Where: Joshâs apartment
Gratitude was an uncommon feeling for Naomi. In prison it had come in small, self centered waves. Sheâd be grateful for a bar of soap, grateful for a book, grateful for silence and when people left her alone. This gratitude that exuded from your pores and whispered the name of other people ⊠it was foreign to her. Magda had been given half hysterical murmurs of it on and off that night, but as her memory of that night cleared and she started to put names to the faces of the others who had moved in on Satan, she knew she wasnât going to feel right until she awkwardly thanked them as well.
Joshâs fists had done the most damage. Sheâd gotten his name from Magda, and his address had been easy enough to look up, though Naomi had taken her time, procrastinating as best she could. What did you say to someone, a virtual stranger, who had done you a solid ; when you knew it hadnât been just to benefit you, but you were grateful for it anyway. Was a âThanks for punching Satan, hope you donât die because of itâ cake appropriate?
In the end she was left standing outside the apartment door, her left hand clasped around a watch sheâd stolen a few weeks back. Her right hand came to knock and she halfheartedly hoped that he wasnât home, her soul giving a nervous shudder as the door opened. He looked human, ordinary enough, albeit rather attractive. But Naomi remembered the way his fists had slammed into Satanâs face and the sound was like the crash of icebergs. Satan was a supernatural being, she couldnât imagine that an ordinary human could dole out a punch like that.
âHi,â she forced out, eyes downcast, her frame fidgety. âThat thing you did the other night ⊠with the punching and stuff ⊠uh thanks. For that. Thing.â Awkwardly she thrust the watch forward like it was an offering of gold to a sacred deity.
She was a toughish looking little chick--a fuck-you-up sort of girl, which he was not opposed to in the slightest--but she wasnât meeting his eye and that set off bells. Josh swallowed, trying to think of something to say. It was her--Naomi, right--the girl from the room. Heâd been thinking about so many things that heâd pretty much forgotten why heâd done any of what he had done.Â
Sometimes, he waited for people to pull shit. He was good at picking out where it would go down, now, like having an ear for music. Practice had made an inherent talent sharp as a blade. If he was honest, heâd probably just been waiting for someone to pull shit. A specific someone. Just pick a victim, any victim. Câmon Satan. I just wanna hit you.
âOh--hi. Uh. I really canât, uh, take that,â Josh said. He swallowed again, harder, begging the universe mentally to just put the perfect words into his brain. It refused. âI mean--Iâm not really a watch guy. Or like ... a gifts guy. Not for, uh. That. Uh. Do you want to come in ... ?âÂ
