Before the Sun

Chapter Five- Don't Flatter Yourself

Four weeks.

Thirty days- an entire September month.

Many arguments, multiple slammed doors, and an incredibly low amount of civilised words shared between Nikolai and myself.

He sits before me, right now. His stare is the hardest I've ever seen it, and his jaw is clamped so tight I believe he's at threat of breaking a tooth. It's a Monday, almost a Tuesday. We sit in a cafe, those ones that never seem to close. The ones with either incredibly young workers or astonishingly old. This one houses an old lady, short and quiet, residing behind the desk with her eyes trained on the newspaper before her. She pays us not an ounce of her attention, not even a glance.

Nikolai removes his stare from my face and drops his chin to his chest. His eyes screw shut, agitated, before heaving a sigh and finding me again. My head tilts to the side, hand still wrapped around the deep amber, opaque bottle. The liquid swirls within its walls, smooth as the glass surrounding it. Fingertips finding the metal of the lid, I knock the cap off. It clatters onto the able, dancing and jumping before stilling just ahead of Nikolai. I raise the liquid to my lips, tilting it until the bitterness coats my tongue in its harshness. Two gulps, one after the other, all the while my stare doesn't leave his. As the bottle pulls away from my lips, a circle of dusted pink remains stained on the rim.

The bottle rattles as I push it across the table and into Nikolai's vicinity, stopping just between his hands. He picks it up, the glass much smaller in his hands. Raising it to his lips, he drinks. Four gulps- double mine. It's almost a challenge, or a statement, we both know it. He places it on the table with more force than needed, a small crack forming at the base of the drink as it connects with the sticky metal table.

I watch him move to slide it back across to me, I watch it head for me, I watch it glide right past me, and I watch as it falls off the edge of the table, inevitably clashing to its death on the tiled floor. The whisky left within the bottle creates a puddle of rigid glass and stiff alcohol, pooling around my heeled feet. Nikolai ducks his head, adjusting his position to view the scene beneath the table.

"What the hells is wrong with you?"

He snaps, his tone sharper than the glass at my feet and his accent thick.

"Huh, funny. I was wondering the same about you."

My words are short and slightly dragged out due to the alcohol in my system. The seat screeches as I stand from the table, smoothing out the dress clinging to my hips.

"Where are you going?"

He drawls again, his eyes vicious.

"The restroom."
My pointed heels tap against the floor as I leave him to sulk. As I pass the lady behind the desk, my hand dives into the small clutch at my side, pushing two one hundred dollar bills across the counter top and motioning to the mess on the floor by Nikolai. Her eyes widen at the notes, before she nods erratically and fetches her cleaning supplies from beneath the register. I take longer than needed in the bathroom, prolonging my visit for as long as possible- washing my hands twice, reapplying lipstick, checking my phone. All to further annoy Nikolai. I stay in there for such an extent, the door is being pushed open and the man himself is entering. His hand holds the chipped door ajar, hip jutted out as he, once again, glares.

"The men's room is over there, princess."

I nod across the hallway to the door labelled with a janky sign, using the same name he calls me. His nostrils flare as his arm darts out, veiny fingers wrapping around my bicep as he tugs me from within the bathroom. He doesn't look at me again, but instead walks us out of the cafe and onto the darkened New York streets.