Antilove

Ventuno

CAPITOLO VENTUNO

in between and out

***

THE PAIN NEVER hits her. No hangover, no cure. Sunday morning, Rose opens her eyes, and breathes in the air. There's someone sprawled out beside her, maybe even two someones.

Dust floats in spirals and patterns in the morning dusk of her room. With clear, opaque eyes, Rose studies it. They move in dedicated lines, almost as if there's a phenomenon occurring in the quietude of her house. She'll never find meaning in little pieces of forgotten memories. Sighing, she gets up and walks to the bathroom.

Shower. Rinse. Repeat.

Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Towel off.

There's nothing to do on Sundays, especially not mornings and she doesn't even know why she's up this early but there's a feeling that maybe, she'd let her guests let themselves out.

In the kitchen, it hits her.

Maybe it's a small corner of the house she's never been in twice but the smell. It smells just like Lucien.

It smells like the time she broke out in hives and it smells like the time they baked and she dropped a salt—or was it pepper?—shaker. It smells like the time she, dripping in chlorine and hazy pools, dropped a wine bottle against the marble.

It smells like the day it all started, Alex hanging by the fridge, ravenous and not for her body.

The first time she saw stars in the city and the first time she saw the ocean in the sky.

Rose finds it hard to breathe and move. The inside her thighs ache and she suddenly feels like taking another shower. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

But she sees the salt shaker abandoned on the counter, a chip on the side. Her hands start to tremble and her mind clouds over her eyes. The compass in her heart goes haywire and the taste of iron drowns her tongue.

I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay.

It's always been evident that she was never herself. The first time her body acted out of her control and then the way her body exhausted itself crying as she realized that she's fated to carry out her mother's legacy. Which mother, though? They're both dead.

The sound of a car alarm rings in her ears, louder than the rushing sound of blood, so she throws on a dress and goes for a drive.

California weather has been unrelenting the past couple of days. Dry heat pouring down and unyielding sunshine manages to placate Rose but when it's night and the temperature cools, she's finding new pleasures to immerse herself in.

Ecstasy? Which one? The pill or the vice?

Cocaine? Done with Benjamin Franklins. It always leaves her sobbing afterwards though. She's been doing a lot of that lately, crying that is. There's also an abundance of shaking and the absolute loss of control.

Her last good time with Lucien? Probably the night before. It wasn't all just physical.

***

"What would you do if you were me?" Rose asks.

"What do you mean?"

"If someone offered you everything. What would you do the next day?"

Lucien stares at her.

They're both lying on the bed, the one they ruined the sheets on. He's lying on his back, head on his arm and pillow while Rose is on her stomach, just a few inches away. They search each other's eyes endlessly and wondering.