She’d forgotten why she ever loved this city. A waif in the darkness, Leila crossed damp streets, their puddles a technicolor dream in the neon haze of midnight storms. It was almost beautiful, if you could forget that shadows moved and took you with them, if you could look past the saccharine smiles of hollowed out souls. A shrill chime signaled her entrance to the bodega, and she kept her head down, aware of the camera in the back corner. She kept blonde tresses hidden under a soft worn cap, the smell of her husband long gone from it’s threads, and wrapped the dark coat tighter around her own softly worn form.
Eggs, bread, milk. Eggs, bread, milk. A single mantra, half so she wouldn’t forget half so she’d have something else to think about. There was a reason Leila rarely left her small patch of land and home. The world had lost its light and she’d lost hers. He’d made it a sanctuary for her, and it was all she had left. But even with all it held, the self-restocking fridge had been on backorder. Sorry, baby. Her pale lips twitched at the memory.
Long fingers permanently frozen in defensive fists unfurled themselves, only to seize up again around the handle of a gallon jug. Eggs. Bread. Peanut butter. It wasn’t on the list. But it wasn’t in the pantry either. It was in the basket before she could convince herself against it, the rest of her necessities following quickly after. Not five minutes since her arrival she was at the counter, head bowed in what could appear as meek vulnerability, but really only self preservation, the other camera in the back corner threatening with it’s amber light.
“Eleven twenty six, ma’am.”
She handed the cash over wordlessly and waited, teeth worrying the skin inside her cheek until she tasted pennies. When the man across the counter reached out with her change, her hand mimicked his only to cover his completely. To anyone, or to the camera above, it would simply look like a woman pulling her change, hand over hand, nothing to see, nothing to remember. It’s exactly what would happen. Raising her eyes enough to only watch his glaze over, she felt the tug of his memories and pulled back, the shrill chime of the bell the only memory. He’d watch the tapes and see her, sure. But without a face to name, it was another night she’d remain free.
Breath coming in small clouds of anxious adrenaline, she was good and ready to return to serenity. Only she turned to quick, right into a body seemingly made only of bones, the booming sound of exploding milk as it hit the floor louder than any bomb that night. The terrified whisper of a name when she finally saw who even louder still.
He hadn’t slept, despite Amanda’s attempts at hospitality. No matter how soft and warm and welcoming every aspect of her tiny abode was, Andy couldn’t shake his unease or quell the bile in the back of his throat. His host had offered to stay home with him and call out, but he wouldn’t let her. Before she went, she told him to stay put, but she knew him better than that - and he found a few bills on the counter under a disappointedly-toned note.
When he left, the cat had watched him like he was a dangerous bug, infecting its mother’s home. He didn’t disagree.
He felt cancerous, like a black spot, hovering aimlessly in this ecosystem he’d been released into. Problem was, he didn’t feel like infecting anybody. He felt the ancient far-away draw of some light inside him that he’d worked to move away from, and now all he wanted was the warmth back. He was good, once, he thinks. He was clean and kind once. And it wasn’t that asylum of a place that took that away from him.
As unfamiliar as daylight had felt, he expected dusk to feel more adaptable, but he found it just as disorienting. It felt like trying to get his sea legs, only his stride was steady and it was his head that felt awash.
He needed a cigarette. He needed a dozen cigarettes. He knew that much.
The bell jingled and the sound hit him like the florescent lights and the sickly sweet smell of plastic and liquor. That felt familiar. Sleep always eluded him, and when he had the freedom to, he frequented some little corner shop for things he didn’t need to achieve some semblance of a reminder that he wasn’t alone in the city through hollow impersonal interactions.
She hurt to look at, at first, and he wasn’t sure why.
Something splashed against the floor beside them, but it went unnoticed. He felt the air change in a rush. He couldn’t blink.
His head pulsed like a warning light in a nuclear plant, like the reactor was about to blow. When his voice came, twangy and low, it didn’t feel like his, but a forgotten being inside him that he was just a shell for.
He knew her. He couldn’t not. A lot of things had changed, but he’d held onto that - to her.
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