Apricot.

It happens only once or twice a year, a storm that sends even the spine of Thor up the leaking walls: a storm that shakes the skies and punches holes in the roof with balls of off-white crystalline hail.

As far as being a god of thunder goes, Thor is precarious; however, he flourishes entirely as a husky. He snuffs at the crook under my neck, rousing me from sleep to find that I'll pull him into my arms to comfort him. He yearns for porcelain, which often intercepts the static of the storm; I don't have porcelain in my house. I can hardly afford to plug holes in the ceiling.

I learn quickly of the time – five hours into January 23rd, we are. As my senses begin to engage, I am suddenly aware of the dampness of my bedsheets, and horribly reminiscent of the puncture wounds my ceiling has sustained. I hear the creaks and groans of the weak house as the weight of water and snow brings it nearer and nearer to its demise: the whipping winds serving as a metronome. I feel the wet drip-drop onto a portion of uncovered leg, and I open my eyes.

It only takes a slide on the tattered carpet to dry my clammy, moist feet. I pick Thor up, all eighty-five pounds of him, and waddle to the colder kitchen. He is trembling, and I feel like a small girl with an oversized teddy bear. I try for a switch, but the lights don't come on. I don't care for the reason; if the storm disengaged the lights, I cannot help it, and if the bulb burned out, I have no others.

As he looks worriedly at the flashing windows, I place him on the cluttered island counter top. I slide a bowl over to Thor, and he stares at it, debating whether he should continue to mind the lightning or if he should give undivided attention to nourishment. Thor begins to salivate. I feed him stale cereal, and he eats, tail wagging off the counter.

I take the worn, rather moist blanket from my bed and drape it over him as he eats. We stay there for a few hours and then I leave him there. He will not jump down.

Retreating to my flyspeck quarters, I see in the mirror, when the lightning flashes, a pale dishevelled woman. She is twenty-eight years old and stone-broke. I notice that my stomach is receding into my body, and my thighs no longer sag. My breasts stay as they are, hanging like dead weight beneath a dingy tank top. I am cold; it is apparent.

I have a meeting today. I make way to the bathroom. Grime and rust coat the sink, the mirror, the toilet, the bath.

The water, I expect, will not run clear; when I turn on the tap, I am accurate. It is lukewarm at best; I rinse my mouth with it. I lather plain soap on my skin, in my hair, and between the little metal balls around my body. I shave with a rusted, dull razor. The tap goes off. I have no towels. I walk back to the kitchen, where Thor has arranged his head onto the counter beside the bowl. Gently pulling the blanket from him, I dry myself. White fur sticks to my body. I place the blanket back on Thor, and he howls quietly as the thunder perseveres.

Back in the dark bedroom, I step on an earring. It goes through my foot, but I pull it out and guide it through my ear. I find jeans and slide them over my damp skin; they hang looser than usual. A grey tank top goes over my head and my arms go into a windbreaker.

The hair I have is heavy, and weighs down to my lower back. I do nothing with it. Thor's soft yammers quiesce and eventually dissipate like darkness when the sun comes up; evidently, it already has.

Thor is sleeping when I enter the kitchen. He is old and beautiful. His nose, originally black as night, is now a retired apricot.

The rain has ceased and the lightning has faded; all that remains is a dull boom, miles into the sky. I scoop up Thor and take him to my bed, struggling to hold up his floppy ear as I tell him I owe him a promenade in a hushed whisper. He sinks into the mattress and after a few moments, begins to snore. I tell him we'll be better soon. I promise him a finer life.

I slip on nondescript shoes and leave the house, if “house” is a good word to describe what I live in. On the outside, it looks like a methamphetamine laboratory. On the inside, it looks like a methamphetamine laboratory that is depleted of resources: and it is. Nine Forty Five Rue Babylon used to be an infamous meth lab, then the administrator-tenant disappeared. I could call him a boyfriend, but I am under the impression that a boyfriend is someone you look for when he goes missing.

I was never into the meth scene. He obviously was, could still be. Not sure. Maybe he hit a goldmine, maybe he got capped. I don't care.

My destination is not far, so I choose to walk. The streets are deserted and wet. There are piles of hard snow scattered around, and they dully reflect the grey, troubled sky. It is Sunday in the warehouse district; I make way for business. I follow my instructions.

I get there within the hour, a tall sleek scraper that exhales businessmen. I see the small neon sign in the lobby: Aphrodite, it flashes, Thirteenth Floor. My eyes stay down as I enter and ride the elevator.

“Appointment with?” I am immediately asked, even before the doors slide open. It is the voice of a receptionist, surprisingly loud, as she is sitting at the opposite side of the sitting room.

“Island.”

“Name?”

“I don't–”

“Doesn't matter. We'll give you a new one. Sit.”

I do. The room is coloured red, as is the chair I sit in. The desk is mahogany. The wall art is morbid and black; so is the receptionist. There are magazines, should I choose to amp up my sex drive with five easy tips or lose flabby arms in ten days.

“Island, you've got a Red. Yeah, I guess it's red...” the receptionist scrutinizes me. “Can't tell, it's wet.”

“Send her in,” a sultry, hard voice coos on the intercom.

“First on the left.” The receptionist is expecting me to move or look up at her; I do both, and she gestures to a dim hallway.

My hand sits on a grand golden doorknob for a few minutes until I apply pressure and the door is ajar. I open it only as much as I need to, so that I may slide in quietly.

“A Red indeed,” a woman croons from the desk in the centre of the room. She leans back in her black leather chair. “Fair, but doleful. Sit.”

Again, I do as I am told. My chair is just as regal as hers is. She flips open a book and writes in loopy, streamlined cursive. She looks up every so often, and I assume that she is noting her observations.

The room is a darker red, and the window is covered with a thick maroon drape. There are rows and rows of books behind Island, and I spot titles; The Merchant of Venice, Great Expectations, A Clockwork Orange. She is studying my face as I study her office. There are no ornaments on her desk, just a black crystal paperweight and a dim lamp.

“You're in shambles, Red #4. Do you know why I'll take you in? Because you're just that, Red #4. We've got blondes, we've got brunettes, but a natural Red is hard to come by.”

I chance a look at Island. She has short blonde hair, pixie-like, I could say. She wears it slick back but puffed, like an obnoxious man, but it suits her. She is tan, and her face is a defined oval; she has plump, matte pink lips. Island's eyes are aqua green and rimmed with black. Her eyebrows are high blonde arches. She shimmers. Wearing a black, fitted pantsuit, she looks almost as androgynous as I do, except if we were both men, she'd be the sexy, groomed bachelor and I'd be the long-haired cracko.

“You need work. I won't say you don't. Where do you live, Peach?”

“Rue Babylon.”

“Crackhouse?”

I nod.

“You hooked?”

“No.”

“I believe you. You may look skinny, but you're still full. Not skeletal. Still got that rack, and what a rack it is.” She gestures to my open windbreaker. “You live with anyone, Sugar?”

“Proprietor used to run the lab. M.I.A now. I live in his kitchen, bedroom and bathroom with my dog.”

“Dog. I can do dog. Yeah, that's fine.” She mumbles as she scribbles in her notebook. “So no job, no money, no healthcare, no family, no man –” I would be right to believe she was checking off little boxes. “No problem. You'll attain all of those within a matter of days. Congratulations, Red #4. Aphrodite is your first agency.”

She shakes my hand across the table, and her face is ruttish. Her fingers are soft, and grope up to my wrist before we let go.

“You'll need something to go by, Peach.”