(no subject)
“Hey.” Her voice was tired, but not as tired as the look in her eyes. Eyes that were usually beautiful were now watered down into a pale and sickly hue of shadowy predawn.
“You don’t look too good,” I told her truthfully as I sat down next to her, the stench of wet dirty cotton and stale alcohol wafting from her well-worn trench coat. I usually teased her about the garment, telling her she looked like a serial killer or a PI stereotype depending on how cruel I wanted to be. Tonight I didn’t want to be cruel at all. Her appearance was haggard, marring natural beauty and causing me to worry despite knowing it was pointless.
“Don’t feel so good,” she answered in equal frankness, her voice cracking before the sentence was finished and making me realise the glassy look in her eyes was probably a sign of fever and not intoxication. But I wasn’t sure, knowing her it could be either or both.
I silently battled between wanting to show my concern and knowing she wouldn’t think kindly of me if I did. Finally I decided I better just give her what she came here for. It would probably do her more good than my misguided compassion or as she’d call it; pity.
“So?” she spurred me on. I bit my tongue briefly.
“I’ve got what you’ve been looking for,” I finally told her, some colour immediately returning to her cheeks at the comment.
“Best news I’ve heard in a week,” she said with a tired grin. “Best fucking news.” She exhaled a sigh of relief causing her chest to rattle as a coughing fit made her body shake like a leaf in the strong autumn wind. I reached out to stroke her back, but pulled back my arm as I realised what I was about to do. Instead I fished out the notebook from my coat pocket, pulling it out and tearing a page and handing it to her.
The coughing had stopped and she looked more miserable than ever, but a brief smile of gratitude touched her eyes and I returned the gesture with a faint curving of my own lips. She took the piece of paper from between my fingers and I wanted to say something more, but I didn’t know what. With another nod she pocketed the note and slipped down from the stool. Another faint smile directed at me and then she disappeared out the door, chest rumbling and her steps unsteady. I sat there watching, debating whether to follow or stay.
“Can I get you something?” the bartender suddenly asked and interrupted my internal debate.
“Sure, make it whatever you have on tap,” I relented, one final look at the closed door before I turned my attention to the glass of amber liquid heading towards me.
“You don’t look too good,” I told her truthfully as I sat down next to her, the stench of wet dirty cotton and stale alcohol wafting from her well-worn trench coat. I usually teased her about the garment, telling her she looked like a serial killer or a PI stereotype depending on how cruel I wanted to be. Tonight I didn’t want to be cruel at all. Her appearance was haggard, marring natural beauty and causing me to worry despite knowing it was pointless.
“Don’t feel so good,” she answered in equal frankness, her voice cracking before the sentence was finished and making me realise the glassy look in her eyes was probably a sign of fever and not intoxication. But I wasn’t sure, knowing her it could be either or both.
I silently battled between wanting to show my concern and knowing she wouldn’t think kindly of me if I did. Finally I decided I better just give her what she came here for. It would probably do her more good than my misguided compassion or as she’d call it; pity.
“So?” she spurred me on. I bit my tongue briefly.
“I’ve got what you’ve been looking for,” I finally told her, some colour immediately returning to her cheeks at the comment.
“Best news I’ve heard in a week,” she said with a tired grin. “Best fucking news.” She exhaled a sigh of relief causing her chest to rattle as a coughing fit made her body shake like a leaf in the strong autumn wind. I reached out to stroke her back, but pulled back my arm as I realised what I was about to do. Instead I fished out the notebook from my coat pocket, pulling it out and tearing a page and handing it to her.
The coughing had stopped and she looked more miserable than ever, but a brief smile of gratitude touched her eyes and I returned the gesture with a faint curving of my own lips. She took the piece of paper from between my fingers and I wanted to say something more, but I didn’t know what. With another nod she pocketed the note and slipped down from the stool. Another faint smile directed at me and then she disappeared out the door, chest rumbling and her steps unsteady. I sat there watching, debating whether to follow or stay.
“Can I get you something?” the bartender suddenly asked and interrupted my internal debate.
“Sure, make it whatever you have on tap,” I relented, one final look at the closed door before I turned my attention to the glass of amber liquid heading towards me.