Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

39. ONE LAST DRINK

Perhaps she had ignored what I said, perhaps she just hadn't heard. Perhaps she knew that running away was the right thing for me to do, but didn't want to get involved. I wouldn't have blamed her either way.

She'd slipped out of the room to start her day, at around 4 o' clock in the morning. She'd walked back in, a few hours later, to leave my breakfast on the night table. She tried to be quiet so as to not wake me up, but my sleep had been scarce and light.

I stared at the walls of Mafer's bedroom. In the early morning light, they looked lavender, but thankfully, when the daylight grew brighter, they turned a sterile shade of white.

I grabbed the silver cloche Mafer had left for me, and sat at a tiny desk in the opposite corner of the room. The morning menu was a pretty-looking but rather bland-tasting combination of overnight oats and fresh fruit.

I finished the meal quickly – the portions were rather small. I contemplated the empty plate for a while, wondering where on Earth they'd found such a tiny jar for the oats. The door opened without a knock.

"Hey Mafer," I said, still fascinated by the jar.

"What are you doing here?" answered Pablo.

I whipped my head around to catch a glimpse of him, and the confused expression on his face.

"I slept here," I muttered. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you."

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Pablo walked over to Mafer's bed. He bent over to look at the pictures she'd hung up on the wall, touching them and staining them with his dirty fingers. He grabbed one of the little white flowers she'd left in a glass of water, and twirled it between his fingers.

"Don't touch those," I hissed. "They're Mafer's."

"Well they're in my house, so technically they're mine," he shrugged.

He walked over to me, crouched beside me and tucked my hair behind my ear. He gently slid the flower in the same spot, and caressed the grayish skin of my cheek. Blood froze in my veins when I felt his cold touch.

"It pains me to see you like this," he whispered, tracing the curve of my eyebags with the tip of his thumb.

"You did this to me," I spat.

"No," he replied with a cold smile. "You did this to yourself. You never called for me, you never asked for my help. Had you asked–"

"My life doesn't depend on you," I interrupted.

He scrunched his eyebrows and gave me a wry smile. His lips were a sealed envelope, holding back a few hundred words to tell me why I was so terribly wrong. He didn't have to speak them out. The look on his face hurt me all the same.

"Did you only come down here to wage another psychological war against me?" I seethed.

The corners of his mouth curled up, and it was as if he'd just twisted a knife in my wounds.

"No, actually," he answered softly. "It's almost 11AM and you still haven't asked for a drink. I didn't know if I should be worried that something's wrong, or relieved that I've finally solved your drinking problem."

"Give it a day or two and it'll be right back," I mumbled.

He let out a chuckle, and I felt ire shoot up my throat like a bad bout of heartburn. My fingers wrapped around the handle of my fork. Pablo didn't even lower his eyes, but his hand slid over mine.

"Piña Colada?" he whispered.

"Sure," I gulped.

~