Anything But Practical

2. Aiden

Francis smoked as we walked the few blocks to my apartment. I remembered duly what Pauline had said about not letting him have any more cigarettes, but I couldn't find it in me to raise the issue, too preoccupied with worries of my own. Was my apartment clean? Had I remembered to put away the laundry I'd done the other day? When was the last time I had lit a candle or bought an air freshener?

"Oh shit!" I slapped a hand across my forehead before turning to Francis. "Your daughter! Is she—?"

"At her aunt's," said Francis, waving me off.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Fiona wasn't quite a kid anymore, but thirteen was still much too young to stay home by oneself. I congratulated myself on my good luck, though I lamented the situation for Fiona; I knew for a fact that she merely tolerated staying at her aunt's for her dad's sake.

"This is me," I said as we came to a halt outside my front door.

Francis dropped his cigarette on the concrete and paused to squint at our surroundings. "You live in a motel?"

"No, no, it's an apartment. The building used to be a motel, but a rental company bought it a few years back and repurposed it. Now they're marketed as 'retro studios,' which is basically an excuse for them to leave the shag carpeting and fifty year old appliances."

Francis chuckled, revealing the seldom-seen gap in his front teeth that I loved so much. The sound soothed my frazzled nerves, and I was able to stop my hand from shaking enough to turn the key in the lock.

To my immense relief, the apartment was clean. There were a few dishes in the sink and a couple stacks of mail on the counter, but nothing overtly humiliating. I closed the door behind Francis before stumbling over to the tiny kitchenette to compulsively tidy.

"Make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink?" I asked, shoving the mail into an empty drawer.

"What do you have?" Francis called, already wobbling over to the only available seat in the room. I had to do a double take. Francis was in my apartment, sitting on my futon, which I had thankfully left folded up into the couch position. It wasn't exactly like having him in my bed, but the thought stirred something in me regardless.

"Um..." I tried to remember what he'd asked me. "Let's see. I've got water, coffee, tea, some soda—"

"Any beer?"

"Yeah. Yeah, gimme one sec."

By the time I joined him, Francis had made himself comfortable on the futon. I'd never been so grateful for my broken air conditioner in all my life. The first few buttons on Francis' collar had been popped open, and he'd rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt to reveal freckled forearms dusted with gold hair.

"Here," I said, handing one of the open bottles of beer to Francis. He accepted it as I sat down next to him, leaving a sliver of space between our legs.

"Thanks." He took a long drink. "You know, this is a pretty nice place you got here," Francis said, nodding around the room.

I couldn't help but note how different it was from the usual space we shared together; where the bookshop was chaotic and sprawling, my apartment was neat and small.

"It's a studio apartment," I laughed. "We're sitting on a futon."

"Still, it's not bad for a college student," said Francis, before falling suddenly silent.

I looked down at my hands. Technically, I was no longer a college student. Though Francis had strongly discouraged me from it, I had dropped out of university a few months ago to pick up more hours at the bookshop. It wasn't a wound I felt like reopening, so I hastily looked for a change of subject.