Page 56 of Melancholia

Cecil agrees and changes the subject, immediately launching into some ramble about a new embalming fluid tank he saw online. I listen and nod along, not really sure what about it he finds so interesting. At last he wanders back to his office to do whatever it is he’s doing before he leaves, and I can set down the long forceps and step back from the table.

Sometime in the last few minutes, Andrew has vanished, and my shoulders fall in relief when I turn around to see the room is well and truly empty.

“God,” I sigh. My gloved hand comes up to run through my hair, but I scrunch my nose when I remember where exactly that’s been. “Good job, Nell. Just…good job.” Absently I tug my gloves off and deposit them in the metal trashcan, leaving my hands feeling smooth and soft from the interior of the latex. My fingers flex to try to push away the foreign feeling, and I scoop up my phone in one hand, tapping the screen to see who was trying to get ahold of me.

When I see that the same number has now tried to call me for a couple of days now without leaving a message, I frown. Usually scam calls will leave a long, automated message on my voicemail. Not to mention, the area code on this looks familiar.

I just can’t place why right now.

But the text message isn’t from my mystery caller. And even without having actually put his information into my phone, I’ve memorized Amir’s number.

Tomorrow night. I’ll meet you at Silver Pond. 7 pm.

The park feels like more my place than his, though I could say the same about the cemetery. My eyes stay fixed on the message, and I watch as he starts typing again, the message coming within a few seconds.

See you soon, Nell.

For some reason that feels more affectionate than his usual, professional texts. It makes something twist in my stomach, and I bite down softly on my lower lip.

See you then.

I text back. The back of my neck prickles and I sigh, eyes slipping closed.

Even without looking, I know Andrew is back. And I know what kind of accusation I’ll find on his face when I turn around.

20

This time, there’s a pair of leggings to go with the sweater and skirt from Amir waiting for me back at home. I want to tell him I don’t need leggings. As they are the most acceptable pair of pants in my vocabulary, I have at least three pairs that look good enough to be date-worthy.

But then again, I would be dumb to turn down the soft, snug material that fits me perfectly just because I have a few pairs of my own. The skirt is black-and-white plaid, the fabric somehow just as soft as the leggings, and Amir paired it with a black sweater that slips off my shoulders and swallows my hands beneath sleeves that fall past my fingertips. The only thing keeping it in place is a false halter neckline, snug around my throat like the beginning of a turtleneck, leaving my shoulders bare beneath it.

Looking in my mirror and smoothing my hands over the material, I can’t help thinking that it looks more like Amir than me, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing given his good taste.

If he wears black like usual, we really will look like a couple.

Even thinking the word makes my stomach jolt, and I press my hands over my abdomen, palms resting on the sweater.

A couple.

We aren’t that. We aren’t dating, and he certainly hasn’t asked.

This isn’t love, or even infatuation.

But it’s something else that I can’t name, and as I watch myself in the mirror, I lift my hands to stroke along the fox bone that I rarely take off.

When I’m finally able to snap myself free of the mirror and my reflection, I pull on a different pair of black boots that are just as comfortable as the ones I’ve been wearing, though they stop at my ankle instead of my knee. To break up all the black I’m wearing, the tops of my boots have a layer of a white and grey sweater pattern, just to keep with the theme of tonight’s monochrome.

“Why are you doing this, Nell?” I murmur as I walk around making sure everything is in its place. My anxiety won’t let me leave before doing it, even though I know for a fact my stove isn’t on and my fridge is closed.

But I have to check. Just because.

When I finally head downstairs, it’s a bit of a relief to see that Hestia isn’t working the counter. I smile at the girl, a new hire named Jazmine, and give her a quick wave on my way out. She’s busy enough with three women all talking loudly over each other that she barely notices me, which I’m completely fine with under these circumstances.

Hestia would have questions, and I have no doubt she would guess—correctly—that I’m meeting Amir. Not only that, but she’d push a free coffee into my hand, reminding me yet again that the man who is not my boyfriend is paying for my coffee until he decides otherwise.

I make a mental note to mention it, though as I slide into my driver’s seat, I can’t help but falter in that resolution.

What would I say?