She was pretty sure that the thing she loved most about being with him was that he always left that scent behind him—the faint aroma of leather and old cigarette smoke, and the lingering whiff of some shampoo she could never identify. It was proof that he had been there, proof that he wasn’t a dream, and she was someone who always needed proof when things were going well.
Lyric Alta rolled over and let her hand wander the now empty and cool space that had, just a few hours ago, held the sleeping form of the man she loved. She inhaled deeply, burying her nose in the jersey cotton of the pillow next to her, taking the proof from the scent of him on the pillow. She couldn’t help but smile.
It wasn’t often that she had occasion for him to enter her bed, but she treated each occurrence as a precious gem in the collection of memories she was storing away for when she was gone. And she would be gone so very soon.
She only had a month left. A little more than thirty-some-odd days to cram the last struggling fits of a relationship-that-was-not-a-relationship into. She was terrified, but she didn’t show it to anyone but him, and only in the dark, when he could only hear her halting words of doubt and feel the minute hitches of her chest as she struggled not to sob like an idiot.
Lyric hated to cry. She considered it cheating, a way of getting what you wanted without putting in the effort. She tried never to cry in front of him, because she was well aware that his previous girlfriend had been a veritable human hosepipe, and she didn’t want any connection to that psychopathic drama queen.
She was having enough trouble with him without reminding him of Her.
She stretched, letting her hands slide under the jersey cotton-clad body pillow that stretched horizontal across the top of her bed and burying them in the satin-wrapped bundle of feather mattress that she used as a pillow, feeling the ragged stubby nails that were evidence of her stress catch on the smooth fabric. Her back arched against the ratty quilt her mother kept telling her to throw out and she allowed herself the luxury of a small moan before rolling out of bed, narrowly avoiding stepping on the wrapper from last night’s condom and the tangle of clothing that cluttered the usually clear patch of floor beside her bed.
With her toes, she picked up her purple and black lace bra and tossed it onto the bed, then began rooting through the piles of laundry—all of it clean—for a pair of underwear. She slid on the first pair she came to, then the pair of sweatpants she had unearthed from beneath a pile of button-down shirts next to her paper-cluttered desk. Bra in one hand and a shirt in the other, she picked her way around piles of laundry and papers and stumbled into the bathroom, flipping on the light switch next to the door twice before remembering in her still-alcohol-fuzzed brain that the bulb had burnt out the week before and reaching for the switch beside the sink, knocking a Dixie Cup full of hair clips into the sink in the process.
Lyric cursed and made a face in the mirror above the sink, sliding her arms into the straps of her bra and hoisting her breasts into the cups like a sailor picking up coconuts to be tossed into a crate. After manhandling them into place and swiping her armpits with deodorant, she pulled the ratty t-shirt detailing “10 Things To Do On Memorial Day” over hear head, causing her straw-colored hair to fluff around her head in a bright corona. She flattened it, then attempted to brush the tangles of last night’s sexcapades out of her hair, smiling at the memories of him as she always did.
It was pathetic, really, how she acted around him. She supposed that she should push harder for him to date her, but since she had so little time left, she figured there was really no point in it, even if it would be gratifying to see Her head explode with rage. Its not that Lyric wanted to piss her off (okay, she really did), but honestly, that girl needed a kick in the pants sometimes. Maybe Lyric shouldn’t have been going after him since She was one of her sisters (by money, not blood, thank the Gods), but, Lyric mused, she had been his friend longer than she had been Her sister. And really, what good thing had She ever done other than ruin Lyric’s twenty-second birthday by cheating on him with her ex right in front of her?
Bitter? Naw, Lyric wasn’t bitter.
Lyric was pissed, actually.
The brush hit a particularly good snarl and she cursed, tugging the brush free before attempting to work it out with her fingers.
Honestly, Lyric was pretty sure that things would have turned out differently with him had she grown a pair three years ago and actually gone after him when she first realized that she liked him as more than a friend. Those walks they used to take around campus when he was still a little muzzy from his relationship with his high school girlfriend (also a sister-by-money of Lyric’s… she tended to collect his exes, she found) were the highlight of her sophomore year, but she never made anything of them when she should have.
She had felt, at the time, that he was already spoken for by Her. And she supposed he had been. Didn’t change the fact that she should have fought for him then like she began to fight for him last January, when she finally got him, if even for a short time.
They never really talked about that time, really. It was like it had happened, but wasn’t really important enough to talk about. She happened to think it very important, because she had been there for him and he had still gone back to Her.
Well, she had him now, she figured. As much as anyone could have him, anyway. He wasn’t really to be had right now, since he was still trying to get over Her, the cheating and lying and manipulative bitch.
The handle of the brush creaked and Lyric realized she was gripping it pretty tightly. She tossed it in the sink and rooted around under it for the clips she had dumped in there, coming up with a handful and using them to put her hair up in its usual messy “its just up there because I don’t want to deal with it” style. She always forgot how long her hair really was because it was always up in that style, and she kind of liked it that way. Then it was surprising to him when she took her hair down around him.
Lyric flipped off the light in the bathroom and kicked aside last night’s shower towels to move down the small hallway connecting her room, bathroom, and “studio” (really the room where the washer and dryer would have gone had the bitch who rented the apartment last not stolen them) to her kitchen and living room and was immediately assaulted by the dual smells of the salmon she had cooked for him the night before last and the mouse she kept in a plastic cage on top of the smallest of her eleven bookshelves.
She hated doing dishes.