Inhale

Ashlynn

     Another missed call from Chris. Exasperated, Ash tosses her phone onto the bed and grabs her bags off the bedside table. She pulls out clothes and books, stuffing them into the mahogany dresser drawers near the bedroom door.  
     She knows she'll feel guilty about avoiding him later, but she continues to let her anger at him mask that for now. Two rooms away, she can hardly hear her mother's stifled sobs. Ash, who had become quite used to this over the past few weeks, knows now that this means her mom will be asleep soon to try to temporarily escape her life.

      She stops in the middle of unpacking when her stomach grumbles with the roar of an approaching storm.

     "Ugh," she says to no one. "Where am I supposed to find food in this place?" She leaves and goes down the grand flight of stairs, pausing momentarily to observe an armless statue carved into the midsection of the railing.

     It takes Ash fifteen minutes to find the kitchen, though most of that time is taken up primarily of her wandering the house in awe of its ancient structures.
     When she finally does find the kitchen, though, she's met with only disappointment. Though the ice tray is fully packed in the freezer, the fridge itself holds nothing but the stale odor of cold milk from God-only-knows how long ago. She rummages through the cupboards and drawers, but finds only cutlery, dusty wine glasses, and old china.

     Since her hunger isn't fading, she slides on her coat and stomps out the front door.

     All the way up and down the street, she's shocked to see houses that look so unlike the one they're in: old, wind-torn white shacks that look like they're already halfway to hell. Most are two-story, though one or two on the block have collapsed floors and caved-in walls. Meanwhile, their own house is in a far more pristine condition. It looks like it was ripped straight out of a history book from the eighteen-hundreds and thrown down in the middle of the ghetto.

     Ash walks through the cold precariously, and is pleased to find a small, family-run pizza parlor sitting by the intersection down the road. Though this part of town appears old and run-down, many cars drive down the road, and the parlor's parking lot is half full.

     Ash pushes the metal bar on the door to the parlor, and it opens with a joyful chime from the bell swinging against the glass. The smell of cooking dough rushes to greet her, and she takes pleasure in the burst of warmth. Stepping in, she almost capsizes as someone grabs the closing door behind her and speeds into the room. This someone carries what appears to be a stack of empty pizza boxes that towers above their head, tilting precariously to the left.

       Ash watches in awe as the person rushes past her, only to slam-slash-drop the tower into a heap on the ordering counter in front of them.  Across the room, a few small families sitting around checker-board tables scowl at the disruption.

"Shit!" The feminine voice utters as half the boxes clatter onto the floor in front of the counter.

     Ash takes her chance to appease her curiosity, stepping towards the girl and kneeling down.          "Let me help you with that," she smiles.

     "Oh, thanks." The girl doesn't look at Ash, instead choosing to try to grab as many boxes as she can before Ash can take the grunt of the load.    Together, they set the newly formed tower back onto the counter and into the waiting arms of an old Korean man wearing a stained white apron and a blinding orange shirt with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. He nods once at Ash before turning with the boxes in-hand and disappearing into what Ash assumes to be the kitchen behind the swinging white door.

     Ash then turns towards the girl, who is busy shaking a mostly empty tip jar on the table with the curiosity of a toddler who's trying to figure out multiplication. She then turns her attention to Ash after apparently having noticed her staring and holds out her free hand.