Running from Dawn chap. 3

3
The number of Stella’s cigarettes was fast diminishing, but she was not surprised. With the way she had been chain smoking, she was lucky to have any left at all. She wouldn’t have been so concerned if it had been Talia seeing her into dawn. They would’ve shared the end of the pack heartily, or at least without too much hesitation. But those last few cigarettes, without access to more, are as valuable as water in the desert, and in the company of Oswald, hers would be guarded with dear life. Greed keeps addiction alive, she thought, tucking her pack back into her bag, for an addict with empty pockets is as good as recovering.

“You have any cigarettes here?” She asked, already having taken a fast inventory of the remaining ones in his pack.

“Just what’s here,” he replied, counting them out, “and that’s not very many. But that store that we passed on the corner opens in an hour and a half,” he said, throwing a thumb back over his shoulder. “Or at least I hope it’s six…”.

She looked past him through the narrow window on the wall, straining her eyes to see the store, even the corner, but she saw nothing but a gathering of black. Christ. Where the fuck are we? The mention of time shuttled her mind to the scene that would be taking place at the airport as the store owner prepared for business. She imagined the excited travelers swarming around the gate, alert from their steaming coffees. They would be clean, a collage of khaki and white splashed with pale yellow with a symphony of ring tones chiming in above quiet chatter. They would be window-shopping, diagnosing ipods, and turning the pages of Time. In the comfort of their gate, they would finally allow themselves the joy of anticipation.

The travelers would be checking in by 4:50, at least an hour before boarding. Gone were the days of running from car to gate, ticket waving in hand. The time between check in and boarding, having become its own entity, demanded respect. It was as unavoidable as the flight itself. Humoring herself, she glanced again at the clock. Eighteen minutes, her brain taunted.

“What time are you gonna call your husband?” His question stirred up her dread.

“Seven, I guess. The plane lands at 7:45, and I need to catch him before he heads out the door,” Her heart was taut in her chest. “The call should be quick though—should only take a minute.”

“Damn,” he laughed. “That’s SEVERE.”

She nodded, taking the credit meant for a woman in charge, but she knew that wouldn’t be the reason for the brevity. It would only take a minute to dial the eleven digits, await the single ring, and then, upon hearing his guarded voice, push out “I am sooo sorry” past stubborn lips and thick tongue. Dial tone. 7:01. Done.

“Click click click” the coke-tinged credit card said as it tap-danced across the mirror. Stella opened her eyes and found Oswald busy cutting away again. A one trick dog. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very…” he hesitated, “intense?” He looked up at her over the rim of his glasses.

Stella cracked a defenseless knuckle. “Sure. I’ve heard that before.” And she had. She had heard it from teachers and bosses, parents and friends. She had taken it as a compliment, savoring the flavor of it or other interchangeable terms like “interesting” and “passionate.” Then one day she found herself using them, with that very hesitation, to describe a deranged in-law. Thanks.

She was getting restless. Her brain, swelling against her skull, threatened to burst. Too much drug. She took hold of both temples and rubbed, kneading out the ache, then rested her face in cupped hands. She could have been praying.

I need to pee, she looked towards the bathroom, not uncomfortable enough yet to commit to the effort. I need chapstick. She ran her fingers over her mouth, the cracks as big as gorges. I should call Talia, she thought, wetting her lips. 4:34. She genuinely appreciated the refuge that Oswald had provided for the evening, time had slowed to a painfully sluggish pace, and she was starting to feel confined. She wanted to be outside, toes in the sand, with the moon and stars her company. She wanted to sleep; envied the slumber that protected Talia. She wanted to hear her husband’s voice. Longed for the warmth of his skin.

She looked down to find the hand mirror, steadied between two chunky hands, sitting on her lap. He served it like the second course of a romantic dinner. Why not? She asked herself. Tomorrow I think about healing, but tonight…. She took the rolled bill and bent down. In her reflection, she saw bulging eyes. There was a strained purple vain running beneath one of them, and a larger chunky one pushing against the adjacent temple. The second one she identified as the culprit behind the relentless thud. A lone gray hair, emerging from among a field of store-bought blondes, was a true testament to the power of stress. The image was raw. Her makeup, carefully applied earlier, was crumbling and fading, and without it, she saw sickness. With a quick sniff, she initiated herself a martyr.

She wiped her nose persistently, imagining how only a visible crystal or two could further wreck her credibility. Only after confirming with him that her nose was clean, albeit red from all the action, did she confess, “I’ve never learned how to deal well with pressure.” Then added, “I’m a runner. Confrontation scares the shit out of me, and I’ll do anything to avoid it.”

“Don’t most people?” Oswald asked, leaning over to reclaim his twenty. Her hand was closer, and she picked up the bill up to give it to him. She was startled when it was her wrist that he grabbed instead of the money.

“What is that from?” He asked, eyeing the exposed flesh.

Stella didn’t have to see the scar to know to what he was referring. “That’s bad coping. That’s how I run.”

She let him examine her arm like a piece of evidence. With her frail fingers in one hand, her forearm in the other, he ran his thumb over the crater between the two. It looked like the moon, a perfect circle, with shades of white and gray inhabiting it. The skin gathered at the edges like a rough stitch. Streaks of browned skin traveled away.

“How did you do it?” he asked, awkwardly still holding her arm.

His touch was thoughtful, and she found her fingers had closed in around his own. “With a lighter and a couple of smokes,” she said, biting her upper lip until a white crest appeared. “What a waste, huh?” It was her attempt at a joke.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” he said curtly, dismissing her words like an unlikely alibi. He dropped her arm and looked around the cluttered table until he found his lighter. He flipped open his pack and pointed it in her direction. “I’d offer you one,” he said with a smirk, “but can you be trusted?”

She pulled out one of her own, thought about giving him the finger, but found that her need to justify dominated over her need to fight. “Pain dulls pain,” She began, looking for some sign of understanding. “Kind of like when you get a bee sting on your big toe, so you pinch your pinky finger. It gives you an option of which hurt to feel. It gives you control.” It made perfect sense to her, but she knew he wouldn’t bite.

He looked again at her arm and then at her. “So what pain did this pain dull? An amputation?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she half muttered, feeling her words buckle beneath the weight of the explanation. “Life, I guess.” It was cliché but possibly easy enough to grasp.

Mockingly, he pushed, “So you burn yourself because life is difficult.” He gave a silent shrug, another dismissive motion that she recognized from years of marriage. He placed the lighter back on the table with an exaggerated whack, like a judge dropping his gavel. The jury in his head demanded her immediately institutionalized.

“It’s hard to explain, and I don’t even know why I’m bothering,” she spat back. “I always feel like I’m fending off judgment, like I’m always explaining myself…” She stopped, irritated that she was doing it even now.

Stella wanted to abandon the story altogether. Couldn’t even remember why she had begun it. Her brain hissed like burnt popcorn. She thought about Talia, and how the beginning of this blistering after-party had begun with stories about her; about her beauty and soft nature. “She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body,” Oswald had claimed. “Or a dark thought in her head,” Stella had added. But that was early in the night when the drug was good and her mood was generous. Her resolve had been strong then, her confidence independent, but now she reeked of insecurity. She despised Oswald for not giving her a break. Not throwing even a scrap to her starving ego. She wanted his sympathy, but it didn’t look like he was going to provide.

“It’s a curse being a woman,” She stated articulately like a closing argument.

Without asking for clarification, he replied, “Don’t kid yourself, baby, we all hurt.” He stood up and offered her a hand, “Hey, you want something to drink?”

It was a road block, and she reluctantly followed the detour back to leisurely chat. “Sure. What do you got?” She glanced over at the yellowing kitchen and tried to imagine the menu: the brown soupy water that dripped from the faucet, coke that had already been sipped on by an earlier visitor, or frozen juice from the can that was both open and not frozen.

“I have Midori?” He looked hopeful, scratching his head.

Gross. She began to rise, “I’ll take it.”

She followed him into the kitchen and watched him take out mismatched wine glasses from an aging cabinet. He turned them over in his hand and blew into each a forceful blow that would wipe an eyelash clear off a damp plate. Spittle decorated the rim of each glass. Her expression must have hinted at her disgust.

“Oh, sometimes they get a little dust in them, but they’re perfectly clean,” He promised, lifting them for her to see then pouring the green syrup into each. “Cheers!”

Stella managed a smile out of a wince and turned to go back into the living room. She spun the glass in her hand like a roulette wheel, hoping her lips would land on the cleanest spot.

Oswald placed his glass down and moved over to the expensive-looking stereo on display like a main exhibit. “How about some music?” he asked, cleaning between the buttons with a fingernail. It was as shiny as an only child. Behind him the clock read 4:47 AM in blaring red numbers. And no, she didn’t want to hear any music, but with escape improbable, she agreed to it.

The machine whirred and clicked until a heavy bass line spilled into the room. The sound was energetic, and any other night would have lured her to the dance floor. Feeling devious, she would drag her husband behind her until they were lost inside a jungle of moving bodies. Here, however, the music was unsettling, causing her heart to race and her thoughts to foam. Damn that candle, she thought, the musty odor invading her nostrils. What is he doing? Terrified, she watched Oswald out of the corner of her eye preparing the next fix. Check your messages. She flipped her phone open and shut it again. He’s crazy. She searched the room for something to lose herself in, afraid that the eye contact with him would result in another line. A children’s book lay atop the table. A Good Day was its title, the cover boasting the grinning face of a cartoon fox. You don’t have kids, Oswald, she said to herself. Is that a self-help book?

Stella sat back on the couch and began tracing the ridges in the ceiling with her eyes. It was the very ceiling that provided shelter in her own home; the one that she saw when lying back in bed. She let herself go there. Let herself imagine her husband who would be sitting with somnolent eyes. She pulled back the covers and climbed in next to his rigid body. She rubbed his shoulders; kissed the base of his neck. But he was too sober, too tense, and in all of that self-control, he had lost control again. He had slipped into anger. “What are you doing?” he seethed.

4:49. An involuntary twitch seized her little toe and made it dance like a puppet. Still at Oswald’s. “I’m not going home,” she whispered to the vacant spot beside her, “I just can’t.”