bitter and cold.
“Cole,” Ava said
quietly. “I want you to come by… I can’t… I can’t do this on the phone
and I need to see you.”
There was a long
pause.
“Not sure that’s
a good idea right now.”
Each of his
words was hard, syllables pinched off and small. It left Ava feeling like
more than just tonight was being destroyed.
“Why?” she
asked, the single word tight with pain.
He let out a
whistling sigh. It was the sound of someone with too much to manage… and
no way to do it.
“Because I’m in
a bad fucking mood tonight, Ava. If I come over, I’m not going to be able
to… to stop… and step back and just leave you again.” His voice
darkened with the promise of more . “I’d be staying the night.”
Ava could feel
things sliding toward the edge of a steep precipice. For a moment she
flashed again to the memory – something she’d dreamed once, long ago – of
making a choice: ‘ The wrong one...’
“So you stay,”
she answered in a shaky voice.
: : : : : : : :
: :
Cole stood
outside the door, listening to Ava undoing the lock on the other side. He
knew, without a doubt, that he shouldn’t be here tonight. Things were too
raw inside… and that asshole Chambers and his bullshit anti-war painting had
put him in the kind of mood he usually had to just work his way out of.
He was glad that the sculpture he’d just finished was already at the gallery,
because he knew for a fact that otherwise he’d be down in his studio
beating it to pieces. Destroying any semblance of beauty out of the
stone.
He was in that kind of mood.
For a second,
Cole reconsidered being here. He didn’t want to freak Ava out… and she
was always jittery as hell when he got intense. He thought about walking away,
but then the door opened and Ava was on the other side.
There was no
choice anymore.
She was
beautiful. Her upper eyelids were lined in black like the night of the
earlier opening this year, making her look exotic and sexy. She wore a
black dress and a silver necklace, but she had bare feet. She smiled, and
Cole felt himself tugged forward, a marionette dancing on her strings. He
needed to touch her.
“You okay?” she
asked, her eyes worried. Cole stepped inside, locking the door behind
him. He wanted to bury himself in her and never come out.
“No, I’m not.”
He reached out
to touch her face, but she caught hold of his hand before it could reach its
destination.
“Oh my god,” she
said in horror, catching sight of his knuckles. They were torn to shreds,
ripped and bleeding. Cole glanced at them absently, as if only just
discovering them.
“What happened?”
she asked in distress.
Cole shrugged,
not sure how to explain how sometimes the darkness was so black that he had to
hurt himself and others to let it out. Had to give himself physical pain
to focus on instead. He glanced up to see her staring at him in alarm,
the lines on her face tight.
“Got in a
fight,” he answered dully. (There was always a fight to be had if you
knew where to look. A Saturday night and alcohol just made it that much
easier.)
There was an
awkward silence, and Cole wondered if she was going to ask him to leave.
(And what he’d do if she did.)
“C’mon,” she
said shakily. “We’ve got to clean those up.”
She led him up
the stairs, her fingers around his wrist, mindful of the broken mess of his
knuckles. Reaching the bathroom, she sat him on the side of the tub,
swabbing his broken skin with alcohol.
“Sorry,” she
muttered, but Cole didn’t flinch or answer.
He was strung
out. Numbed. Even the burning of alcohol on his raw flesh didn’t
hurt. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. Cole watched her
work in silence. She wrapped his knuckles in bandages, then put the
supplies away in the mirrored cupboard. She turned back around, arms
wrapped around her waist.
“Thanks,” he murmured
tiredly.
Ava’s face
“Cole,” Ava said
quietly. “I want you to come by… I can’t… I can’t do this on the phone
and I need to see you.”
There was a long
pause.
“Not sure that’s
a good idea right now.”
Each of his
words was hard, syllables pinched off and small. It left Ava feeling like
more than just tonight was being destroyed.
“Why?” she
asked, the single word tight with pain.
He let out a
whistling sigh. It was the sound of someone with too much to manage… and
no way to do it.
“Because I’m in
a bad fucking mood tonight, Ava. If I come over, I’m not going to be able
to… to stop… and step back and just leave you again.” His voice
darkened with the promise of more . “I’d be staying the night.”
Ava could feel
things sliding toward the edge of a steep precipice. For a moment she
flashed again to the memory – something she’d dreamed once, long ago – of
making a choice: ‘ The wrong one...’
“So you stay,”
she answered in a shaky voice.
: : : : : : : :
: :
Cole stood
outside the door, listening to Ava undoing the lock on the other side. He
knew, without a doubt, that he shouldn’t be here tonight. Things were too
raw inside… and that asshole Chambers and his bullshit anti-war painting had
put him in the kind of mood he usually had to just work his way out of.
He was glad that the sculpture he’d just finished was already at the gallery,
because he knew for a fact that otherwise he’d be down in his studio
beating it to pieces. Destroying any semblance of beauty out of the
stone.
He was in that kind of mood.
For a second,
Cole reconsidered being here. He didn’t want to freak Ava out… and she
was always jittery as hell when he got intense. He thought about walking away,
but then the door opened and Ava was on the other side.
There was no
choice anymore.
She was
beautiful. Her upper eyelids were lined in black like the night of the
earlier opening this year, making her look exotic and sexy. She wore a
black dress and a silver necklace, but she had bare feet. She smiled, and
Cole felt himself tugged forward, a marionette dancing on her strings. He
needed to touch her.
“You okay?” she
asked, her eyes worried. Cole stepped inside, locking the door behind
him. He wanted to bury himself in her and never come out.
“No, I’m not.”
He reached out
to touch her face, but she caught hold of his hand before it could reach its
destination.
“Oh my god,” she
said in horror, catching sight of his knuckles. They were torn to shreds,
ripped and bleeding. Cole glanced at them absently, as if only just
discovering them.
“What happened?”
she asked in distress.
Cole shrugged,
not sure how to explain how sometimes the darkness was so black that he had to
hurt himself and others to let it out. Had to give himself physical pain
to focus on instead. He glanced up to see her staring at him in alarm,
the lines on her face tight.
“Got in a
fight,” he answered dully. (There was always a fight to be had if you
knew where to look. A Saturday night and alcohol just made it that much
easier.)
There was an
awkward silence, and Cole wondered if she was going to ask him to leave.
(And what he’d do if she did.)
“C’mon,” she
said shakily. “We’ve got to clean those up.”
She led him up
the stairs, her fingers around his wrist, mindful of the broken mess of his
knuckles. Reaching the bathroom, she sat him on the side of the tub,
swabbing his broken skin with alcohol.
“Sorry,” she
muttered, but Cole didn’t flinch or answer.
He was strung
out. Numbed. Even the burning of alcohol on his raw flesh didn’t
hurt. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. Cole watched her
work in silence. She wrapped his knuckles in bandages, then put the
supplies away in the mirrored cupboard. She turned back around, arms
wrapped around her waist.
“Thanks,” he murmured
tiredly.
Ava’s face
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