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I can’t get my mind off the idea that Zoe doesn’t have time for me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come to Germany. Maybe Zoe needs more space, and I’m too close.
My mood deteriorates, and I give up on getting any more work done. Instead, I declare a Level Five Emergency and raid the kitchen.
Here’s a benefit of having a roommate that seems to live exclusively on junk food: I can raid his stash. I’ll go to the store first thing tomorrow to replace everything, but for right now, these sea salt potato chips and Oreos are going to fill the aching hole in my chest.
Oh, and a bottle of wine.
6
Chris
I walkinto the main room and do a double take.
Sara is in the armchair asleep.
I lean against the wall, crossing my arms and taking in the glory that is this tableau.
She’s not just asleep, she’s conked-out, mouth-open asleep, an empty family-size bag of potato chips on the table and a mostly-empty bottle of wine sitting in a puddle of its own condensation.
If I couldn’t already tell that something was up, Sara’s giant sweatshirt is another clue. It’s two sizes too big and has stains on the front and a stretched-out neckline. Her fit body is swimming in it.
She might be drooling on the leather armrest, too.
There’s a perfectly good couch less than a meter over, but Sara has curled up in a ball, her head at an awkward angle and one foot pointing skyward.
It shouldn't be cute, but it is.
I sigh. I’ve slept in worse places—when I was in my twenties touring with the band, I woke up several times in bathtubs—but I know Sara was struggling with her back before we got her the office chair, so I don’t think I should leave her like this.
Pushing off the wall, I crouch down in front of the chair. I reach out but pause, my hand hovering over the lock of thick dark hair that hangs in her face.
When I wake her up, there’s no telling what she’ll be like; groggy and quiet or drunk and upset or any other flurry of emotions that are hard to navigate.
Right now, her face is serene, and I consider not waking her. Whatever has upset her, whatever broke her routine, isn’t going to be magically fixed when she wakes up. Her dreams might be better.
Sara snorts slightly, her mouth closing and nose wrinkling while she stretches and shifts around. When she’s done, that one foot is still up in the air and the other leg is hooked over the back of the chair. Her head dangles off the seat, and I can see the roof of her mouth through her once-again open lips.
“Sara,” I whisper.
There is indeed a pool of drool on the leather where her head was.
It’s gross,I tell myself.Gross and not at all adorable.
I hide my smile behind my hand and try again. “Sara.”
My voice penetrates this time, and she blinks at me upside down. Brown eyes flecked with shades of gold and umber focus on me. Grogginess and confusion fill her face, and then recognition kicks in.
“Oh. Hi,” she says sheepishly. Even when she’s embarrassed, her lips tip up in that perpetual smile. There’s a line of circles on her cheek where the buttons of the armchair left their imprint. “Am I in your way?”
“No, but I thought you might be more comfortable in your bed.”
I back away while Sara struggles to stand, un-pretzeling herself. When she straightens, she catches her head. “Oh.” This oh is less “oh hi” and more “oh my head.”
I brace myself to catch her as she wobbles, but she sinks back down onto the chair with a moan, her head in her hands.
I perch on the corner of the low table across from her and wait.
