Page 8 of Werewolf Heart

She often looks back at that night as one of the dumbest decisions she ever made. She still does, after all the work she’s done in therapy. But at least she’s matured a bit. Now, she doesn’t think all of it was her fault: the shouting matches, the cutting insults, the bruises on her arm. Sara never did anything to deserve such treatment from Tom. She believes that now.

She’s glad she ended up telling Robert what was going on.

She’s glad he’s still her friend despite everything.

She’s glad her friend is in her life at all; because losing him would’ve ruined her, that she is sure of.

Chapter 3

Robert

Weeks pass, things settle down. Yet Sara’s smell lingers.

In his naivety, Robert hoped this whole scent thing would’ve disappeared once he got used to his werewolf condition. It did not. Thankfully, this kind of sense did not become even stronger. (Robert doesn’t believe it could get any more heavy than this, her scent sticking to his clothes, hair, skin, having to be reminded of Sara while his mind desperately tries to focus on work.) It is merely the realisation that he's in love with his roommate that knocks on his front door every five seconds.

For instance, Sara is now preparing her Master's thesis. She sits on the far corner of their living room, hunched over her laptop, taping and clacking at the keyboard. She is briefly heard talking to their house plant, Alfred—a Peace Lily that grew too big for Sara’s room—about the woes of translation. How no matter how good a translator is at their job, they will never be able to properly demonstrate what this particular paragraph means to readers: the factors of each culture, the different dialects and where they come from and what they mean in that particular country, such as folklore, old sayings and even the magic of swear words.

No, his roommate is not insane. Robert taught her this method, actually. Very common with programmers. One adopts a rubber duck, so when you encounter a bug you don’t know how to fix, you talk it out with your rubber duck. Just by virtue of explaining it, your brain, somehow, someway, figures out the problem! (Very good tactic. Except the times the solution was so easy he threw the ducky out the window. He had to stop adopting rubber ducks.)

It’s amazing to watch her go on and on till her eyes widen, light bulb going off above her head, and again she goes on another spree of tapping and clacking. It’s endearing to observe. He also knows, sometimes, Sara just talks to Alfred because she wants to. Much like a pet rock or prized figurine. Robert is distracted by her presence. The way her hands move over the keyboard, her soft but excited voice as she reaches another epiphany, her curly hair pinned high on a messy bun, how her jumper’s collar covers her lips when she stares hard at the screen, desperately hoping to find a good resolution to her chapter.

Everything. Everything about her makes his heart skip a beat.

Why am I like this? He thinks, irritated. Bake Off is on and he can’t even enjoy the wholesome dick jokes.

Sara stretches her back and cracks her neck.

“God,” she sighs into the air. “I need a drink.”

He smiles. “Tired already?”

“Just another moment of self-doubt about the whole thing. How about you? Enjoying the botched baked goods?”

“Who knew you could bake loads of salt for a laugh and it would turn out good. Brilliant, honestly.”

“Please don’t ever touch the oven.” She cracks her knuckles and closes her laptop. “Don’t know about you but I really need to leave the flat. Go somewhere loud and crowded!”

“And drink as many pints as you want?”

“Yes, please!”

“Alright, alright. Give me just ten minutes to finish this. I want to see if there’s another baking miracle.”

“Cool, I’ll go get myself ready.”

He ends up deciding on a white shirt and a clean pair of jeans, putting on the cologne his mum bought him for his birthday. Robert spends the next hour scrolling through Instagram—liking cute cat pictures and saving recipe videos he’ll probably never cook—when Sara is finally out of the bedroom. She comes out wearing a green velvet top, leather trousers, high heeled boots, and a patched bomber jacket she thrifted last week. Her hair is now styled in two long braids, baby hairs slicked down in waves. Sara’s brown eyes shine with the green smoky eyeshadow. When she gets closer, Robert picks up the woody spicy perfume she only puts on for special occasions.

The young man shakes off any fantastical delusions about the meaning behind it.

“You wanna go to the club?” He asks, a bit mesmerised.

“What?” She gives him a spin. “A girl can’t look good every now and then?”

“You always look good.”

Oh, dear God. He screams inward. Did I just fucking say that?

“Flattery will get you everywhere, except free beer. You’re buying.”

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