[18+] Mark just wants a quiet life. With plenty of action at work, he has no interest in bringing the drama home with him. But he does need a flatmate, and when blonde bombshell Zoe crashes onto the scene, she's more than he bargained for.
Zoe is a...
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October 2006
Zoe
Mark's rigid routine and shift patterns see us crossing paths at set times of the day, so when I get home from uni to find him sitting on the sofa instead of cooking dinner like he usually does after a day shift, I instantly know something's wrong. And that's before I notice his elbows propped on his knees and his head buried in his large hands, knuckles white where he clutches tufts of dark hair.
"Hey," I say cautiously, easing the door shut with a quiet click. "Everything okay?"
He doesn't move, and neither do I. Even after two months living together, I struggle to read him, but today he seems different. Dare I say it, emotional. I mean, I've seen his emotions before—predominantly anger and frustration. Not always directed at me, but often.
I'm a fast learner, though, and I've adapted around his routines, picked up on what irritates him and what pacifies him. Shared cooking—he likes that. It's the only thing we do together, and even then it's not really a joint activity considering that we take it in turns. So now, when I get home and see no evidence of dinner in progress, I know this isn't a normal day.
Sucking in a deep breath of courage, I set my keys onto the worktop and bend to pick up the pile of mail on the floor. Usually Mark leaves the post on the coffee table for me. I sift through it, pausing on a letter for him with INGLATERRA scribbled below the hand-written address. Who does he know in Spain? It's none of my business, but maybe we have something in common after all.
I edge towards the coffee table and lean over to place the envelopes in the centre. He doesn't acknowledge my presence, not with his usual grunt or nod, nor with his lip-curl of displeasure when I do something he doesn't like.
As I straighten up, my fingers itch to touch his shoulder. To comfort or reassure. I'm not sure he'd like that, though. Plus, I still can't tell what's wrong, and given that he doesn't like physical contact during his normal moods, it's probably best to avoid it when he's vulnerable and no doubt extra spiky.
For several seconds, I stand in front of him and watch, like a visitor at a zoo observing a caged lion. One wrong move, and he'd bite my head off. Like that time I forgot to put the bins out, or when I smashed his favourite mug.
I'm so close to him that he has to know I'm here. With tension locking his broad shoulders and his hands clenched into fists, he's too stiff to be asleep. Maybe I should take the hint and leave him be. Then again, if he wanted privacy, he'd be in his bedroom, not in the lounge.
Slowly, I lower to my knees in front of him. He hasn't removed his boots, which is another red flag. Normally he won't step an inch off the welcome mat until he's taken off his shoes.
"Mark." I nudge my elbow against his calf. That doesn't really count as physical contact, right?
When he continues to ignore me, a flicker of irritation heats my cheeks. I know he's not the best communicator, but an acknowledgement would be nice. Even if he wants to be alone, tell me that. I'm not a mind reader.
