ever since new york || h.s.

nine

I woke up on the floor beside my bed, a sharp ache in the front of my head and behind my eyes, the light pouring in from the outside window making it hard for me to see anything besides white light. My insides were turning, my lower back was tense, and my mouth was impossibly dry. I was still wearing my dress from the night before, unzipped in the back as if I had started to try to do it myself but tired out halfway through, and my makeup was caked up in different spots but bare in some. I was a hungover mess for the first time in a long while.

As I tried to get to my feet the best I could with only partial vision and a weak stomach, the memories from the night before flooded into my mind. The shiny dresses. The candlelight. Harry's plump lips. The way they felt against mine, skilled and soft.

My hand pressed to my forehead to try to ease the tension trapped within it. I wanted to forget that I ever kissed him and wanted to slap myself in the face for ever letting it happen. I was so drunk, too drunk to really understand anything past how attractive he was and how much the mystery that he was made of excited me. I hadn't even considered that we were practically working together, that I couldn't form anything other than a business class friendship with him without it being weird, until it was far too late. I couldn't remember if he was drunk or not, but he had to have been to forget that he knew better.

I padded to the bathroom, splashing enough water on my face to wash away all the stray mascara littering my cheeks and eyelids. I looked in the mirror, disgusted by how tired and dead I looked. I had never been more thankful that I had Saturdays off, not even when I went to dinner with Harry that first time. I would never hear the end of it if I went into the office looking like this, deep set bags beneath my eyes and a dullness to my skin.

I peeled the off the day old dress, unhooked my bra, and slipped out of my underwear so I could take a quick shower to try to rid myself of the gross stickiness that covered my body, like I had sweat out all the champagne overnight. Right as I turned the knob to start the water, there was a knock on my door. I considered not answering it, letting the warm water from the tap hit my hand while I quickly weighed my options, but decided that getting company was such a rare thing that I might want to check to make sure it wasn't an emergency.

I grabbed my fluffy pink robe off its hook while looking at the clock above the bathroom mirror, learning that it was 10:22. I had overslept more than I had in years. I wished I didn't feel so gross so I could actually enjoy it.

My feet slapped against the floor as I made my way towards the door, looking through the peephole to see a postman, dressed in all navy blue, his hands behind his back like whatever he was delivering was a surprise.

I swung the door open to be met by wide eyes. He obviously hadn't expected to find me in a barely dressed, barely awake state but I waved it off, letting him know that I wasn't angry and that he hadn't really interrupted anything.

"Special delivery from Mr. Twist," he said, revealing a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in yellow and green paper. At first, I didn't know who he was talking about, but then my mind wandered back to the night before and was able to pick up the memory of Jason calling Harry that, one of his many aliases I had learned. Boy, was that getting confusing.

"Thank you," I said, taking them from him before shutting the door so I could inspect them by myself. I was hoping that it wasn't Harry thinking that our kiss meant more than it had. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, didn't want it to turn into anything. He was supposed to be just another subject, someone I knew strictly under business conditions, a quiet acquaintanceship. Kissing him was technically the same thing as kissing Pollock, except Pollock wasn't nearly as charming or allusively handsome as Harry.

There was a note card shoved into the spaces between the stems and the long, yellow petals with Pen scribbled on it in heavy blue ink. I picked it out, looking at the messy loops of the letters, recognizing the handwriting from the note Harry had left on the champagne bottle the night before. I turned it over carefully, unsure if I wanted to know what it said.