The Show Must Go On

Chapter Forty-Six: Friends

Chapter Forty-Six Soundtrack: Friends by Chase Atlantic

We walk up the cobbled street to our apartment in the quiet humming evening. It's still light, blue and gold and half-hazy, and everything is in-between again, and as we turn a corner the back of his hand brushes mine and I want to hold it, but instead I let it swing away.

'Hey!' someone across the street calls. We met them at some conference, or gala, or pub trip, ages ago, and I guess they came for the premiere too, so somehow we're trapped in a conversation with this couple as we're walking home. Clearly, my displeasure shows because Nas murmurs in my ear, 'Smile, Eleanor.' I plaster one on.

What was I expecting, anyway? That he'd sling an arm over me and call me his? That we'd make love tonight in the lingering sunlight? Grow up, Ellie.

As we continue chatting to them, walking a few steps behind, the cool of the air makes me shiver. And so does the warmth from Nas's body as he steps closer. There's his hand on the back of my neck, ghost-light.

'Have a great one!' he calls as the conversation finally ends, but I don't care. I just keep my back perfectly upright, not leaning in or pulling away, trying not to spook him.

'Thank God,' he whispers. 'I thought I'd have to ravish you with an audience.'

I snort. 'Have I told you today that I hate you?'

'Tell me again. I like it.'

I turn to laugh and my hands fall against his chest. For this moment, we're just a young couple, happy after an evening together, touching like it's nothing.

I know his face so intimately that I imagine it now instead of seeing him. I overlay atop his face the thousand other days I have seen: exhausted, jubilant, bearded, bruised, behind glasses, without them, smirking, smiling. A kaleidoscope of Nas.

I try to forget him, though I know him so dearly. I try to just look at him. I want to see him exactly how he is.

'Can we go home?' I ask, and he takes my arm and takes me the final few steps to our door.

As we cross the threshold and climb the stairs, neither of us speaks, and once the door clicks shut behind us, we stand for a moment in the entrance of our apartment. It's a narrow, high-ceilinged living space, with only a worn couch and a drooping plant to fill it.

'How's the ear?' he asks.

'Oily.'

He steps towards me with a mischievous smile and, without looking away, leans in to kiss my earlobe. 'Mmm. Oily indeed.'

'That was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen.'

'That can't be true.'

'I honestly don't know if I can get over it.'

He rumbles with laughter against me. 'I've been thinking that for years, though for different reasons.'

'What-'

Nas interrupts me with a kiss. His hands slide down my back, one pressing against my waist and the other stroking my neck to keep me close as he kisses me, harder and harder, sucking on my lips and pressing me into him. I'm enveloped in the warmth of him. Our legs tangle together and I nearly trip.

He tastes so familiar. Like Nas, yes, but also... but also like me, because we're sharing the same toothpaste. We taste the same.

I trace a hand along his cheek and he shudders into my lips.

His mouth traces down my neck, nipping my collarbone, and I go tense and loose all at once.

My ear has popped. I can hear again. 'Oh my God.'