Don't Look Too Deeply

chapter one

The coffee starts to cool, half forgotten. She rolls a cigarette, perched cross legged on the edge of the kitchen bench. The wooden floorboards beneath are rough with history—some her own. Looking out the window, the grungy beige hues of down town New York.

The sound of clattering keys and the front door opening causes her to turn her head.

There he is. He smiles at her as if she is a stranger he knows well.

"Gracie," he says, and she can't tell if he's saying it as a statement or a question.

She pushes herself off of the bench, pouring her coffee into the sink. "You were out late last night," she comments, a hint of distaste that she would never make apparent.

He chuckles, but his lips don't part. "And what do you mean by that?"

She shrugs—the water now filling the mug. "Just a comment," she says.

"Mm," he mutters. "I'll believe you."

Grace turns to Parker. She looks him up and down. He is dishevelled and still a little drunk. "So, what were you doing?"

He leans against the wall. His caramel toned leather jacket scrunching against the concrete. "Writing," he answers. "Well thinking of what to write."

"So drinking?" She smirks.

He stands up straight, stifling a laugh. "Sure," he says as he rolls his eyes. "Well, I'm going to go to bed." He walks past her, taking the unlit cigarette from her fingertips, tossing it in the damp sink. "And I don't wanna hear any more judgment from you," he smirks back at her.

She watches him as he sluggishly walks to his room, the door closing with a loud and hopefully accidental bang. She flinches then turns to her ruined cigarette. She watches it sit there, perfectly intact yet completely destroyed.

She reaches on her tip toes to the highest shelf, pulling down a box of cereal. The fancy kind she only splurges on when things are going her way.

She opens the seal and pulls out a bowl.

With the cereal poured she sits on the floor of the kitchen, letting the milk soak in.

Loud music begins to blare from Parker's room. She rests her head against the cabinet, closing her eyes as she takes a bite.

After a while, she places the empty bowl on the floor beside herself. She pushes herself up, turning on the faucet.

The apartment is small, even for New York standards. Cluttered with a kind of mess that happens when you live more in your head than in the space around you. A stack of books, half open, lies on the floor beside the couch. The faint scent of cigarettes and whisky in the air, and empty cans scattered in kitchen.

Parker's jacket is draped over the floor beside the books. With the bowl clean, she walks over, picking it up and dusting away the cigarette ash that had plagued it overnight. She places it delicately on the arm of the couch.

She glances toward the door to his room. The music is louder now but the lyrics are softer. She doesn't knock, she leans her head against the door. Just for a moment. A mere second. Just long enough to feel the hum of the bass against her skin. Then she pulls away.

She takes her keys, leaving the apartment and climbing down the six flights of stairs onto the street.

It's early autumn, the air lightly chilled, though the sun warms her skin just enough to bring out a rosy glow. It's that in-between kind of weather that leaves people and their wardrobes confused—half the street bundled in coats, the other half with their legs fully exposed.