My Bones Ache From the Cold

“You smoke too much.”

The girl scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It was just a mess of knots now, the shoreline breeze making sure of that.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re not scared you’ll get cancer?”

She couldn’t see too well in the dark. There were streetlights, sure, but they were nearly a mile away and it had been cloudy all day, meaning the moon wasn’t reflecting on the water the way it usually was. Who was he to question her? They were strangers, and she intended to keep it that way.

“I said fuck off, yeah?”

She’d finished four cigarettes since the time he arrived, nearly dead from alcohol poisoning and making a mess of the sand with his jagged footsteps. He just wanted her to like him. He wanted everyone to like him, especially when he was drunk, but he wasn’t very good with words. His mother always used to yell at him because he didn’t think before he spoke and it got him into a lot of trouble.

“My grandfather died from lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She wasn’t sorry, he knew. She hadn’t even known his grandfather. Maybe she would’ve liked him. They both swore a lot and smoked too much. He used to go to his grandparents’ house for Sunday dinner, and his grandfather would always tell him stories about the war while they sat on the front porch. They were awful stories, not at all appropriate for a seven-year-old boy, but his grandfather didn’t care. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

“Where are you from?”

She finally turned to him, wondering where he got off on asking her all these questions and telling her all these things. All the nights she spent in this exact spot and no one had ever bothered her before; why now?

“Stop talking to me.”

“I haven’t traveled much.”

“I don’t care.”

Waves kept breaking against the shore, filling their ears with harsh noise. It’d seemed quieter before he showed up and started talking to her; now she was longing for silence. Or to be alone.

“What’s your name?”

“Don’t have one.”

He took a sip from a bottle. She only knew this because the glass clanked against his teeth and the sound made her wince.

“I’m—”

He puked then, and even in the dark she could see the spew catch the wind the wrong way and nearly blow back in his face. Luckily she was out of the line of fire.

“You all right?”

He was still puking. She hadn’t noticed him drinking too much as he stood there, meaning he must’ve loaded up earlier on in the night. She wished he hadn’t. She’d just wanted to be alone, not forced to waste her condolences and attention on strangers.

“Drank too much.”

“I can tell.”

“You’re not from around here are you?”

“I’m on vacation.”

She wasn’t. She’d moved there nearly a year ago but had yet to meet anyone who could attest to that. She spent most of her days alone, smoking cigarettes and staring out onto the beach because she didn’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to be. The beach was hers, and now he was polluting it with his vomit and overall presence.

“Who would vacation here?”

“I would.”

“But why?”

“Didn’t I tell you to fuck off ages ago?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“You’re annoying.”

“How am I annoying?”

“You won’t stop talking. Plus your sick is all over the beach.”

“Who cares?”

“I care.”

“Why?”

“Stop fucking asking questions.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I am talking to you. Unfortunately.”

“Fine, but you’re being a bitch about it.”

“And you’re a drunken arse, so I think we’re even.”

“Are you from England or something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you?”

“I’m from wherever you want me to be.”

“My cousin studied abroad in London.”

“So does everyone else.”

“She wants to be an actress.”

“So does everyone else.”

“She’s one of my best friends.”

“Who would ever want to be friends with you?”

“You aren’t very nice, are you?”

She shrugged, walking a few feet forward to wet her cigarette enough to put it out. She shook it a few times, trying to get rid of the stray droplets, before shoving the butt in her pocket. She’d throw it away later.

“Why are you here at four AM?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“You’re not supposed to answer a question with another question.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me.”

“The beach patrol have never yelled at you?”

“They’ve more important things to worry about, I’m sure.”

“I used to come here a lot when I was in high school. Sometimes we’d have parties. They used to yell at us a lot.”

“So you started drinking quite young.”

“Yeah.”

“Explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where your brains cells have gone.”

“Do you want to come back to my place?”

She weighed her options. The sleeves of her sweater had gotten wet sometime throughout the night and she was cold, but she could barely stomach the thought of spending more than ten minutes with him. But aside from being annoying, he seemed harmless, and if he was going to spend the next few hours having a sick it’d be difficult to make a move.

“Yeah, all right.”

“It’s the building on 12th and Spruce — you know it? The brick one?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well it isn’t too far. We could walk if you want.”

“That’s fine.”

“My car’s in the shop or I’d offer to drive.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Telling me things I don’t give a shit about.”

“How am I supposed to know you don’t give a shit unless I tell you?”

“Just assume I don’t.”

“What d’you care about then?”

“The beach and Fenwick.”

“What’s a Fenwick?”

“It’s a who, and he’s the dog I had when I was young.”

“I had a dog when I was young, too. A Rottweiler. He was mean to everyone but me.”

“That’s nice.”

“What kind of dog is Fenwick?”

“Was. And he was a Cocker Spaniel.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t even know him, how can you be sorry?”

“You said you were sorry about my grandfather.”

“That’s just a thing people say.”

“You didn’t have to lie.”

They reached his building and he fumbled with his keys. He was still drunk, still seeing double, and the streetlight at the corner had gone off hours ago so it was dark and he couldn’t see. His stomach turned for the millionth time that night and he threw up into the bush next to the steps that went to the door. She grimaced and looked away.

“Sorry. I can’t find the key.”

“Did you lose it?”

“No, no, I think I got it.”

He tried every key on the keyring before finally getting the right one. He’d forgotten to turn the air off before he left; his apartment must’ve been twenty below. His hands immediately started feeling for light switches, getting caught on tears in the peeling wallpaper he hadn’t bothered to fix when he moved in. He couldn’t really afford it anyway.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Seriously, stop asking me shit. It’s annoying.”

“Fine.”

He led her further into the apartment, all the while wishing he’d cleaned up a bit. The remnants of his lunch were still in the sink and his roommate hadn’t done the dishes like he’d asked. Maybe she wouldn’t care.

“Make yourself at home.”

She didn’t have a home. She spent most of her nights wandering, wondering whose couch she’d end up on, and sometimes she’d sleep on the beach if it wasn’t too cold. She wanted to tell him this but didn’t. He’d already asked too many questions; it would prompt too many more.

“What’s upstairs?”

“Two bedrooms and a bathroom.”

“Can you get to the roof?”

“You mean to sit on it?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Lead the way.”

The stairs creaked under their combined weight. He was still drunk and sloppy, knocking into the wall as he ascended. There were no pictures, just more peeling wallpaper. The building was old, something only the upper-class would’ve been able to afford while everything was still new. But that would’ve been decades ago. Everything was stale now.

“Do you want a sweater?”

“Yeah, okay.”

It was two sizes too big and had been washed too many times. It used to be black; now it was faded and smelled like laundry detergent and old cologne. The neck was stretched and it didn’t fit around the hips the way it should’ve. She didn’t care. It was bare protection against the cold of the early morning.

They climbed out his bedroom window. She hadn’t stopped to let her eyes linger. His walls could’ve been white or blue or green and she wouldn’t have known.

Neither spoke for a long time, just staring into the distance. The sun hadn’t risen yet but it was on its way, with the sky changing colors in order to adapt. It’d been dark blue when they left the beach; now it was a bouquet of pinks and oranges and yellows.

“Do you do this a lot?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m really drunk.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to drink so much.”

“But you did anyway.”

“She left me.”

“Who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I went to the beach because I wanted to die.”

“What?”

“I was going to kill myself. Drown or die of hypothermia or something.”

“Over a girl?”

“I loved her.”

“No one’s worth dying over.”

“Yes they are.”

“You think she’d kill herself over you?”

“I don’t know.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“If she would she wouldn’t have left you.”

“Are you always this honest?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“I didn’t want you to have to watch me die.”

“Do you still want to kill yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you want me to see you die?”

“You’d be all right after watching me kill myself?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I didn’t know you then.”

“You don’t know me now, either.”

“I know your girlfriend left you and you wanted to die because of it. That says a lot about a person.”

“What does?”

“What they’re willing to die for.”

“What does that say about me?”

“You’re lonely. Always have been.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why can’t you be alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s ironic.”

“What is?”

“You were ready to off yourself because you can’t be alone, but when you’re dead that’s all you are.”

“It’s not important now.”

“So you don’t want to kill yourself anymore?”

“I guess not.”

“How come?”

“Why would you ask someone why they don’t want to die anymore?”

“Because what someone’s willing to live for says a lot about a person, too.”

“Why did you come back here?”

“You needed me to.”

“You didn’t know that then.”

“Yes I did.”

“How?”

“Because you told me I smoke too much.”

“So?”

“You care that I’m killing myself.”

“What does that have to do with me needing you?”

“It just does.”

“You never told me your name.”

“Noah.”

“Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“You saved my life.”

“Not on purpose. That doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“I’d be dead without you.”

“You shouldn’t think about killing yourself when you’re drunk.”

“Why not?”

“Because everything seems like a good idea when you are.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“You might be.”

“After you leave, am I ever gonna see you again?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”