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Looking down at my hot chocolate, I’m surprised to find it’s empty, and stand up. “I think I’m going to go for a walk,” I tell Juniper, who’s barely interested in the news, and is back to drowsing on the sofa. “I want to see if I can find anything to shoot for extra credit.” Then wave my small camera bag at her, but she’s barely paying attention.
“Just be careful,” she drawls, tired from her long week. Mine has felt longer, but who am I to tell her that? It isn’t a competition, and I’m just wired from nerves.
And from the fact that, even though it’s been a week since Oliver broke in and ‘helped’ me with my stream on Halloween, I can’t get the memory of him, of what we’d done, out of my head.
I’ve never had better sex before, but that’s not really an accomplishment. What is one, in my opinion, is the fact that he’s had a solid place in my thoughts every night since then. It’s been to the point that I’ve thought about calling him, so I can use his voice to get off.
Luckily, however, the memory of him has been more than enough for that.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her, sounding more confident than I feel. “I’m just going to walk down the block.” Though, that has gotten me in trouble before, at least this time Iknowwho the killer is and I’m not worried that the next victim is going to be me.
At least, I hope I won’t. I guess there’s always the chance if Rook and Oliver decide they’re done with me, but I can only hope that isn’t going to be the case.
My sneakers are loud on the stairs as I take the long way down, and I’m gasping for air like my lungs are closing by the time I get to the sidewalk. Clearly I’m in pretty bad shape, as is obvious from the way my body is protesting a few flights of stairs so strongly. But I set off anyway and try not to gulp air like a dying fish.
I’m partly successful, I think, due to the fact no one is staring at me like a leper staggering around St. Augustine, and I walk past my favorite coffee shop to the quiet street with small, boutique style shops on the other side of it.
By the time I’m there, and my camera is up in my hands as I look around for something to shoot, I feel better. My lungs aren’t burning in protest anymore, and I can actually walk without wanting to double over in pain. No more running stairs for me, unless it’s absolutely necessary, of course.
I use the front of a small, religion-based boutique for a few shots, using the shadows of night falling to make things look ominous. I find an angle where I can get the praying hands sticking out of the door in a light that gives them a spooky shadow. I like the contrast, and do it again with a few more of their signs before moving on. It isn’t that I’m focusingspecificallyon religion, or anything so dramatic.
It’s just that I love the contrast, the depth. The irony, sometimes, of taking a thing that should be one way, and finding a way to make it another. Like the cross throwing shadows down to the street below menacingly. Or the praying hands glowing red in the dying sun. It feels like a conversation piece in my brain. A way to start a debate over the meaning of something, instead of just looking at a picture, appreciating it with a bland smile, and moving on.
But maybe that’s just the art history major side of me. I’m a sucker for complexity, even if I have to create it myself. Even if I’m going too far, and these won’t have the impactthat I’m looking for, perhaps Professor Solomon will find it in the goodness of his black, withered heart to point out where I went wrong, or lend Oliver to me for my extra credit. Either is possible, though both are probably unlikely.
By the time I finish shooting a staircase behind a metal grate, the light is mostly gone. The streets are brightened only by the dirty, dingy street lamps, and I realize as I straighten that I feeloff.
I feel like someone’s watching me, or about to breathe on the back of my neck.
Whirling around, I expect to find Oliver there, like a ghost possessing me and able to find me at a moment’s notice, but I don’t.
I find someone else instead, and I realize instantly that his face is unknown to me, and nothing about him seems familiar.
The man, who might be in his late thirties and probably needs to be thrown into a shower for five days, appears nervous. He looks anywhere but at me, and when he does glance in my direction, it’s with wide, almost frightened eyes. A hood covers his hair, though I can see greasy brown strands plastered to his forehead like his sweat can double for glue. His face is shiny with perspiration, and his hands are thrust so forcefully in his pockets I worry he’ll tear the thin material of the worn hoodie.
“Hi,” he greets, voice almost too soft for me to hear. “I didn’t mean to, umm, bother you.”
The admonition should put me at ease. I should feel better about him, or at least not feel so awful about the situation. But instead, I frown at him and step backward, my back hitting the grate.
“Do I know you?” I ask, not replying to his apology directly. “Have we met before?”
He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and looks at me as if he’s trying to figure out what to say. I half-think thatI’mthe idiot, and that we’ve met before or I should obviously know him. But I’ve definitely never talked to this man for a second in my life, let alone been so close to him.
“I don’t think so,” he says finally, his foot grinding against the pavement and causing his knee to jerk. “My friend and I…” He looks down at the other end of the street, his tongue darting out to lick at cracked lips. “He’s not here or anything,” the man assures me, like I had been worried he was.
Problem is, I am. I still am, because he’s not so convincing that he’s alone.
“I just thought you were someone else,” he says finally, slowly and deliberately. His smile, when it’s pulled onto his lips like a mask, is apologetic and wide. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I tell him, the words a lie. “I was startled, but I’m not scared. Sorry that I’m not who you’re looking for.” He doesn’t move, so I do. I edge around him, the hair at the back of my neck still standing on end as I march back toward my apartment. I don’t know him, and he says he doesn’t know me, but somehow that’s not quite good enough.
As if he’s an unseen shield, I dial Oliver’s number.
“Hello Blair.” It’s Rook who picks up, his voice smooth and velvety. “Oliver’s a little busy—”
“Can you just talk to me?” I hiss, more hurriedly than I’d meant to sound. “I mean, if you have time—”
“What’s wrong?”he cuts me off quickly, voice turning sharp. “Are you all right?”
