Triple Digits

Corey Strickland

When he awoke at five in the morning on Saturday, Corey Strickland found Claire slouching at the dining table, cradling a cup of coffee ordered up from room service with her good hand, the other resting in her lap in a loose hug. Dark bags were under her eyes, and she was still wearing her pyjamas, a blanket draped loosely over her shoulders. She'd tugged the curtain open only three or four inches, allowing her to gaze out at the city, even if her gaze remained glued to the table, lost to whatever thoughts were running through her head. Her nose was red again, and there was a pile of tissues on the table. She'd been crying while he slept!
He watched her from his bed for the moment. She looked like one of those paintings one might find in a museum, of a Lady mourning the loss of something dear to her.
She looked like grief and regret was devouring her piece-by-piece.
The creak of his mattress as he shifted had her turning toward him, and she mumbled, "You can't sleep?" Not knowing she was sitting there, looking like she wanted to throw herself from a balcony. She needed a friend; something to cling to other than herself. Her voice sounded flat and dull, like she'd cried any and all traces of emotion out.
"Not really," he said in way of answer, knowing she was waiting for one, "You?"
"Nightmares," she whispered, shuddering.
Sitting up, he patted the mattress space next to him, and she rose without a word, abandoning her coffee cup and dragging her feet on the carpet. When she slid into bed next to him, he wrapped an arm over her shoulders, squeezing for comfort and shifting the blankets so they covered the both of them, not wanting her to be cold.
Not saying anything, he simply laid there at her side, holding her, and eventually, her breathing began to even out again as she slipped back into sleep...