Teeth

Guest

I keep repeating in my head that this is some kind of strange continuation of a bad dream, that I only dreamed I woke up and I'm actually still asleep. Sleep Paralysis. That's it. But that, I think I remember from ridiculous television programs, is usually behind alien abduction fantasy stuff, not... Not... not this.

 Not 'I'm goddamn dying in the street and then wake up in my own bed with a new scar'.  That doesn't happen... or it does I guess but it's probably more from people digging into themselves to find the implant they think is there. I'm not digging. I don't even want to touch it.

The noise of the shower still hisses like the soundtrack to a horror film, and it takes me moment to realize that I'm also hearing the kitchen phone ring.

It's always been a bit muffled from the bathroom, down a short hall in the kitchen area, but my current state of mind probably hasn't helped.

It takes me a moment or two to rationalize the sound with everything else and then I stumble out of the bathroom and jog toward the jangling noise like it's a lifeline, still sort of hoping that it will, in fact, turn out to be my alarm clock before I wake up hungover and totally, reassuringly normal, but the sound remains the phone, and picking up the receiver and holding it to my ear doesn't change that.

...Neither does the fact that there's a short, bored looking woman sitting at my kitchen table staring at me with piercing near black eyes, her hands folded in front of her neatly, fingers interlaced. She looks almost impatient, as though she's been waiting for me to show up to an meeting and I'm running late. It's nearly one too many assaults on reality, and I reach out with the hand not pressing the phone to my ear so that I can steady myself on the counter, abruptly dizzy.

"Joseph!" Bill's voice barks from the receiver, tone chastising and upset. "Joe what the hell happened last night? You scared the hell out of us by not showing up!"

I stare at the woman, who narrows her eyes slightly and looks deeply inconvenienced by everything I'm doing. How dare I, her expression suggests, keep her waiting, answering the phone in my own home.

"I...uh..." I offer lamely, juggling the phone and almost dropping it; mostly to Joe, partially to the woman, sort of torn in dizzy confusion between the urge to tell Joe to call the police or to apologize and offer her coffee.  It's the look, I think. She sort of looks like she expects to be treated with courtesy, even in the midst of home invasion.  "Sorry, something came up."

The stranger's expression changes almost imperceptibly, and she looks still put out, but faintly amused. Less subtly, she rolls her eyes and stands up, and starts rifling through the cabinets. It becomes clear what she's looking for when she pulls out a container of instant coffee, and shoots me another death glare.  Double how dare I, apparently.

I should be terrified. That would be entirely reasonable. I should be asking Bill to come and get me and take me to the hospital because I must be having a stroke or something. I don't even know the symptoms but I just need something to explain this.  The last strange woman I saw might well have been an literal avatar of death, tired of being back-shelved as yesterdays deity, and this tiny woman somehow feels no less dangerous. Maybe because she's so calm during all this.

Even while being openly disgusted at me for daring to not prepare for home invasions by not having better coffee, she looks like she could do a five finger death punch without chipping her manicure, but somehow it's just too surreal.

I gape at her assumptive behavior, not hearing Bill as he continues in the background, then flounder for a moment then point to a higher shelf and a bag of ground coffee.  It seems like the best course under the circumstances. This earns more glares, but she stretches up on her tip toes and carefully pinches the bag between her fingertips and drags it to her.

Make yourself at home tiny house invading ninja lady.

"L-look. Sorry Bill, something just came up and ... um. I've... kind of got a guest..."

"Oh REALLY? Something came up huh? You dog.."  I can hear him suddenly grin the second he has something scandalous to lock onto, his tone changes from the background lecture-sound I had toned out. I don't know how he manages, but the man can switch between polished gentleman and fifthy bastard.

"Yeah a mugging." I snap, closing my eyes for a second as another wave of disassociation hits me, making me feel like I'm puppeting my own body and voice from arms length.  Tiny Lady picks through cabinets, her body language making the quiet opening and shutting of my cabinets as angry as if she had been slamming them savagely. She starts making a pot of coffee, evidently displeased with everything she's touching. She looks at me again, and does the eye roll again.

"...Oh..." Bill chokes and trips on whatever joke he was about to make about my prowess. "Shit man, are you ok?" He can be an ass, but there's a reason I still count him as a good friend, and it's not the polished front he displays at work, or his connections.

"I... y-yeah." I don't know what else to tell him. I can't exactly tell him that I got stabbed, I think, but that I seem to be fine. That's not the sort of conversation that ends well, even with a guy like Bill. He'd probably make some questionable taste jokes about it, but only after calling an ambulance, and I couldn't blame him. I can't even say he'd be wrong to do so. I just don't have enough information to explain this, and I'm afraid to drag him into it, because if I'm not hallucinating or about to drop dead of something awful happening inside my skull, she might kill him.   "Yeah. It's fine. Lost my phone but I'm... I'm fine."   I remember the sound it made underfoot when one of them ground their heel into it.

The woman in white said I had 'his' mouth. That bothers me, and I don't know where to start on it. There's just too much.

The coffee pot starts to bubble and gurgle quietly, and it dawns on me that I have also forgotten to turn off the shower, and I let the frustration and normality of the little slip keep me grounded as I lie through my teeth to my friend about how fine I am and add. "I gotta go."

It's too curt, and I know it's not even remotely reassuring, but Bill's concerns are the last thing on my mind as I hang up the phone. I don't want Bill here. I don't want Susan here. I'd say I wanted the police... but... I'm not sure they're prepared for any of this, any more than I am.

I am sure about fairly little this morning, but I am pretty damn sure I have never seen -her- before, let alone invited her in, and somewhere I pull together enough scraps of being shocked and offended to hope that she's not like the woman I saw last night. And since I still don't seem to have fallen down and died on the floor, I'll move forward as though this is real.

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" I demand, to which the immediate reply is:

"Your taste in coffee is as immature as your sleepwear."

She finds the cups more quickly than she found the coffee, and takes down two mugs, pausing to look at one and then raising her eyebrow again as she puts it on the counter. "So are your mugs." She adds, as she swivels the blue mug so that the red and gold logo I already know is there faces me.

My face burns with embarrassment even as I manage to straighten up and look indignant, but before I can find something witty to snap at her, she's reaching for the coffee pot and pouring it into the mugs with a delicate crinkle of her nose.

"I didn't break in, I used your keys."

"Oh -that's- better." I growl, pleased with the level of sarcasm I manage under the circumstances.

"I thought so." She answers, her tone cool enough I'm surprised ice doesn't form over the surface of the Superman mug as she picks it up and plants it sharply on the table near me. "I could have left you on the hall floor."

...Oh.

"...Oh..."  My indignation and annoyance falls suddenly flat, and I glance at the coffee as though it might jump and bite me, like everything else seems to be doing at the moment, and then I remember the shower. Again.

"I..." I point vaguely back down the hall. "... One second. Just... one second, then..."

"Then we can talk." She finishes for me, leaning against the counter with one arm slung across her stomach, sipping coffee like it's not tongue searchingly hot, black, and bitter.

"...Yeah. That."