A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 49 | discovering silly things

Sunshine dyed the whisky in the slanted antique glass.

Perhaps, it was golden-hued, but as minutes murdered seconds; it bleached to burnt umber and a thin layer of deep copper swayed at its bottom like a beautiful teenage girl embarrassed by her crush.

For a moment, the liquor didn't swirl.

It tapped Anna's lips with intense romantic affection, yet collapsed and hardened.

Her face glowed as she paid attention to the out-of-breath rants blasting from her cell phone.

Strict and adequate responses compelled her to tilt forward.

Dark words arose and the tête-à-tête switched to an inapt larger-than-life banter.

In the next hour, her timid cheek dimples fell flat as a bag of family chips crashed on the sofa.

Anna's glass slid and squashed to fine ashes.

Each of the sun's limbs deserted her fray lips and she knocked down a bottle of traditional wine from the mini-bar.

What transpired?

Something worse than threats to be kicked out of one's apartment had darkened her theatrical headache.

Her correspondent was rude and nosey as a pod fly.

I nudged a cushion from my thighs and dashed to the bar's island.

Anna hauled a case of beer and flopped on the rug in her elegant nightie.

Head in her palms; she drank round-the-clock to drown every trace of life's cruelty.

"Hey, give that to me."

I squatted and snatched the leftover alcohol, but she gripped the case of beer and hide it in between her legs.

I shook my head. "It's been what? Two days and you haven't eaten. Why don't you take a hot bath and join me for an overwhelming lunch? We can discuss a way out of this rent subject."

The landlady entrusted us with three strict nights to raise the rent and as cliché as yesterday's day died, this horrid afternoon kept migrating to the second dusk.

Nothing brilliant or reckless worked out and money was yet to be raised.

But how?

I couldn't call Anna out for misbehaving.

She slurred. "Help me up, would you?"

Then threw her hands over my shoulders and together we toed to our feet.

With my last strength muscle; I let her fall on a couch and stretched a throw beneath her bare arms.

"Ellis, thank you."

She tapped the Chesterfield and summoned me over.

I gulped. "Why don't you tell me about what's going wrong?"

Then I shifted her legs and detained them on my thighs.

She eyed the roof.

The puffiness and eye bags from her drinking all-nighter became prominent.

Her hair was a tough mess; a bird made its atrocious nest in it.

I retorted. "Please, say something."

"What should I say? That the past never dies?"

She shoved her hands deep into the throw blanket and didn't move her eyes from the roof.

I squinted and devoured her with my glare.

She faked a laugh. "The past is not even past because it always repeats itself over time in the future. That the flames of the past keep burning?"