Very Late Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
Charlie's Flat
Charlie's Flat
Sometime, Charlie said. Chrysanthe glanced at him for a moment; she smiled, then, at the yawn he didn’t bother to cover up. She did not really look; it seemed vulgar to her to see so deep into his mouth, and she certainly didn’t intend to share.
“I ought to get some sleep,” Chrysanthe said, politely, after a moment. There wasn’t much more to discuss, in truth; after a few adjustments and a little more water, Chrysanthe lay down on the couch. The room had stopped spinning, which was really very nice. She closed her eyes, stifling a yawn as long as she could and covering it with her hand when she couldn’t; that was, by and large, the last thing she remembered.
Chrysanthe woke the next morning, early, when what little light streamed in through the apartment’s window was still gray. Charlie was sprawled across his bed, half out of the covers, looking as if he would never wake; the bird in the cage across the room was asleep as well, head tucked beneath a wing.
She must have dreamt, Chrysanthe thought, fuzzily. She remembered nothing of them; she rarely did.
Chrysanthe went quietly to the bathroom, and did up her shirt once more. Her head ached, and her stomach too, and her tongue felt as if it were covered in thick fuzzy glow moss. She felt better than she had any right to, in truth. She grimaced at her hair in the mirror, all the masses of it shimmering pale. She touched it, gently, with her fingers, holding a moment there. She brushed it back with her hand, then, and took a deep breath. She pulled her jacket on last, and scribbled a note for Charlie, leaving him still asleep with a last thanks.
Chrysanthe went out, then, down the stairs slowly, and squinting into the early morning light, shading her eyes against it. It was not so hard, in the morning, to remember where to find the Fuzzy Elepha; Chrysanthe felt a cringing wave of embarrassment at being so lost the night before. She felt a cringing wave of embarrassment at everything that had happened the night before; she might have wished it as fuzzy as her dream, but in truth she could remember every moment.
Chrysanthe glanced back up over her shoulder, once. She set out then, orienting herself by the wharf below, and strode chin up through the early morning Rose. If she went quickly, Chrysanthe knew, and did not dawdle or lose herself in thought, there was time enough for a bathe before work, and at least to comb her hair out. She didn’t want to pin it up wet, but she didn’t see how she could avoid it, in truth.
The memories, she decided, she could avoid; she could put away, just a little longer. There was no need to think of them – on any of it, really. Sometime, Charlie Ewing had said; Chrysanthe couldn’t, through the roiling ache in her stomach and the throbbing in her head, really imagine when.
“I ought to get some sleep,” Chrysanthe said, politely, after a moment. There wasn’t much more to discuss, in truth; after a few adjustments and a little more water, Chrysanthe lay down on the couch. The room had stopped spinning, which was really very nice. She closed her eyes, stifling a yawn as long as she could and covering it with her hand when she couldn’t; that was, by and large, the last thing she remembered.
Chrysanthe woke the next morning, early, when what little light streamed in through the apartment’s window was still gray. Charlie was sprawled across his bed, half out of the covers, looking as if he would never wake; the bird in the cage across the room was asleep as well, head tucked beneath a wing.
She must have dreamt, Chrysanthe thought, fuzzily. She remembered nothing of them; she rarely did.
Chrysanthe went quietly to the bathroom, and did up her shirt once more. Her head ached, and her stomach too, and her tongue felt as if it were covered in thick fuzzy glow moss. She felt better than she had any right to, in truth. She grimaced at her hair in the mirror, all the masses of it shimmering pale. She touched it, gently, with her fingers, holding a moment there. She brushed it back with her hand, then, and took a deep breath. She pulled her jacket on last, and scribbled a note for Charlie, leaving him still asleep with a last thanks.
Chrysanthe went out, then, down the stairs slowly, and squinting into the early morning light, shading her eyes against it. It was not so hard, in the morning, to remember where to find the Fuzzy Elepha; Chrysanthe felt a cringing wave of embarrassment at being so lost the night before. She felt a cringing wave of embarrassment at everything that had happened the night before; she might have wished it as fuzzy as her dream, but in truth she could remember every moment.
Chrysanthe glanced back up over her shoulder, once. She set out then, orienting herself by the wharf below, and strode chin up through the early morning Rose. If she went quickly, Chrysanthe knew, and did not dawdle or lose herself in thought, there was time enough for a bathe before work, and at least to comb her hair out. She didn’t want to pin it up wet, but she didn’t see how she could avoid it, in truth.
The memories, she decided, she could avoid; she could put away, just a little longer. There was no need to think of them – on any of it, really. Sometime, Charlie Ewing had said; Chrysanthe couldn’t, through the roiling ache in her stomach and the throbbing in her head, really imagine when.
