“Cream,” he says, lifting the mug. Like he’s being helpful, patient even. The picture of innocence, except for his eyes, which are laughing at me.
Cream.
He means cream. For the coffee. Because that is a thing people put in coffee and not a thing I should be standing here turning fifty shades of red about.
“Cream. Yes. Of course. Cream. Why would you — yes. I’ll get it.”
I do not walk to the kitchen. There’s a word for what I do and it’s closer to fleeing.
The fridge is cold and real and I put my forehead against it for one second of dignity I don’t have time for.
Okay. Questions. I have questions.
Why does Erik look so calm, like three enormous strangers caving in his neighbor’s door is a thing that happens on Tuesdays. Why are they all — like that. Statistically, you don’t get three. Why is nobody mentioning the door. The door is GONE. A normal person leads with the door. And why, and I’d really like this one back, why did the words “white stuff” do what they did to me.
The cream is in my hand. I don’t remember getting it.
I go back out, because the alternative is living in this kitchen forever, and Gerald’s out here with them, and somebody has to keep an eye on Gerald.
I hand the one with the tongue ring the cream. He takes it by the top, careful, without touching me. Which I notice. Which is not a thing I should be noticing.
Not that it matters. He pours it, takes a sip, and considers it like I handed him my best bottle of wine.
“Better,” he says.
I almost relax.
“What about the sweet stuff?”
“The what?”
“The sweet stuff.”
“…Sugar?”
“There it is.”
He says it like I passed a test. I have never wanted to fail one more. And the smirk goes full, because he can see exactly what’s happening to my face and he is having the night of his life. My body did not get the memo, and my body is the one running my face, which is currently the temperature of an active volcano.
I look at Erik. Erik is my neighbor. Erik is a known quantity. Erik will help.
Erik is smiling.
Not big. Just at the corner. Just enough.
Like he knows something. Like they all know something, and I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t.
Fuckers.
And maybe it’s the adrenaline finally crashing, but I am suddenly very done being the flustered one in my own apartment.
“Okay,” I say. “Hi. Questions.”
The one with the tongue ring… Is he pouting? His mouth tugs down. He’s not getting his sugar — a man built like a felony, sulking over sweetener. Poor thing. Not.
“How do you know Erik?”
“Old friends,” the normal one says. Warm. Easy.
