"Stop here, please," Tomas said. It was actually about five blocks from his apartment, but Tomas was a man who knew his limits. If he didn't get out soon, he'd be leaving a pretty serious mess for the taxi driver to deal with, and Tomas had worked too many shit jobs to make someone else clean up after him. He handed over the full fare, plus a generous tip, and sat down hard on the curb until the world stopped feeling like it was tumbling end over end.
Eventually, the cool night air helped to quell his nausea enough for Tomas to get up and put one foot in front of the other. He wished he'd paid a little bit more attention to those limits of his back at the reception, but it hadn't seemed like very much alcohol at all when the celebrations were in full swing. It wasn't until he got out to the parking lot that he realized just how much he'd indulged himself in all of the various toasts to his brother's happiness, and by then all he could do was catch a cab and go back for his car in the morning.
"Safety first, Tomas," he mumbled to himself, turning the corner and ambling down the street at an erratic pace. He didn't see any reason to hurry, not when it was such a lovely night and he had no particular plans for tomorrow. He was just a few blocks away from home, and as soon as he got inside he could eat a little something to settle his stomach and sleep it off. He might be just the tiniest bit drunk, but he wasn't about to let that make him do anything stu-
Tomas looked around. He suddenly realized that what he thought was the Plaza Apartments, five blocks from his place, was actually another apartment complex altogether. The two places looked just similar enough that someone could mistake them for one another in the dark...from the back of a moving taxi...while being a little bit less sober than he was willing to admit...but Tomas wasn't five blocks from his apartment. He didn't know where the hell he was.
It wasn't time to panic yet, though. Tomas didn't recognize the neighborhood, but that just meant he needed to get another taxi. He put a little more conscious effort into his walk, heading down to the corner of the street. All he had to do was find out where he was, and then he could call for another ride. And this time, if he started to feel sick, he'd ask the driver to wait. He reached into his pocket-
His cell phone wasn't there.
Tomas stopped dead. He checked his other pockets, one by one, jacket and pants. No phone anywhere. With a sinking sensation, he remembered setting it down on the seat so that he could buckle up his seat belt-a task that seemed inexplicably difficult at the time, and one that required his full concentration. He didn't remember picking it back up again. He didn't remember his cab number either, or even what company he'd called, but that was a crisis he could handle later. Right now, he needed to get home.
He looked around. The windows in the apartment complex were dark. So were the windows in the houses across the street. They had bars on them, too. That didn't improve Tomas' growing sense of panic, but he decided that the only real thing to do was to start walking and look for someone who was awake at two o'clock in the morning, and ask to use their phone. He picked a direction at random and got moving.
Tomas didn't know how long he walked, exactly, although he reached for his phone to see what time it was about a half-dozen times during his search before remembering that he didn't have it on him. The only thing he knew was that he definitely felt a good deal more sober by the time he spotted a light in someone's window. He also felt tired, sore, and more than a little bit relieved to see the warm glow shining through gauzy red curtains. He picked up his pace a bit, cursing the dress shoes that pinched his toes with every step, and came up to the door of a small cottage that seemed even smaller compared to the houses on either side. Hoping that he wasn't about to intrude on some home defense nut, Tomas knocked on the door.
He tapped on the door once, but he never had a chance to knock again-the door opened immediately, revealing a woman wearing a red silken robe tightly cinched about the waist. Tomas lowered his hand slowly and awkwardly, a bit stunned by the speed of her response. She must have seen him coming up the walk, he realized. "Um, hi," he said, trying for a sheepish smile. "I know it's late, but...um..." He flailed a bit with his hands, trying to gesture back the way he had come and pantomime an invisible taxi. He finally muttered, "I'm lost," and left it at that before his mouth did any more damage.
She stared back at him. She didn't look frightened, or upset at having her evening disrupted by a stranger knocking on her door in the middle of the night. She looked sad, somehow. Almost melancholy. It was a strange expression, and it didn't sit well on her face. She looked too beautiful to have so much sorrow; her features were strikingly exotic, absolutely impossible to place to any location or culture. Her long, thick hair kinked and curled in a way that seemed African, but everything else was beautifully blended into a mix of features that seemed like they were from everywhere all at once.
Her eyes narrowed. Tomas could see a few small wrinkles here and there, but it was almost as impossible to tell her age as it was her ethnicity. If she was older than forty, though, she wore it well. "It has come," she said in an accentless voice, seemingly to herself. "Then now is not the time, mine is not the voice." The words held the same inexpressible sadness that was written on her face, a grief that Tomas could not begin to understand, let alone console. He opened his mouth, but speech seemed impossible in the face of that near-sacred sorrow.
Then it vanished, as quickly as if it had never happened. She favored Tomas with a smile and said, "Come in, please! Have a seat on the couch, young man, you certainly look like you've had a rough day. I'll just go and call a taxi for you."
