Little Lost, Hardly Found.
Safia wakes up to the rough scratch of asphalt concrete against her face and the damp earthy smell of drizzling rain assaulting her nose with every breath. This is the kind of rain that has been going on for days and weeks—cold, musty, and weary; a Spring rain. It hasn't rained like this in New York for a long time and it surprises her that it’s going on now. Her face hurts when her skin drags against the asphalt as she twitches and struggles to pull herself away from the ground, head pounding. The pavement feels wet and cold under her fingertips, rain drops sprinkle on the back of her head and her cheeks feel raw and tender, her bones ache. When she finally pulls herself up to a sitting position, the ground is mottled with dark spots and smears that don't quite look like rain. They seem to match the long bloody scratches on her uncovered knee and Safia hisses when rain drops hit the scraped open skin. She can still hear the echo of her pounding heart, loud and insistent in the quiet air of the early morning. It is still early morning, she decides, looking at the pale gray color of the sky. The streets are empty, doused with lingering sleep. It takes a while for her limbs to work again, fingers still curling in the last dredges of adrenaline. She has to take a few deep breaths, trying to decide where she is, eyes searching as she finally pulls herself to her feet, stumbling slightly before she catches herself on the side of a building. The streets look familiar, though. A few blocks away from the dance studio, which means it’s a few blocks away from her apartment. She keeps stumbling on her feet, but the walk doesn't feel all that long. The early joggers and salary workers barely glance at her when they pass by, probably chalking her walk to that of a late night hook-up. She doesn’t blame them, she definitely looks and feels the part. The drizzling rain isn't enough to soak her through, but the cold dampness sends chills through her body, the weather seeping through the layers of her clothes and she shivers, arms curling across her chest.
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The windows of the first room from the right on the second floor of her loft are open when she gets there. Safia stands at the foot of the building, looking up, staring at the open windows, feeling slightly bewildered and lost. There's a car parked just outside on the street and Safia walks over to it, leaning against it without a second thought and going over her options. Her hand fumbles, taking out the contents of her back pocket, hoping against hope that it’ll tell her something. Cash, cards, a polaroid hastily shoved in, a stack of receipts—nothing. Safia peels herself off the car, sparing one last glance at the open windows before turning and walking the other way. She passes by a newspaper stand on her way and picks one of the many colorful magazines up, glancing over the headlines. Her grip falters when she looks at the top right corner of the glossed cover, just below "25 Tips on How to Be A Better You!" is a title that reads, “How to Know When Too Much Is Just Too Much.” She carefully puts the magazine back in its place, stomach turning and fingers tugging at her hair. It’s like God is laughing at her, she decides as her fingers get caught on a stubborn knot, a sound akin to a growl sounding in her throat before she gives up on her hair and continues down the sidewalk. Safia isn’t sure what happened last night. She knows that she went out, that she had danced and partied and had some fun. That was nothing new, that was her life whenever she was in New York. But between busting out a dance she had perfected to Beyoncé’s “Love On Top” and her fifth drink of the night, things had become a blur. She knows that sometimes she goes too hard, parties a little too long, and gets a little too rowdy. It’s how she is, who she is. It can’t be helped, she thinks. But it was never to the point to where she’s woken up without knowing how she’d gotten to a certain place. That was new—that was scary. Somehow, she has found her way back to the dance studio, her feet leading her down the familiar path without her even noticing. It doesn’t take much for her to find her way inside even without a key (she scolds herself for a moment, because damn it all if she keeps forgetting to fix that broken window on the back left side) and then she’s stands in the middle of the room, breathing in deeply and getting comfortable with the familiar area. It’s different in here, because this is where she belongs. Not on the streets, waking in a stupor and lost beyond compare. She’s heard all that before. That she’s too good a dancer, too good “a something” to party so hard. Or, at least, to party so hard that it can be detrimental. And normally, she wouldn’t take it to heart. But the words came from Miles, the personified version of her heart, and she’d be damned if she ever tossed his words aside. Her eyes follow the line of mirrors that make up the walls, before they fall to the one brick part where a single picture hangs. She moves to it, fingers easily plucking it from the wall and thumb tracing over the image, lips curling and eyes rolling when she feels them burn. She doesn’t remember everything that they were doing when they had decided to take the picture. She knows there had been TV marathons and moments where they listened to music and she showed him moves to dances that she hadn’t fully thought of yet, and then there was a snap and a picture. She misses him, she realizes. Or, re-realizes. Because, when it comes to Miles, she always misses him, though sometimes she forgets to tell him. And she wants to tell him now, to hear his voice and to just talk. To forget how her day started, how she woke to the rain and earth, and to end the day with him, even if they weren’t physically together. She moves through the studio easily, bypassing boxes of equipment she never got around to putting up before she was in the studio’s office—her office. Safia doesn’t bother to turn on the light, just makes her way to the desk and sits in the chair behind it, reaching out and picking up the desk phone, fingers punching in the memorized numbers with ease. The phone is cold when she presses it to her ear, and she’s sure that she’s never used it before, but she figures that this is the best person to use the first call on. It rings for what feels like forever, though she knows its been seconds, and then it clicks before his voice comes across the line—his voice mail, telling her to leave a message and that he’ll get back to her if he gets the time. Classic Miles, always away doing something. She loves her best friend for that though. When it beeps, she can’t help but laugh, quiet and hoarse. “Mtoto mvulana, you didn’t answer. Shame.” Her head shakes, though no one can see her, and her eyes fall to the picture placed on the desktop before her, her index finger tracing the outline of both their faces. “Today has been so weird, so so weird. And I don’t know what’s going on. But I miss you, I hope you know.” She clucks her tongue because f course he knows she misses him, he always knows. “I’ve got a new dance I started up, and I want to hear your music.” She feels odd sometimes, when they go so long without seeing each other, it feels like a piece of her is missing. She supposes it makes sense, because without your other half, you feel incomplete. But it makes sense as well, because they make sense. And she loves it and them and him. There’s not much to say other than that, and she smiles. “I’m going to see you soon. Be looking out for me, Dwayne. Love you, ya dummy.”
