I shook my head. “No. I’m good.”
“Sure?”
I stared at Lu. I wondered if she noticed something more than I had tonight. “Everything is fine, Lu. You’re right. I haven’t been sleeping well, and things don’t feel right. Like …”
“Like you’re waiting for something?”
“Maybe. Honestly, I keep waiting for a shoe to drop or something after this past week. I keep saying I want something to happen,” I said, though I was more hoping for my hair designs to be featured in a magazine online or to finally have a decent date that didn’t end up with one of us sneaking out of a restroom window.
“Ready or not now.”
Here something comes.
My stomach churned, the air uneasy. I crossed my arms over one another.
“You’ll call if you need anything, right?”
“Of course.” If there was anyone I was going to call in a panic about something, it was going to be Lu. “And you need to call me when you have time for me to freshen up your color. Your purple is fading again.”
Lu shook her head out. “I think I’m liking the lavender look.”
“Then, we’ll freshen it up.”
“Go home and stop thinking about work.”
“You first,” I teased. “Sleep well with your nursemaid tonight.”
She rolled her eyes. “Night, Ana.”
“Night, Lu.”
* * *
For a while,the silence that overcame Barnett at night made me uneasy. After wandering the streets at night for so long, however, there was a kinship that settled over me along with a new sort of anxiety seeping through my skin all the way home.
The moment I slammed the door shut, my bag slipped down, catching on my elbow before it finally hit the tiles. It was one of the few spots in the studio apartment not covered up by haphazard arrays of rugs and carpets I had found at thrifts or rummage sales out of town. They were some of the first things I’d sought out after getting approved for the apartment that was more the size of an extra-large closet. I trudged over a variety of swirling hieroglyphs and faded color.
I pulled out a dark red blend of wine from under the kitchen. An aromatic combination of cabernet, merlot, apparently, according to the back label that continued going on about the family vineyard’s touching rise to affordable alcoholic glory in some circles. I rested it on the counter as the cabinet closed with a smack and before the drawer holding the corkscrew made the same rattling noise. I yanked on the wine opener with the bottle under my arm like a football. The cork came out with a pop. When there was no fizz or anything else that happened, I dipped my nose down to the neck and gave it a sniff.
It actually smelled pretty good for a bottle left where a normal person would usually keep their cleaning supplies.
Glancing down into my full kitchen sink, I was unfortunately out of the normal juice glasses I would pour the wine into. Considering the amount of effort I’d have to put into using said glass and the bottle of red again, I pursed my lips and took a long swig. It was in bad taste to drink straight from the bottle, especially when I planned to drink it alone so I could relax enough to finally get some decent sleep, which sounded like code for a one-way ticket to alcoholism.
Still, I lifted the bottle up and took another sip as I popped a bag of popcorn into the microwave and changed into my sweats, which were still strewn across the end of my half-made bed. Perfect.
I looked down at myself as the popcorn slowly started to pop. If my mother could see me, she would crinkle her lip up at me right now. In fact, she would probably tell me that I was lucky that no one wanted to share an apartment with me or date me with the little amount of effort I must put into myself. She would threaten to disown me before purchasing me new loungewear in a size too small, which I’d only once managed to fit into during a particularly unhealthy year of high school while living on the juices she had bought and labeled for me in the fridge.
Breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.
Huh.I took another longer gulp of wine, feeling my taste buds dry up at the flavor.Look at me now.
Maybe this day would take a turn for the better yet.
Starting up a record, I let the music play. The room was too quiet over my gentle sips of wine and the whine of the microwave. I needed to get out of whatever sort of funk had attached itself to me.
Turning up the music another notch, I let myself fall into the hazy beat of the old turntable. I closed my eyes and tried not to move beyond the small patch of floor in front of my oven. I hopped and swayed.
I needed to get away, and if I could on the rough, scratchy undertones of the indie singer’s voice right now, I would.
