The Edge Of A Beg | Jamie Cook

six

Since I have no memory of how I ended up in my bed around three o'clock last night, I might as well guess that a truck ran over me. Maybe even two, seeing how shitty I'm doing today. I dreamt of calling Jamie, dancing to ABBA, and other nasty images I'm too ashamed of.

Well, there were three outgoing calls in my contacts. I must have called Jamie by mistake. It's odd, and I truly don't want to dwell on the details. Surely I would remember such details if it was true.

And people are usually quiet in the morning. Why do they all seem to be screaming now?

"Is that really the best you can do?" May shouts at me from across the tennis field, resting one hand over her hip.

It is. I can barely stand on both feet without feeling dizzy.

Huffing, I grab another ball, adjust my stance and put all my power into the hit.

Better. The ball flies one from one side of the court to the other, until I decide that the round eventually ends. I'm not conscious enough for this kind of thing, as much as I enjoy it.

"You look seriously dead," May mocks me as we walk closer to the net.

I couldn't compete with her. She's wearing that white skirt I got her last Christmas, the exact same as mine with her own initials. Her black hair is neatly pulled back, while mine is a subject I've been avoiding since we got here, two hours ago.

"I went out last night," I reply as if she hasn't guessed already.

"Met someone?"

She gets on her knees and takes a water bottle out of her bag. I do the same and finally sit with my arms around my knees. My forehead feels disgustingly sweaty, but in a good way.

"No. Obviously," I say as she hands me the bottle.

"You should. It would be good for your aura, I suppose."

Right, my aura. Part of the things I've been trained to believe to romanticise the dull reality, which doesn't make much sense to me. I'd rather believe in concrete things, if only they existed in my reality.

I chug the water with my head tilted back, the sun burning my eyelids. It's rather cold today, but at least it's not raining. I haven't run and moved like that in weeks.

"How's work?" she asks, probably pretending to care.

"Could be worse."

"I've started the job with my sister. The one I'd told you about."

"How is it?" I take another swig.

"I hate working."

I scoff. Of course she does.

We watch the surroundings for a while little. That's what I like about her: she knows me well and she doesn't speak when it's not necessary. I'd just like her a little more if she truly cared about me.

"Ohhh, would you look at that," she drawls after a few seconds, standing and waking me up in the process.

I'm laying down, my eyes covered by my forearm. I move my arm away and blink a few times at the view.

"What?"

"The guys over there," she whispers for no reason. "They're watching us, aren't they? I didn't actually notice but they've been here for a while now."

I look up, narrowing my eyes until the shapes become actual bodies. Men. Four of them, and one with a familiar hairstyle in a convertible. I only know one guy who owns the same car, and he works at the office. Or rather just make an appearance there every day.