Pallid

The next morning, when I walk into the kitchen for my post-Celeste coffee--mundane little tasks are the only thing that distract me anymore--she's sitting on the cramped counter between the microwave and the wall, eating a bowl of cereal.

She stops mid-chew, milk dripping down her chin and onto her leg. She finishes the mouthful slowly and swallows, wiping her face awkwardly with her hand. This is weird, mostly because when she runs off with Ulysses, I don't see her for a good day or two at least.

It's never the day right after. So I don't really have any time to convince myself that she's young and naive and that I can't be mad at her, so now I'm just really pissed and annoyed. Mostly at Ulysses, but still.

I watch her for a couple of seconds, then move to the cabinets, grab the tin of coffee and set it next to her leg.

If she wants to ignore me, I'll ignore her too.

Or try to, anyway.

I go about making my coffee. I can feel her stare on my face. She eats quietly, the spoon clinking against the glass bowl almost silently. I lean against the wall, staring at the spot above her head with my arms crossed.

"So... did you sleep okay last night?" she asks timidly. I've never heard her like this, so quiet and shy and scared.

Is it guilt?

Celeste doesn't feel anything.

The drugs and the drinking and the mindless sex take care of all that.

What could it be, then?

I'm quiet, listening to the coffee drip into the pitcher.

"Rhys?" Celeste tries again, biting her lip. She looks back down at the bowl on her lap, then drinks all of the milk, wiping her mouth with her shirt when she's done. She puts the bowl in the sink.

She never does any of those things either. Once in a blue moon, I'll see her eating cereal with her hand in the box, a magazine in the other as she sprawls out on the floor. And sometimes she'll drink the rare glass of milk. Whenever I tell her to eat something, she just laughs in my face and smokes a cigarette. She doesn't put dishes in the sink. She doesn't put anything in the sink. She doesn't do dishes.

Celeste doesn't do much of anything, really.

This is all very strange.

I grab a mug from the cabinet when the coffee is done and pour myself some, ignoring her pleading glance.

"I'm sorry."

She doesn't plead or beg or do any of those things. I don't think I've ever heard her say those little words to anyone, ever.

"Hey! Hey, you!" she says, a little miffed. I take my mug and yesterday's paper and walk to the bed, sitting down on the edge. I flip on the TV. She stalks towards me, standing in front of me angrily. I change the channel and sip my coffee calmly, looking around her. "Rhys!" she exclaims again, stomping her feet. "I'm talking to you."

I glance up at her, drinking some more coffee.

"Why are you ignoring me?" she asks, hands on her hips.

"Why are you ignoring me?"

"Don't make fun of me."

"Don't make fun of me."

"You're not funny."

"Neither are you."

"You're a moody asshole."

"You're a cheating bitch."

"I hate you, Rhys."

"And I love you, Celeste."