Page 58 of Every Silent Lie
He hums, his chin lifting. “Maybe not with words. Goodnight, dear.” The door closes in my face abruptly but then swings back open just as fast. “And get yourself a hat and some gloves, for the love of God.”
Slam.
I recoil, just as the door opens once again. “That smile suits you.”
“Are you done?”
“For now.”
Slam.
“Strange old man,” I muse, carrying on up the hallway.
“I heard that!”
“Then stop spying on me,” I say over a laugh, worrying my key into the lock and letting myself in. The usual cold space greets me, the smell nothingy, no washing, no room scents, or cooking. It’s just . . . nothingy.
The flowers might change that. And luckily, they’re in a bag of water so I set them straight on the table in the lounge—no vase required—bringing a little colour into my domain. Into my life. I stand back, nodding my own approval. Then shiver, feeling a bit of ice slip past my neck onto my back. “Jesus.” I bow my back, trying to avoid the chill, and make my way to my bedroom.
After I change out of my wet clothes, I get another slice of Mr. P’s cake and sit on the couch in front of the coffee table, admiring the flowers, and when a message comes through, my heart skips a few too many beats.
I loved what you told me.
I inhale, falling back against the couch.
And next time, get in the fucking car instead of walking home in the cold.
I smile, reading his message over and over again, keeping the warmth inside alive.
And the colour.
And the hope.
December 13th
I woke up late. I don’t know how that happened.
Yes, you do.
My run was abandoned, and in a total flap, I raced around my apartment getting ready, all while marvelling at just how good my sleep was—I didn’t wake up once—at the same time relishing the gorgeous scent of my flowers.
I’m halfway to the office, an hour later than usual, when I remember something.
Christmas Jumper Day.
“Fuck.” I stop at the corner of the street, nibbling on the inside of my cheek as I glance down my black wool trench coat, seeing in my mind’s eye the black dress beneath. I would never usually subscribe to festive activities, would never give two shits what my colleagues think when I show up in my usual black wardrobe casting my eternal doom across the merriment, but today, for some unbeknown reason to me, I’m feeling a little acquiescent.
And I need a hat and gloves, anyway.
Diverting up Oxford Street, I find the nearest open store that’ll give me what I need and grab the first jumper I can lay my hands on. A black—bonus—chunky knitted oversized, cropped affair with an understated Christmas hat on the right breast. Perfect. I grab my size and find myself a bobble hat and gloves—both black—and head for the checkout.
But stop halfway, thinking, looking at the matching hat and gloves. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m reversing my steps and swapping my obligatory black for the cream set.
I don’t read too much into it. I’m here buying a Christmas jumper, for fuck’s sake.
“Do you need a bag?”
“No thanks,” I say, tapping my card and wriggling out of my coat. “Can you cut the tags off for me, please?”
