[original] sometimes lonely hearts they just get lonelier.
31-days. leaning against the wall.
It was as if she could not stand properly without something holding her up. It seemed she was perpetually up against a wall or a door frame, her fingers curved her belt buckles, shoulders curved in what didn't resemble a comfortable position.
Elena would pass her on her way out of the restaurant, and only give her a short sidelong look before slipping into the passenger seat beside one of her brothers.
-Isn't she cold? Alejandro asked her once.
-Does she need a ride? Oscar offered.
Both times, Elena shrugged, and closed the window on her side, busying herself so she couldn't study the distracted look on Rosalyn's face.
The first thing Elena notices as she stepped outside one February evening was the absence of the Calais. The parking lot was completely empty with the exception of Brinn and the chef's car.
And, of course, Rosalyn leaning against the wall. As breath left her mouth, the air curved and danced visibly before floating away from both of them. Elena was took busy watching this performance to realize she'd spoken.
-Um, what? I could't hear you.
-Don't worry about it, it wasn't important, she said.
A long silence stretched out between them, interrupted by the nighttime noses and the shuffling of the faraway bushes. And humming, coming from inside. Rosalyn and Elena both looked over their shoulders toward the entrance of the restaurant, waiting.
--And it's bad neeeeeews. Baby, I'm bad neeeewwwss... Brinn threw the doors open, as if she were the star, Academy Award winning actress exiting the set after yet another tiring, draining rehearsal in which she'd been forced to explain herself to plebeians all day. The chef followed, or better yet, slumped forward behind her, his feet shuffling and his eyes like marbles. Elena looked into them and could almost see the future.
Crystal balls.
-Ready t'go, girly?
Brinn had been born in Korea, and Rosalyn's parents had been American and Australian. But they were sisters, it was plain in their twin grins and the way their eyes could reach inside you and snatch up whatever part of you they liked. These same hazel eyes flicked over to Elena, filled with a question, but hesitant.
-Do you have a way home?
Elena nodded soundlessly, pulling her coat around her more tightly.
-Alrighty, then, let's head home, there's a hot bath with my name engraved on it, Brinn said, beginning to walk toward her car, the truck which screamed out for a new layer of paint. Please.
-We can't just leave her out here by herself in the middle of the night, Brinn! Rosalyn called out after her, not moving from her spot against the building. This is didn't stop Brinn as she walked toward her exit with determination.
-Then wait with her, Roz. I don't know what to tell you...I'm going home.
The two of them exchanged a look, and it was the first time they had looked in each other's eyes. Rosalyn though Elena's eyes were almost black, and got chills, but didn't say anything.
-I'll be fine, Rosalyn. Thanks for...you know, but, really...You should go. She'll really leave you.
For a moment Elena thought Rosalyn was going flash her characteristic grin and, waiting out the cold Feb night out with Elena. She pictured slow, but steady, conversation, perhaps a laugh.
Elena pictured intertwined fingers and gentle pecks on the forehead.
-Okay. Bye, I'll see ya.
Elena watched Rosalyn walk away, disappointed but silent. The truck pulled out of its parking spot, and drove off, at which point Elena let her gaze fall on where the horizon faded into the shadows.
She couldn't tell if she had been picturing Rosalyn doing these things, or remembering Ismene doing them. What was the difference between the two? Rosalyn wasn't very much like Ismene. She was tall, gangly and eager. Full of laughter and with a relaxed gait. Ismene was thicker, slower to react and brusque. Hernandez had been the one who had needed to be the nice one, to soften the edges of their life.
Now María Elena Hernández was the hard one, the one hiding behind closed eyelids and chapped lips. These she licked, and waited in the cold dark, underneath the awning of the restaurant. Alone, but for the ghost of a lover in her thoughts, and the rising need. Alone, but for the wall she then leaned against, until the lights of the Calais blinded her.
It was as if she could not stand properly without something holding her up. It seemed she was perpetually up against a wall or a door frame, her fingers curved her belt buckles, shoulders curved in what didn't resemble a comfortable position.
Elena would pass her on her way out of the restaurant, and only give her a short sidelong look before slipping into the passenger seat beside one of her brothers.
-Isn't she cold? Alejandro asked her once.
-Does she need a ride? Oscar offered.
Both times, Elena shrugged, and closed the window on her side, busying herself so she couldn't study the distracted look on Rosalyn's face.
The first thing Elena notices as she stepped outside one February evening was the absence of the Calais. The parking lot was completely empty with the exception of Brinn and the chef's car.
And, of course, Rosalyn leaning against the wall. As breath left her mouth, the air curved and danced visibly before floating away from both of them. Elena was took busy watching this performance to realize she'd spoken.
-Um, what? I could't hear you.
-Don't worry about it, it wasn't important, she said.
A long silence stretched out between them, interrupted by the nighttime noses and the shuffling of the faraway bushes. And humming, coming from inside. Rosalyn and Elena both looked over their shoulders toward the entrance of the restaurant, waiting.
--And it's bad neeeeeews. Baby, I'm bad neeeewwwss... Brinn threw the doors open, as if she were the star, Academy Award winning actress exiting the set after yet another tiring, draining rehearsal in which she'd been forced to explain herself to plebeians all day. The chef followed, or better yet, slumped forward behind her, his feet shuffling and his eyes like marbles. Elena looked into them and could almost see the future.
Crystal balls.
-Ready t'go, girly?
Brinn had been born in Korea, and Rosalyn's parents had been American and Australian. But they were sisters, it was plain in their twin grins and the way their eyes could reach inside you and snatch up whatever part of you they liked. These same hazel eyes flicked over to Elena, filled with a question, but hesitant.
-Do you have a way home?
Elena nodded soundlessly, pulling her coat around her more tightly.
-Alrighty, then, let's head home, there's a hot bath with my name engraved on it, Brinn said, beginning to walk toward her car, the truck which screamed out for a new layer of paint. Please.
-We can't just leave her out here by herself in the middle of the night, Brinn! Rosalyn called out after her, not moving from her spot against the building. This is didn't stop Brinn as she walked toward her exit with determination.
-Then wait with her, Roz. I don't know what to tell you...I'm going home.
The two of them exchanged a look, and it was the first time they had looked in each other's eyes. Rosalyn though Elena's eyes were almost black, and got chills, but didn't say anything.
-I'll be fine, Rosalyn. Thanks for...you know, but, really...You should go. She'll really leave you.
For a moment Elena thought Rosalyn was going flash her characteristic grin and, waiting out the cold Feb night out with Elena. She pictured slow, but steady, conversation, perhaps a laugh.
Elena pictured intertwined fingers and gentle pecks on the forehead.
-Okay. Bye, I'll see ya.
Elena watched Rosalyn walk away, disappointed but silent. The truck pulled out of its parking spot, and drove off, at which point Elena let her gaze fall on where the horizon faded into the shadows.
She couldn't tell if she had been picturing Rosalyn doing these things, or remembering Ismene doing them. What was the difference between the two? Rosalyn wasn't very much like Ismene. She was tall, gangly and eager. Full of laughter and with a relaxed gait. Ismene was thicker, slower to react and brusque. Hernandez had been the one who had needed to be the nice one, to soften the edges of their life.
Now María Elena Hernández was the hard one, the one hiding behind closed eyelids and chapped lips. These she licked, and waited in the cold dark, underneath the awning of the restaurant. Alone, but for the ghost of a lover in her thoughts, and the rising need. Alone, but for the wall she then leaned against, until the lights of the Calais blinded her.