5. A Short Time Coming
We had an awkward time arriving home, with the cabbie giving me a confused double-take as I bent down to climb into his car. Considering the state of my clothes, it was thoroughly deserved. Hell, it would've been perfectly reasonable to say that I needed to get another ride. Evgenia whispered that she had asked Cynthia to grab literally anything for me to wear while they were shopping. Returning to the apartment, I found myself absolutely exhausted and allowed my eyes to shut while we rode in the cab. I fleetingly wondered if I should go buy some gold or something similar to have around the apartment. Antonin didn't think it was exactly what would help recover my energy, and I certainly hadn't had any after I used my power Friday night, but it couldn't hurt. Cynthia had asked that final situational question intentionally, assuming I would simply be unable to resist the allure of material wealth. The only issue was that I was just too haggard to feel any ambition. I was too overwhelmed by everything that had changed to go out again.
I collapsed into the bed in my room before realizing that we were back in the apartment, my face digging into the pillow as I collapsed on my chest. My drowsy mind was pleasantly surprised that the sheets smelled fresh, faint hints of floral scents wafting into my nose. Beth must've followed me to the bedroom because I faintly heard her stripping off her clothes alongside the bed. Shortly, she was lying on my back, her petite body barely distinguishable from a heavy blanket, and I drifted off to sleep to the sound of her soft breathing and the comforting warmth of our connection.
When I awakened, I was mildly disappointed to recognize that I was alone. Not that it was fair to hold Beth hostage, but the physical contact and solidarity of someone else going through this insanity was comforting. There were a pair of nondescript grey sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie tossed onto the bed beside me, and wonderful smells emanated from the hallway. My stomach grumbled in anticipation. As my mind slowly returned from the depths of sleep, I could see it was still very much daytime outside, although the sunlight was fading to orange. That was good, as it meant I had only slept for an hour or two. At least, I hoped it wasn't now morning with the sun rising instead. I wasn't sure which way the sun rose from in this apartment.
I gathered up the new clothes and realized that, of course, Cynthia hadn't had my actual size when she bought them. I wasn't even able to give it to her. So, I went swimming in my oversized sweatpants on my way to the kitchen, even the drawstring struggling to hold them around my waist. Beth must've heard me stirring because I could feel anxiety coming over our connection. It was accompanied by other, less intense flecks of adoration, anticipation, love, and lust.
I wandered into the living room and saw Beth and Cynthia in the kitchen while Sam and Evgenia sat at the table. I understood where Beth's anxiety was coming from — she was cooking for me and wanted it to be perfect because it was her first time doing this. She needn't be worried — her intentions were way more meaningful to me than the actual quality of the meal, after all — but she sought perfection regardless. She felt it was vital for her to have something besides her body to offer. Which I could understand, but the fact that she didn't have any knowledge of this world and was going through this process at the same time as me was just as much a contribution as Sam's experience was. Her being in the same position of ignorance was valuable to me. She didn't see it that way.
I joined Evgenia and Sam at the table as Cynthia and Beth worked on the finishing touches. Sam scowled at my presence, and even a blind fish would have recognized her anger directed at me. Confusingly, the scent she was exuding was almost as intense with guilt and despair as it was with vitriol. She was heartbroken about something, even if she wanted to be angry at me about it. I didn't say anything and just listened to Cynthia instructing Beth on how to handle the cooking she was doing. Evgenia noticed the icy atmosphere growing and was perfectly content, existing without inserting herself in it, avoiding bringing any attention to herself. She also seemed to shun any interaction with me, leading to an uncomfortable silence at the table, contrasting harshly with Beth and Cynthia's carefree chatter in the kitchen.
Eventually, Beth served us. With Cynthia's guidance and support, they made chicken parmesan with pasta and garlic bread. The food was delectable, and after I told Beth my opinion, she glowed with pride. The conversation was substantial once Beth and Cynthia joined us, injecting their vitality into the dead air, but the topic was absolutely vapid. We talked about what things they had purchased for the apartment, which scents and brands of personal hygiene products the girls preferred, and what they liked on me. Sam avoided acknowledging anything I said, doing her best to avoid speaking after I did. Confusingly, she had no contempt for Beth and offered several suggestions for shampoos she could use for my hair since I would probably buy the cheapest available otherwise.
Eventually, dinner came to an end. Sam was still trying to kill me with her eyes any time she looked at me but also wracking herself with guilt over fantasizing about my death. I thought we had been friends, and I had no idea what I had done to change that in the last twenty-four hours. The previous evening, she had thanked me for being invited to stay here, and now she seemed prepared to either leave or remove my presence forcefully. I had recognized that it was related to my burgeoning relationship with Beth, but simple jealousy or distaste at my actions that had caused the situation wouldn't come attached with guilt. I needed more information, and only one person had any.
"Sam, can we talk?" I asked quietly while Beth took the dishes to the sink to rinse.
She sighed performatively, acting put out and offended at being forced to interact with me, but said, "Fine."
"I guess, in my room? Would that be alright?"
"If it has to be."
This was building up to be a lovely, pleasant conversation. I walked to my room, pulled the chair out from the desk, and tossed the clothes that would no longer fit me off of it. Sam sat down in the chair, and I looked at her. She shot daggers at me, but her eyes looked sad and tired instead of simply hateful. She no longer had the energy to maintain the fires of her anger, although she was trying. Which was good because I was also feeling tired. And overwhelmed and confused.
"Hi."
"What do you want?" She shot back at me. She didn't finish the sentence with an 'asshole,' but it certainly would've fit right in with her tone, alongside a slap to my face.
