less severe. But her eyes, the wisps of grays and light blues, had such a surprising sharpness that I couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was thinking of.
I didn’t have to wait long to get my answer. As we neared our building, she let go of my arm and sprawled down on the front steps next to the stone lion, which now looked feeble and weak in the dark. With her pale pink dress, delicately exposed shoulders, and nearly emotionless face, she almost looked like a broken doll, cast away and deserted before she’d had a chance to shine. I sat down beside her tentatively. Across the street, the sign for Holly’s, the 24-hour diner, flickered halfheartedly, but all else was dark. But when I glanced at Kat, I saw she was looking up, not out.
“When I was young, my brother and I used to stargaze together,” Kat said unexpectedly. Her voice didn’t sound right – there was a shaky hesitance to it that stripped her of all her confidence. Her words were heavy, not just from the alcohol, but something else entirely. Sorrow, I realized. “He was really into it all – names, patterns, constellations. You know. I think the best memories I have are with him, sitting on our porch at night.” She dug suddenly into her purse, and pulled out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. “In New York –,” she fumbled with her lighter, “ – I never see stars.” Inhale disease. Exhale smoke. “There’s always buildings and lights and smog and shit. And sometimes… I’m afraid I’m losing him.” Her words hung in the air like the smoke from her cigarette, her gaze determinately fixed on the tendrils of fading gray drifting upward.
I scooted close to her and cautiously put her arm around her. When she didn’t object, I pulled her a little closer. She shifted so her head was leaning on my shoulder, and I could smell vodka and the overwhelming aroma of cigarettes and yet still, under all that, her sandalwood scent lingering and the honey of her hair. “You know, Connor,” Kat spoke up again, now sounding sleepy. “I really think Tyler would have liked you.”
I squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’m glad,” I said softly. And we sat there together long after her cigarette had burned out, staring up at the sky for a glimpse of the stars.
But when I walked through my living room, ready to head out for a twelve o’clock meeting at the Pepsico headquarters, I caught sight of a pair of black sunglasses propped up on the bookcase that definitely did not belong to me. I picked them up curiously. They had to be Kat’s. So she really was here, I mused. I checked my watch and headed to the door, intending on dropping them off at her mailbox.
The New York Times had already been delivered that morning, thrown carelessly onto my green doormat. I locked my door and picked it up before heading down the stairs, keys jingling in my pocket as I unfolded the Times and glanced through the headlines. My footsteps slowed as I reached the bottom of the staircase, and I was just about to fold it up again to continue reading on the subway when a familiar face caught my eye. I paused, reaching the mailboxes that stood in a row outside the dingy doorway, and took a closer glance.
There was Kat, featured right there in the middle of the Style section. For the first few seconds, I was too engrossed with her – the stunning dress, the glittering jewels, the laughing, carefree expression on her face and the brightness of her eyes – to take in the rest of the spread. When I could lift my eyes off her, I realized that she had been pictured arm-in-arm with a well-dressed man, with slicked-back blonde hair and a smug expression. I squinted at the caption. Manhattan socialite Kat DeMorriss pictured with rumored beau, Aaron Vanderbilt, at the Kafka Ball.
The smug expression on the man’s face now made sense – if Iwas a fucking Vanderbilt and owned practically half of the city, with more money than I would ever have use for, I would be looking pretty damn pleased with myself, too. I glanced back at Kat’s face and was reminded of my purpose: the sunglasses. I tore out a piece of blank ad space and, using a stub of charcoal I always carried with me, scribbled on the flimsy paper: Hi Kat, you left these in my apartment last night. – Connor
I tucked both the note and the sunglasses in Kat’s mailbox. Then, with another glance at my watch, I raced down the street, leaving behind all thoughts of socialites and sunglasses as I hurried to the nearest subway station.
By five o’clock, I was heading back to my apartment, feeling thoroughly disgruntled after a string of unsuccessful meetings, where I was yelled at by pretty much everyone, from my boss to the fucking janitor, for not making progress on the prune juice ad. Oh, how I love being the art department’s new punching bag, I thought sarcastically to myself as I trudged along the street.
I was so preoccupied by these thoughts I almost completely overlooked the red flag indicating new mail on my mailbox. I did a double take and walked over curiously.
Inside my mailbox was a single folded sheet of paper. On it, in lopsided, childlike handwriting read,
Dear Connor,
Thank you for the sunglasses, and thank you for last night. I hope I didn’t bother you too much. Wanna meet up for drinks tonight? There’s a bar called Keller’s a few blocks down, let’s meet up at eight-ish. Let me know if you’re up for it! – Kat
I turned the sheet over and scribbled, Sure, see you then, as blasé as I could, but my heart was pounding.
That night, I made myself wait until it was five to eight, then waited ten minutes more before heading out. Outside, the darkening sky provided a cool relief to the blazing heat of the day, and the light breeze felt nice against my overheated skin. The street was strangely quiet and still, the only sounds coming from the cars honking at the intersection two blocks down and the tinkling of the bell on the door at Holly’s, the twenty-four hour diner, as a lone man walked in.
The bar was a short walk away, only a few blocks down on 74th and Amsterdam, and I reached there by eight-twenty. I stepped in hesitantly. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, with romantic settees scattered cozily around the room and low tables placed between them. A faded chandelier dimly lit the shadowy corners, and the walls behind the bar were covered in old-fashioned mirrors. The whole room had a kind of musty feel to it, and a sultry voice sang out scratchily from the record player in the corner, adding to the mood. The floor was carpeted in plush red, but the floorboards below creaked a little as I made my way to a barstool.
As soon as I sat down, the bartender made his way over to me. He looked as though he came from the same era as the bar – he had well-combed silver hair and was dressed in a dapper suit that matched the throwback feel of the bar. “You want a drink, son?” he asked in a deep baritone voice.
“Not yet. I’m – uh – waiting for someone.” He nodded and drifted off; I checked my watch – 8:23 – and glanced back up to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors across from me.
My dirty blonde hair looked darker in the dim light, and it was getting a little too long and shaggy, almost completely covering my light brown eyes. I flicked the offending strands away and made a mental note to get a haircut soon. I glanced around curiously at the only other people at the bar. All couples, dressed to the nines in heels for the ladies and dress shirts for the men. I immediately felt ridiculously underdressed in my Williamsburg plaid – it was the Brooklyn uniform, I hadn’t worn anything else for years – and dark jeans. I turned away self-consciously and then through the mirror, I saw Kat enter the bar. I spun around, almost falling off the barstool in the process and thankfully hastily recovering before she caught site of me. Smooth, way to go. “Kat!”
She saw me and waved, smiling as she made her way toward me. She was dressed in a light pink, almost nude slip dress with a zipper running down the front, and her long dark hair was in pretty waves. She strode across the bar confidently, and the few people there – whether male or female – turned to watch her. It was the Kat effect, I’d soon realize. People couldn’t seem to help it. She turned heads everywhere she went.
“Hey!” Kat exclaimed as she reached me. I had stood up to greet her, and she gave me a light kiss on the cheek before slipping daintily into the seat beside me. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“No, not at all,” I rushed to assure her.
“Good.” She smiled brightly. “Have you met Henry?” I shook my head soundlessly. “Henry!” she called out.
The dapper bartender glanced up. “Kat, my dear!” he boomed, a smile spreading across his face as he approached us. Kat leaned over the bar and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “How have you been, darling?”
“Excellent.” Kat turned to me, beaming. “This is my new neighbor, Connor,” she introduced.
His large hands swallowed mine in a brisk handshake. “A friend of Kat’s is a friend of mine!” I gave a quick smile, feeling thoroughly confused. But before I could try to piece things together, he moved on. “Now, what would you two like to drink? Kat, your usual?” She nodded. He turned to me. “And you?”
“Uh – I’ll just have a beer, thanks.” He nodded and bustled off. I turned to Kat.
She read the unasked question in my eyes and scooted closer to me. “Henry Sullivan,” she revealed quietly. “When I first moved to New York about a year ago, I had three dollars in my pocket and a change of clothes. By complete chance, I walked in here. He helped me out, gave me a place to stay for a little bit, then helped me find an apartment. I drop in from time to time to see him. He’s got some amazing stories, you know. Real interesting. And, of course, I basically owe him my life.”
She shrugged casually. Our drinks arrived. Henry placed my Corona in front of me and a martini on a white napkin for Kat. “Thanks,” I said distractedly. When he was out of earshot, I asked Kat, “Where had you moved from? When you came to New York, I mean?”
“California,” she replied vaguely, in a breezy tone. But I hadn’t missed the way her back stiffened before she answered, or the slight hesitation before she gave her answer. Her body language was perfectly clear: personal questions were off-limits. “What about you?” she asked, taking a dainty sip of her drink. “What brought you over the bridge to Manhattan?”
I took a swallow of my beer. “Well… It’s a funny story, actually.”
“Do tell, Monsieur!” she exclaimed dramatically, as she speared her olive and slipped it into her mouth.
I shot her a grin and launched into the tale of my after-hours graffiti sessions in Brooklyn, tipping back in my seat. “It all started when a few of my friends were just messing around,” I began. “Me and a few buddies went around and spray painted empty buildings and walls and stuff. Just for fun, you know. We were bored; it was a good time. But then I got really into it. I’d start going out at night on my own to spray. I loved experimenting with colors and shapes and…” My voice faded as I struggled to think of how to describe it. There was no other feeling in the world like the rush of power I felt holding a paint can, knowing that a whole other dimension of art was just a spray away. Nothing else in the world had made me feel like that before. Like I could do anything, absolutely anything, and I could die knowing that I had left my mark on the world. I was lost in my thoughts for a second before I refocused on Kat. “But then I got caught. Police took me in.”
“What happened?” Kat asked, those long-lashed eyes wide and martini completely forgotten.
“I was being charged for vandalism and disturbing the public peace, or some shit like that, and my mom couldn’t pay the bail,” I recounted, somewhat bitterly. “It’s such a stupid thing to lock someone up for. I mean, there are murderers and rapists and all kinds of criminals running around in New York, and they chose to arrest some kid who painted pictures on a wall?” I shook my head, still enraged with it all. “But then a representative from Pepsico came and said that if I agreed to work for their art department, they would bail me out.” I shrugged. “And that’s how I ended up here.”
“So they basically blackmailed you into working with them!” She laughed.
“Basically,” I admitted. “But anyway. That’s what brought me here. How bout you? What do you do?”
Kat leaned back in her seat and picked up her martini, a mysterious expression creeping onto her face. “Well, you could call me a collector,” she divulged unwillingly, pushing her glossy hair away from her face.
My brow furrowed. “Of what?” I was thinking paintings, art, museums, but her next words took me completely by surprise.
“Of rich men.” I must have given her a completely blank expression, because she went on, carefully choosing her words, “It’s very simple. I go out with them; they give me money.”
“You mean like a hooker?” I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
She slapped my arm lightly, offended. “No! Of course not!” She downed the rest of her drink in one swallow and leaned closer to me. I got a sudden whiff of a honey aroma from whatever shampoo it was she used, and had a sudden inexplicable urge to run my fingers through her dark hair. I mentally shook myself and focused on what she was saying. “Here’s how it happened,” she began quietly, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. “Henry’s well-connected, you know. He keeps this bar just for kicks; he doesn’t even need the money. Anyway, while I was staying with him for a few weeks, he introduced me to a few people. One of whom was my ex-boyfriend, by the way.” She rolled her gray eyes. “Quel bastard. But he used to take me to all these ‘high society parties –,’” she made dismissive air quotes over those last words – “and I realized, I can make money off this.”
“How so?” I asked, still suspicious. It sure as hell sounded like she was a prostitute or something. A high-class one, but a hooker nonetheless.
Kat rolled her eyes again, seeming to read my mind. “Nothing too bad. I tell the men I date I’m an heiress from down south whose parents give her a meager allowance, and they’re happy to give me some money to help make ends meet.” She shrugged innocently. “And now I’m considered a bona fide Manhattan socialite, thank you very much.”
“How crafty,” I commented, finishing my beer as I remembered her picture in the paper I had seen that morning. Huh, I thought to myself. So she’s telling the truth.
“Oh, don’t judge,” she chided. “It works on both ends. They give me money to pay for dresses and gifts, which I then use to pay for my rent. And in turn they get my company!” She flashed a dazzling smile that made my head spin. “Enough talking about this. Let’s have another round. Henry!”
It was past twelve when we finally staggered out of the bar onto the quiet street, after several rounds of pool with two bow-tied strangers. We somehow managed to lose every single game, and we were giggling drunkenly over the injustice of it all.
“You know, I just do not trust people who wear bow ties,” Kat declared as we set off back to our block.
“Not a good look,” I agreed. My mind was comfortably spinning – I’d had just enough beer to lift my mood, but not enough to make me really plastered.
“My dad used to wear a bow tie,” Kat rambled on, even more talkative – if that was even possible – with alcohol in her system. “Or maybe he still does. I have no idea, I mean, I haven’t seen him in forever…” I completely lost focus when she tucked her arm into the crook of my elbow and leaned on me for shaky support. It was such a simple gesture – she could have done it a million times before with anyone – but it made my senses go into overdrive as she continued her incoherent rambling.
I only noticed when she fell completely silent. I glanced at her; she was gazing up dreamily at the sky, as though in another world. Talking would only ruin the comfortable silence that had settled between us, and so I walked on without a word, enjoying the feel of her arm entwined in mine and the scent of her faint sandalwood perfume. We passed under a streetlight as we turned onto 70th Street, and the fluorescent glow threw her face into a gentle focus – her long dark curls blurred in the midnight, and her cheekbones looked softer, less severe. But her eyes, the wisps of grays and light blues, had such a surprising sharpness that I couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was thinking of.
I didn’t have to wait long to get my answer. As we neared our building, she let go of my arm and sprawled down on the front steps next to the stone lion, which now looked feeble and weak in the dark. With her pale pink dress, delicately exposed shoulders, and nearly emotionless face, she almost looked like a broken doll, cast away and deserted before she’d had a chance to shine. I sat down beside her tentatively. Across the street, the sign for Holly’s, the 24-hour diner, flickered halfheartedly, but all else was dark. But when I glanced at Kat, I saw she was looking up, not out.
“When I was young, my brother and I used to stargaze together,” Kat said unexpectedly. Her voice didn’t sound right – there was a shaky hesitance to it that stripped her of all her confidence. Her words were heavy, not just from the alcohol, but something else entirely. Sorrow, I realized. “He was really into it all – names, patterns, constellations. You know. I think the best memories I have are with him, sitting on our porch at night.” She dug suddenly into her purse, and pulled out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. “In New York –,” she fumbled with her lighter, “ – I never see stars.” Inhale disease. Exhale smoke. “There’s always buildings and lights and smog and shit. And sometimes… I’m afraid I’m losing him.” Her words hung in the air like the smoke from her cigarette, her gaze determinately fixed on the tendrils of fading gray drifting upward.
I scooted close to her and cautiously put her arm around her. When she didn’t object, I pulled her a little closer. She shifted so her head was leaning on my shoulder, and I could smell vodka and the overwhelming aroma of cigarettes and yet still, under all that, her sandalwood scent lingering and the honey of her hair. “You know, Connor,” Kat spoke up again, now sounding sleepy. “I really think Tyler would have liked you.”
I squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’m glad,” I said softly. And we sat there together long after her cigarette had burned out, staring up at the sky for a glimpse of the stars.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm so sorry for the extended time it took me to post the next chapter!I was a little busy with school stuff and I was trying to figure out how I wanted the next few chapters to play out. Hopefully the next one will be easier for me to write. I'm not altogether happy with the beginning of the chapter, but I do like the second half, so comments would be awesome.