but the sky is never gray | frank ocean.

an apple a day

❝ Birds seen flying around,
You never see them too long on the ground. ❞
-Kid Cudi. Mr. Rager.

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A green ceramic bowl of apples rested on the granite counter, behind them a darkskinned African American woman playing detective. After seeing her victim, a succulent looking Granny Smith with only one visible mushy spot, Rowe settled back into her bar stool, carefully picking at the sticker.

Today, she was a booked woman. First on her list of errands was to drop by the nearby Tesco and get something to eat, making sure to stop by the back to collect her check, and then she was off to M's, where she would procure the confidence to organize plans with Chris.

Slightly sour juices dribbled down her chin as their most recent interaction was pulled to the forefront of her mind.

"Anyone ever told you you got one of those familiar faces?" Rowe had asked, his beige bucket hat offering her slight coverage from the raindrops. She had been memorizing his facial features nearly their entire walk, utilizing the weak excuse that she had "seen him somewhere before", which was not entirely a lie.

Chris smirked like he knew something she didn't. "Something like that."

That look never failed in simultaneously sparking her interest and making her IQ feel ten points lower. "What you mean? You famous or something?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was?" His chuckle rang through her ears, seeming to press play on the clouds for a second.

Rowe set her pupils on his once again, a look on her face like she was trying to decide if he was worth believing. "No, you don't act it. Famous people don't hang out in coffee shops and walk strangers home."

A playful pout crossed his beautiful features. "I'm still on stranger-level? What I gotta do for an upgrade?"

"Let me think on that for a second," always the theatric, Rowe paused in middle of the sidewalk with her hand supporting her chin. "Sorry, no upgrade available at this time."

"Funny." Christopher leaned in, his latte-scented breath and Chanel perfume washing over his walking companion. "How about I give you my number and see where that gets me."

The obviously pleased man reverted to his original distance, his coffee bean irises directly in her line of view. Even Rowe had to admit that was smooth. He had earned his stripes.

She handed him a shiny black iPhone 7, bottling up the glee rising to the surface. "Let's see."

But that was a whole 17 hours ago. A sigh escaped her mouth, materializing in the form of a puff of fog, reminding the twenty-four year old that she had a bill to pay.

She located her electric blue and cantaloupe orange slides directly next to her mirror, forcing her to see an identical woman, dressed like somebody's crocheting grandmother, staring back at her.

Whatever. The only people she was going to talk with today had most likely seen her in much worse conditions. Rowe was glowing compared to what she looked like nine days ago; what she was going to look like after putting the product Memo gave her to good (or bad, if you were looking from the outside in) use.

∆

Rowe hadn't felt this much glee since her encounter at the coffee shop; as soon as her manager touched her sweaty palms with the thin paper piece of freedom, she was racing herself to M's apartment.

The only thing running through her mind was the feel of finely crushed happiness running through her nostrils, the light at the end of her tunnel.

Of course Rowe knew it wasn't healthy (things that bring that much pleasure rarely are).

Her skin itched even when it didn't feel dry, her nose bled without any kind of stimulation, hell, some days she would walk in a room and forget what she came there to do.

But she couldn't stay away.

The dull cherry red, scratched up Audi that served as her Über even seemed to brighten up at the sight of the pearly apartment complex gate.

Rowe speedwalked to the intercom, trying not to look too 'I'm here to buy drugs' as she pressed the button to talk.

"Open up, it's Rowe."

The voice that oozed out of the speaker was what Rowe always imagined a Siamese cat would sound like. "Where are your manners? Don't you think I've earned a 'please' or two?"

The textured sole of Rowe's slides grated against the gravel as she slid her foot back and forth impatiently. She knew better than to snap back at M how she would any other smartass.

"Please open up, M."

"A little desperate, are we love?" It was true. The whiny pleading tone of Rowe's voice had even gotten to her.

The door buzzed, signaling its unlocking, and Rowe swore she heard the angel Gabriel serenading her arrival.

She rattled up the stairs, anticipation and self-loathing clawing at her every step of the way. Was this really the highlight of her day? Is this what it had come to?

No time for an existential crisis, the little voice inside her head (that sounded sickeningly like M) crooned.

Her tiny, cracked hand pounded the pinewood door, which opened almost immediately, revealing a woman not much older than her cozied up against the door in a black plush velvet robe.

"Come inside, love." Rowe entered, noting how M slithered to the kitchen, the silhouette of her hips swaying in the dimly lit room.

Rowe clutched her money tightly between her slender fingers, staring at the floor. Despite how many times she went through this, she still experienced that nagging feeling of shame. "You've got it then?"

"Haven't I always?"

Fair enough, Rowe thought, feeling her grip on her Queen Elizabeths loosen until it was replaced by a slippery plastic nirvana. The quickness with which she exited leaving a minor black mark on M's hardwood floor.

"And this is how you repay me?" The black haired woman shrieked after her customer, no doubt flailing in the general direction of the miniscule imperfection.

So desperately did Rowe want remind her supplier that 'payment' had come in the form of British royalty's likeness, but M was nothing if not reliable, and she would almost certainly be back later in the day. M was a pain in her everything, but Rowe hadn't overdosed from her shit.

Yet.

And while Rowe would probably never be clean, it was important to her that what packed her nostrils remained exactly that.

∆

Clogged sinuses had filled Rowe's head with a fleeting sense of self-assurance. Clogged sinuses had convinced shaky digits to type out an unbelievably witty invitation clogged sinuses had pressed send with no hesitation.

So now she had approximately 23 hours until she accompanied Frank to the local Nando's.

No doubt regret would come knocking when she went back to old, less than impressive Rowe.

∆

This is unrelated, but I fucking hate STL weather. It was a whole 75 degrees three days ago and now the grass is frozen because it's 10 degrees. NOW I'm fucking mad.

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