Fifteen | ✓

eight

"Welcome to my humble abode."

Christopher flung his guitar case onto the worn couch near the living room's centre with more force than necessary, and Catherine tried not to wince as it tipped  over and hit the floor.

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Don't worry; it's okay. It's seen worse."

That week he'd invited her to his own home, not dropping an address through SMS like she had done, but escorting her himself.

Christopher lived in a dingy apartment building a stone's throw from downtown, his flat walls dirty and in need of a scrubbing.

Judging by the stack of used plates in the kitchen sink (there was no demarcation between the two rooms), they were not the only things that needed to be cleaned. 

"A little too humble, yeah?" Catherine gingerly held a sock between her thumb and index finger before flinging it; it landed on the small television.

Christopher shrugged, taking off his shoes and setting them beside the front door. At this motion she looked at her own shoes, wondering whether to remove them like he'd done to save his tiled floors the extra scuffing. She decided not to; she wasn't wearing any socks and was convinced that her toes were the ugliest things to ever walk the face of planet Earth.

As Christopher rested on the couch beside his guitar, his feet propped up on a coffee table, she sauntered into the kitchen. The fridge exterior was bare, save for the drawing that was hung there by a strawberry magnet - her drawing she'd given him all those weeks back.

He'd kept it.

Her chest tightened as an involuntary blush crept up her neck.

When she pulled open the refrigerator door, she wasn't surprised to see a half empty pack of raspberry Popsicles stacked into its freezer section.

She tutted, reaching downwards to retrieve a carton of orange juice. Within that time space that her back had been turned, Christopher had suddenly materialized. He rested his hip against his beige kitchen counter as she poured herself a glass of juice.

Almost immediately after she'd dropped the carton, he'd picked it up and drank straight from it. She then eyed her cup suspiciously, wondering if he'd done the same before she arrived, now taking tiny self conscious sips.

As he wiped the dribble across his chin with the sleeve of his shirt, she voiced the question that had been bugging her from the moment she crossed the threshold and entered his home. "Do you live alone?"

He smiled, minus the humour, placing the carton back in the fridge. Catherine set her glass down - he had definitely drank from it before she came. "Ish."

"Ish? What do you even mean by that?"

"In a way. Not totally, but practically, what with a dad whose presence is scarcer the actual charms in Lucky Charms."

She crumpled her face at his strange use of analogy, brushing it aside. "Did something happen to your mum?" She'd noticed the way he tensed up at the topic three weeks ago when he had rediscovered his love for Popsicles and stomped on cracks, and the impression hadn't left her mind since then.

"She left." His voice was barely a whisper and he had his knuckles clenched tightly on the countertop. They were turning pale. 

"What happ-"

"Look, Catherine I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

His words hit her like a slap of cold water across her face. She realized the gargantuan importance of the subject because that was the very first time he had addressed her by her name.

It was not as enjoyable as she'd envisioned: hearing her name roll of his honey glazed tongue in his melodious voice, she staring into the sparkling dark oceans that were his eyes.

But no, it was nothing like that. His voice was as sharp as a blade, his eyes quickly loosing their lustre and transforming into cesspools rather than oceans.

He was angry.

Or was he upset?

It was hard to tell between the two with him.

"I'm sorry," she spoke quietly, as if afraid that a higher volume would push Christopher off the edge.

"I'm sorry," he echoed. The spaces in between their bodies minimized as he hovered toward her. A shiver ran down her spine when he tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear before backing away. She let out a breath of relief, but also felt at a loss of his presence. "My father is a man that prefers work to his own family; his only family," he emphasized toward himself.

"But you know he loves you. He's doing it all for you."

"Don't defend him, Sketch. He's a deadbeat."

She smiled at the return of her nickname after its brisk absence, her thinking intercepted by the sound of deep groaning. 

"I cannot wait to get out of his place and leave to college."  Christopher had now hung his head so that he was facing the ceiling, fingers pulling at the ends of his hair.

"College..."

She'd almost forgotten about that; about the part where he was supposed to up and leave. People were temporary. She'd chosen to ignore the fact before then, and chose to ignore it after, leaving to to grow and manifest like a tumour.

A burnt cigarette butt on the floor caught her attention. "You smoke?"

Christopher followed her gaze with his own, a light blush dusting over his cheeks as he honed in on the object, as if ashamed. "Occasionally. From time to time. When I feel exceptionally miserable."

"Oh," Catherine said as her mind ran with various things to use to persuade him to discontinue the swatching of his lungs with black tar, no matter how sporadically or intermittently. "Smoking kills," was what she ended up saying, lamely.

Christopher chuckled humourlessly, sitting on his haunches so that he could pick up the butt. "You know, I find it very ironic... how we do things that we think will complete us and make us feel alive, when in the end they just cause our deaths."

The ashy cigarette crushed underneath the pressure of his fingers.