flash fiction: 2 am silence [nanoljers]
Flash fiction written for nanoljers here.
Warning: Language, language!
2 AM silence
Fuck.
This is her first thought. And since she is thinking (and she never does that when she's dreaming), she knows she must be awake. She doesn't open her eyes yet. There's an angry little man inside of her head with a sledge hammer, banging against the front of her skull.
It hurts like all hell.
Fuck, she thinks again.
A groan, dry and heaving, escapes from her throat. She sounds like a toad. She probably looks like worse. But it's dark beyond her closed eyelids, so she can't tell yet.
Eyes still closed, she pulls herself into a sitting position. There's a warm limb draped across her lap; a calf that's attached to the body of a male model she vaguely recognizes. She remembers he has a nice ass.
Nice, she thinks. Her agent is going to have a field day when she calls him. As soon as she can find her phone. As soon as she can find her purse.
She stands up in the dark; there's a small window to the left. It's night out, no stars in the sky. She can hear the rain pounding outside on the roof. Her roof. She's in her house, she knows that much. She feels the smooth, shag carpet between her bare toes. Installed just last week.
The angry man drills harder inside her head when she gropes blindly in the dark for her cell phone. She slows her movements, and the little man with an anger complex calms down.
She needs tomato sauce, and lemon juice. And some of that cayenne pepper shit. She's not exactly sure how much to measure out of each, but Harry does. (Harry's her agent, he knows everything. He's also her sister's agent; it's how they met. Harry and her, not her and her sister.)
The little man takes the drilling back up a notch.
Another groan, this time from deep in her lungs. She feels the vibration all the way up her throat; she has terrible morning breath at the moment.
Somehow she gets out into the hallway. The room to her door was kicked open (she hadn't wasted any time the night before). The male model is snoring, a shapeless lump in her dark room as she walks out into her dark apartment.
She feels like a broken marionette doll. Her limbs are too long, too lean, she can feel her ribcage expand and contract with each breath she takes as her heart beats inside her chest. She's starving, but not. She blames the alcohol from the night before.
Her cell phone goes off, somewhere in the kitchen down the hallway.
It's miles away, and the angry man inside her head doesn't like the noise disruption.
Angie, her sister, she thinks, but it's not. Her kitchen is dark, but she opens up her fridge for light instead of flipping a switch. The light from her fridge is blue and soft and it doesn't make her eyes cringe as much as the overhead lights would. It's a blocked number; she doesn't answer those. After the night before, who knows who has her number now.
A knock on the door, four sharp raps against 2 AM silence. The angry man inside her head isn't happy.
She doesn't go to answer it. Her sister isn't home yet, it's probably her. A logical assumption for her hungover brain to make; the drilling in her head is rather dominant to clear thought at the moment.
"Kaye?"
She groans in response; it's Harry. Fuck. She slumps onto a kitchen barstool, shoulders hunched over. She lays her forehead against the cool granite counter top. Her fridge is still open, but there's not much food in it to spoil in the first place. In her line of work, eating is gratuitous and a career killer.
"You in the kitchen, Kaye?" Harry's whispering, and she's thankful. It's not the first time he's seen her like this.
It is, however, the first time he's come at 2 in the morning. Everyone saw her leave the party in a cab with a model from the agency party last night.
She doesn't like surprises, but she trusts Harry to have a reason.
She sees his tall, dark form standing in the kitchen doorway. Even though she can't see his face clearly, her head turned slightly to the side, forehead still touching the counter top, she knows he's looking at her with the same unreadable expression as always. Blank, professional, stoic - call it whatever you want. He's always acting so serious. He's only a few years older than her. One of those business moguls, one of those smart agents. He's got all the good models under his belt, and he's not even 30 yet.
Harry's her agent; it's his job to keep her together long enough to make it to her photo shoots.
He's also three inches taller than her, even though she's 5'10".
The industry likes tall girls. Tall, thin girls.
"I need that tomato shit," Kaye says into the silence. The angry man inside her head has all but disappeared at Harry's sober appearance.
It may be the dark, or it may be the hangover (she's done this how many times?) but she thinks she sees his face pause - soften - for the space of just one shallow breath.
She's almost positive she doesn't imagine it, and the change in Harry, her agent, is...
Well, rather unexpected.
The angry little man inside her head gets back to work, and she cringes as Harry gets to work, whipping up his hangover miracle fix in the 2 AM silence.
Yeah, I blame watching thousands of Top Model re-runs...; )
Warning: Language, language!
2 AM silence
Fuck.
This is her first thought. And since she is thinking (and she never does that when she's dreaming), she knows she must be awake. She doesn't open her eyes yet. There's an angry little man inside of her head with a sledge hammer, banging against the front of her skull.
It hurts like all hell.
Fuck, she thinks again.
A groan, dry and heaving, escapes from her throat. She sounds like a toad. She probably looks like worse. But it's dark beyond her closed eyelids, so she can't tell yet.
Eyes still closed, she pulls herself into a sitting position. There's a warm limb draped across her lap; a calf that's attached to the body of a male model she vaguely recognizes. She remembers he has a nice ass.
Nice, she thinks. Her agent is going to have a field day when she calls him. As soon as she can find her phone. As soon as she can find her purse.
She stands up in the dark; there's a small window to the left. It's night out, no stars in the sky. She can hear the rain pounding outside on the roof. Her roof. She's in her house, she knows that much. She feels the smooth, shag carpet between her bare toes. Installed just last week.
The angry man drills harder inside her head when she gropes blindly in the dark for her cell phone. She slows her movements, and the little man with an anger complex calms down.
She needs tomato sauce, and lemon juice. And some of that cayenne pepper shit. She's not exactly sure how much to measure out of each, but Harry does. (Harry's her agent, he knows everything. He's also her sister's agent; it's how they met. Harry and her, not her and her sister.)
The little man takes the drilling back up a notch.
Another groan, this time from deep in her lungs. She feels the vibration all the way up her throat; she has terrible morning breath at the moment.
Somehow she gets out into the hallway. The room to her door was kicked open (she hadn't wasted any time the night before). The male model is snoring, a shapeless lump in her dark room as she walks out into her dark apartment.
She feels like a broken marionette doll. Her limbs are too long, too lean, she can feel her ribcage expand and contract with each breath she takes as her heart beats inside her chest. She's starving, but not. She blames the alcohol from the night before.
Her cell phone goes off, somewhere in the kitchen down the hallway.
It's miles away, and the angry man inside her head doesn't like the noise disruption.
Angie, her sister, she thinks, but it's not. Her kitchen is dark, but she opens up her fridge for light instead of flipping a switch. The light from her fridge is blue and soft and it doesn't make her eyes cringe as much as the overhead lights would. It's a blocked number; she doesn't answer those. After the night before, who knows who has her number now.
A knock on the door, four sharp raps against 2 AM silence. The angry man inside her head isn't happy.
She doesn't go to answer it. Her sister isn't home yet, it's probably her. A logical assumption for her hungover brain to make; the drilling in her head is rather dominant to clear thought at the moment.
"Kaye?"
She groans in response; it's Harry. Fuck. She slumps onto a kitchen barstool, shoulders hunched over. She lays her forehead against the cool granite counter top. Her fridge is still open, but there's not much food in it to spoil in the first place. In her line of work, eating is gratuitous and a career killer.
"You in the kitchen, Kaye?" Harry's whispering, and she's thankful. It's not the first time he's seen her like this.
It is, however, the first time he's come at 2 in the morning. Everyone saw her leave the party in a cab with a model from the agency party last night.
She doesn't like surprises, but she trusts Harry to have a reason.
She sees his tall, dark form standing in the kitchen doorway. Even though she can't see his face clearly, her head turned slightly to the side, forehead still touching the counter top, she knows he's looking at her with the same unreadable expression as always. Blank, professional, stoic - call it whatever you want. He's always acting so serious. He's only a few years older than her. One of those business moguls, one of those smart agents. He's got all the good models under his belt, and he's not even 30 yet.
Harry's her agent; it's his job to keep her together long enough to make it to her photo shoots.
He's also three inches taller than her, even though she's 5'10".
The industry likes tall girls. Tall, thin girls.
"I need that tomato shit," Kaye says into the silence. The angry man inside her head has all but disappeared at Harry's sober appearance.
It may be the dark, or it may be the hangover (she's done this how many times?) but she thinks she sees his face pause - soften - for the space of just one shallow breath.
She's almost positive she doesn't imagine it, and the change in Harry, her agent, is...
Well, rather unexpected.
The angry little man inside her head gets back to work, and she cringes as Harry gets to work, whipping up his hangover miracle fix in the 2 AM silence.
Yeah, I blame watching thousands of Top Model re-runs...; )