Chapter Three: In Her Apartment
by thelittletree
Elira yawned as she entered the small apartment she had above her shop, not even bothering to remove her sneakers. She was starving. The mocha coffee Terry had bought her at lunch had been the only thing she'd had all day and it had gone right through her. Coffee always did. She opened the fridge, squinting at the glow the lightbulb shed in the darkness of her kitchen, and rummaged through half-heartedly. Nothing struck her as particularly appetizing. She hadn't been shopping yet this week; making a mental note to go to the market tomorrow on her lunch hour, she closed the refrigerator door with a foot.
The living room was dark, the only illumination coming from a streetlight in front of the shop, its gentle radiance filtering through her curtains. Stepping carefully around an armchair, and then an end table, she came to a standing lamp. Pulling the small chain attached to the bulb beneath the shade, she turned it on. The room was small, stuffed with a couch, a fair-sized wall unit, and other various pieces of furniture. Elira surveyed it contentedly, sighing. Home. Even though her livingroom was just about as tidy as such a cramped room could get, Elira began to straighten the cushions and smooth down the afghan that hung over the back of her sofa, wasting time until she could decide if she felt like going to bed. As she stood up, looking over her handiwork, her stomach gave an irritated rumble.
And Elira decided to go out for supper.
It was after nine o'clock and a weeknight, so the streets were fairly deserted. Elira walked along the sidewalk with her coat collar pulled up almost to her nose, her breath filtering through her zipper in visible clouds. It was a chilly evening for spring, but Elira didn't mind it that much. The cold usually dissuaded a number of the muggers of Virna from plying their trade too vigorously. Still, she attempted to muffle her footsteps as she walked so as not to draw attention to herself.
Most of the stores near her shop were closed now, turning in fairly early so that the workers could get home before the criminal element started coming out of their greasy holes. Elira was starting to realize how futile it had been to come out so late. She was just about to turn around and go back home when she saw some illuminated windows at the end of the block. So she kept walking. She was somewhat surprised when she found that the store still open for business was the new cafe. Either the owner here had more guts than the rest of them, or he didn't know how dangerous it was to be open so late. But, whatever the reason, their doors were accepting weary customers as they came off of their trains, wandering over from the station not even a street away.
Despite the number of people in the cafe, the atmosphere was quiet, subdued. Two young men who looked like punks sat on stools at the counter. A homeless beggar slept soundly on the padded bench by the pay phone. A few of the tables were taken up, but mostly by people sitting alone and nursing cups of coffee in their weary hands, enjoying a moment of solitude before returning home.
Elira gave an audible gasp when she saw that one of these was Vincent.
He sat facing her, though his eyes lingered on the window. He had no coffee. Elira wondered what in the world would've brought him here. He did not seem the type of man who would waste time in a coffeeshop. Curious, she considered whether or not he would accept a little company. She still felt self-conscious about listening in on his conversation with Barret, but he hadn't seemed bitter about it. In fact, when he'd startled her while re-entering the forge, he'd caught her by the wrist to keep her from falling. If it had been Terry listening in on something she was saying, she would've let him fall on his ass. It would've served him right.
But Vincent seemed above all that. Above petty little squabbles. It was as if he had known grudges that went as deep as the soul, and therefore anything in comparison was worth less than nothing.
This was an opportunity to get to know him, she realized, if getting to know him was actually possible. She'd wanted to take him here earlier; she'd be a fool to ignore this second chance.
If she'd have believed in such things, she might've believed that this was fate's doing.
Elira walked quickly to the table. Vincent must've expected her to just hurry by, since the restrooms were down a hallway behind him, for he didn't look up at her until she'd slipped into the seat opposite him. She might as well have been a complete stranger for the amount of recognition his expression registered.
"Hi, Vincent," she said, her voice appropriately low for the noise level in the cafe. He gave a nod of his head before glancing out the window again. No questions about what she was doing here. No mention of how dangerous it was for a young woman to be walking alone at this time of the evening. Not even the remotest effort at starting a conversation. Elira gave a sigh, realizing that it was wholly up to her. He had no interest in getting close to anyone.
"So, what brings you here? I thought you always went straight home after work?" It was a valid question, she decided.
"I missed the train," Vincent replied quietly, not looking away from the window.
Elira nodded, inwardly smiling. Though it wasn't much information, it was still a start, a little more to add to what she'd received since her interview of him a month ago. 'I'm familiar with guns...my knowledge is extensive...I don't have a phone...I'm from MiraCletus...'
'...I know a man named Barret...I take a train home...'
"That's too bad," Elira remarked. "If I had a car, I'd offer you a ride."
Vincent said nothing. Elira followed his gaze to the train station.
"So, when's the next train due to arrive?"
Vincent continued to stare out into the darkness, his reflection dimly visible in the glass. "Soon."
"Oh." Elira's gaze slipped to the table top as she wondered what to say next. They had pretty well covered the train-thing, so it was time to move onto a new topic. But what else was safe, professional? Maybe if she just talked shop for a few minutes it would urge him to respond. After all, it would just be two people discussing work; there would be nothing personally involving about it. "Well, Vincent, I have to admit that I am very impressed with your work."
Vincent lowered his head a little. Elira stared at him, puzzled. Had the compliment made him uncomfortable? She sighed inwardly. This was getting them nowhere, and the way he ignored every attempt she made at conversation was starting to grate on her. Something told her he'd probably been hurt by others one too many times, something like that, and now he found it safer just to avoid people altogether. Something else told her she should probably leave him alone.
But isolating yourself was the coward's way out. That's what the gunsmith had told her.
With renewed purpose, Elira took a breath. Vincent had resumed his watch of the outside world. Undaunted, she began to speak. "You should take notice when I give a compliment; I don't give them very often. Unless I really mean them. I mean, I've been making guns since I was nineteen, but I have never seen anyone make anything the way you do. Even with the handicap your prosthetic must sometimes present, you're still the best craftsman I've ever run across." Elira was surprised that she could mention his metal arm at all, but she didn't give herself a moment to reflect on it. "The way you painstakingly check to make sure that the gun you've made is faultless, too. I had to teach the others that, but you do it on your own. Where did you learn so much about guns?" She took a breath and waited.
Vincent had taken his gaze from the window to look at her, and there was something in his red eyes. Almost...a question. In a moment, however, he looked away again without answering.
Was he surprised that she was still talking to him? She imagined that most people, upon getting no response the first time, usually left him alone.
But there was something about him that reminded Elira of herself, a self she had left behind more than two years ago. A girl, hurt and lonely, but too afraid to approach others. Afraid because of what had happened. And if it hadn't been for the prodding and prying of others, she was positive she would still be that girl.
Maybe it was her turn to be that 'prodding other' for someone else. He liked guns? Maybe he would be interested in the thing that had become a point of contact between herself and the old gunsmith. "I have a book that was passed down to me by the previous owner of the shop. It's a very old book, a detailed history of forging that shows a lot of old guns and explains what they were made for and in which time periods. It even has some instructions on how to make some of the obsolete models. I'm still trying to perfect my technique on a couple of them." She smiled a little as she thought about her first poor attempt at forging a very, very old gun. It had been so unlike anything she'd ever made before that it had turned out terribly. But, even outdated, it was a beautiful book, and so intriguing. When she'd first come to live with the gunsmith in his tiny apartment, she'd seen the book lying on a shelf, its two covers sealed together with a small clasp that could only be opened with a key. The gunsmith had told her not to touch it because it was very old and very special. But she'd been unable to resist. Not two weeks after she'd moved in, she'd discovered a way to pick the lock. "Everyone in the forge has seen it already, except for you," she continued after a moment. "It's not mandatory that you see it, of course, but if you're interested you could come up to my apartment sometime to look at it." She smiled encouragingly.
Vincent made no response. Elira was tempted to show her irritation, but she held herself in check. Besides, she rationalized, it probably wouldn't do anything anyway. He'd just keep staring at her with those red, unreadable eyes.
There was nothing more to say. Elira admitted that she felt a little foolish. Maybe it was time to excuse herself and go home. But, just as she was about to stand and bid Vincent a safe trip, Vincent got to his feet. Elira watched him, and then turned her head to see that a number of the other patrons were getting up, ready to leave. She glanced out of the window. The train had arrived.
"Goodnight, Vincent. See you in the shop tomorrow."
Vincent gave an acknowledging nod and slipped into the recess between the tables and the bar. Within a few moments, he was gone.
Elira sighed and sank down in her seat, wondering if she'd just given Vincent more reason to shrink from further contact. With a deft finger, she flipped a curly wisp of her hair behind an ear and prepared to leave. But then her stomach rumbled. And she remembered why she'd come here in the first place.
The train was almost empty. The stop at G'nais, sector five, had unloaded most of the passengers, and now only a few tired-looking people sat scattered about the cars, staring into their laps or out the dingy windows. No one was inclined to open their mouths, even to breath. Every few minutes someone would cough or shift in their seat but other than that there was silence, except for the constant noise of the train. And that seemed to suit everyone just fine. Each person had retreated into their mind, thinking about home, a warm bed, food. And, if only for a moment, they weren't miserable, slowly being rocked into complacency by the movement of the train.
Vincent wiped a spot on the window clear with the cuff of his sleeve. Right now, they were on one of the many bridges in Neo-Midgar, passing over the eastern side of sector five, heading for MiraCletus. Few lights dotted the darkness below. The night life of G'nais consisted mainly of those affiliated with gangs, which urged everyone else to withdraw into the safety of their houses, into the ignorant bliss of sleep. After another moment of gazing down on the sector, Vincent withdrew from the window.
A book. A book of guns, passed down through the generations. A book detailing guns, with pictures of guns, telling the history of guns. Vincent wondered how many of the guns he'd used in his life were in that book.
But no. He wasn't interested.
Perhaps if it had a similar picture, he could make another Death Penalty to make up for the one he'd lost.
No. He shouldn't be interested.
If only he hadn't lost it after the battle so many years ago while they'd been clinging to life in the dying Highwind. If only he had it now. It had been the most accurate, most powerful, most intriguing weapon he'd ever wielded. If only he still had it to hone his skills with. He could almost feel the perfect weight of it in his hands.
No! He couldn't let himself be interested. He couldn't go to her apartment. He needed to stay apart from others. History had taught him that.
He'd ended up giving parts of himself away in Avalanche. And, though he'd cut all ties Barret had found him, and now the others would know. He cringed inwardly.
He had to stay apart. It was the only way to protect himself, to protect them.
And so, he wasn't interested.
His apartment was dark. He liked it that way. Without removing his coat or his boots, he went to one of his bookshelves and selected a maroon, hard-cover book. Opening it to a bookmarked page he began to read, his red eyes able to see the words without aid in the dark. He wandered into the bedroom, still reading. A moment later, he exited and put the book back where he'd found it.
He wasn't interested.
He selected another book. Opening it to a random page, he began to read. A moment later, he shut it with a snap, placing it back on the shelf.
He wasn't interested.
Another book. He glanced at the title written on the spine. And then put it back. With a sigh, he massaged his forehead.
He was more than interested.
The next day went by quickly. After his batch of rifles were finished, Terry decided to make the first shotguns of the season, though it really was a little early still. Elira didn't mind. The quicker a jump they got on it, the easier a taskmaster she could afford to be.
As Terry and a couple of the others worked on guns for stock, Elira assigned herself, Benita, and Vincent to filling the orders for guns. The number of orders for Vincent was almost equal to the collective amount she gave to Benita and herself , but it wasn't a problem for him. His proficiency at making beautiful weapons made him a quick worker. By the end of the day, the orders were coming along at a better pace than expected, which meant the customers would be pleased. And that made Elira pleased.
The only thing that didn't please her about the best day she'd ever had at work had to do with Vincent.
She'd woken up that morning feeling foolish about what she'd done last night. Talking to Vincent had been a mistake, she was sure of it. Her misgivings had only increased when she'd seen him at work and, instead of giving his customary nod, he'd completely ignored her. And to compound on that, when she'd stepped into the forge to check on her molds, she'd turned to find Vincent staring at her, a strange look in those crimson eyes. A wary sort of look. It didn't make her think he was about to open up to her anytime soon. And that made her feel inexplicably depressed.
As she straightened up the order forms on her desk, sorting them by priority as she got ready to leave, Benita came out of the forge and stopped beside the desk. Elira glanced up, but then lowered her eyes. She really didn't feel like talking right now.
"Hey, Lir," Benita began in her scratchy voice. "You okay? You look sorta down."
Elira shrugged, banging the edges of the order forms on her desk again to get them to fall into place. "I'm fine."
"Ya sure?"
Then Terry came out of the forge, stomping out his unmistakable steps. "Hey, Elira. I'd stick around tonight, but my brother roped me into watching his kids. I'll call you this evening, all right?" With that, he leaned over her desk and gave her a swift, rough kiss on the cheek. "See ya tomorrow." His heavy footsteps continued until he was out of the shop and down the street a few paces. The other men of her forge, excluding Vincent, then left for the night, saying their farewells. Elira tried to make her friendly smile convincing for them.
But Benita was still standing there. Elira tried to ignore her, attempting to look busy.
"Okay, what's wrong?" she asked suddenly after a few seconds of waiting.
"It's nothing."
Benita sighed. "Oh boy," she said knowingly. "Man trouble. I recognize that tone when I hear it. Okay, who's the fella and what'd he do?"
Elira chuckled suddenly and looked up, shaking her head a little. "Do you always think every trouble a woman has is because of men?"
"Isn't it true?"
Elira laughed quietly, putting the order forms down before she ruined them and sitting herself on her stool. "I don't know what my problem is, Beni. I just...I don't know."
Benita huffed and crossed her short, pudgy arms over her chest. "I know what yer problem is. You've got Terry bugging ya when it's obvious yer not interested!"
Elira shook her head again. "No, that's not it. I can deal with that. This is...something different."
Benita's eyes lit up mischeviously and she leaned in toward Elira. Out of curiousity, Elira leaned forward as well.
"Is it the new guy?"
"Is what the new guy?"
Benita sighed in exasperation. "I mean, are ya crushing on the new guy?"
Elira shot backward with a laugh, the stool rocking underneath her. "What? No!"
"Shh!" Benita shushed her furiously. "He's still in the forge."
Elira controlled herself and leaned in again.
"C'mon, I'm bein' serious. Are ya? I'm kinda 'ttracted to him."
Elira's eyebrows flew upward. "No way. I thought you hated men."
Benita scowled. "I don't hate 'em. I just hate it when they do some'n annoying. Which is almost always." She gave a sigh and flipped a strand of graying hair out of her eyes. "There's just some'n about a 'mysterious man'. I dunno. That's what made me join those bikers when I was a kid. The mystery of 'em." She gave a secretive smile as she added, "Besides, I always liked 'em tall and skinny."
Elira couldn't help giving another laugh. Benita's way of thinking was so foriegn to her; she'd probably never understand the older woman.
"Well," Benita said, her voice at its normal volume again, "if you don't feel like tellin' me what's wrong, that's yer decision. I guess I'll be goin' now. You take care o' yerself."
"I will. You, too."
Benita smiled and took a peek into the forge before heading out the door.
Elira picked up the order forms and straightened them again, though they didn't need it. In fact, she realized that she was bending the ends of the pages with the banging she was giving them on her desk. With a determined air, she set the papers down and resolved to stop fidgeting. Vincent usually gave her less than a nod before leaving after work. Maybe tonight he wouldn't even look at her. And then, once he was gone, she could lock the door, go upstairs into her apartment, eat, take a bath, go to bed, and stop thinking about that stupid, stupid conversation in the cafe! After all, he wasn't her responsibility. She had done what she could by trying to talk to him. If he didn't want to open up it was his decision. If she'd rushed him, it had been accidental, done with good intentions.
Why was this bothering her so much?
But she knew why. If the gunsmith had tried to force her to open up it would have chased her away, and where would she be now?
But it wasn't her fault. She did her best to convince herself that it was the truth. It wasn't her fault if they found his body under a train...
...the body of a man...almost unrecognizable...
...almost...except for the ring on his finger...
Elira shook her head violently. She wouldn't get into those memories. Not tonight. Not when she was already feeling horrible. She wouldn't be able to handle them. She wouldn't be able to handle the guilt...
Elira realized her hands were shaking. She clasped them together to keep them from trembling, but it didn't really work. Inside, she felt empty, though her stomach was bloated as if with tears that were just waiting for the right moment to surface. She wished she had Barret with her right now.
Vincent stepped out of the forge soundlessly. Elira looked up, somewhat startled by his appearance, though she probably should've been used to the way he made barely any sound as he walked.
He didn't look at her as he made his way to the door. At the door, however, with one hand out to open it, he stopped. The digits of his prosthetic clenched and then unclenched, but that was the only movement he made for a few seconds. Elira began to wonder what was wrong. He almost looked...indecisive, and that was an odd thing for him. He was always so purposeful and efficient in everything he did; even when he hesitated to answer questions, it was almost as if he did it for the effect, the response already on the tip of his tongue.
Slowly, he reached out with his metal hand and gripped the handle of the door. Before he opened it, though, he turned around abruptly and fixed Elira with a pointed stare. Startled, Elira almost toppled from her stool.
"Yes?" she asked tentatively.
Vincent opened his mouth, but then faltered before he could say anything. Shaking his head, he turned back around and opened the door. The bell over it chimed softly. But he only took half a step before pivoting again. The door shut with another ring of the bell. "I would like to see the book," he said quickly, as if saying it faster would change its meaning.
Elira blinked, confused. "B-book?"
"The book you mentioned last night."
Elira couldn't help the look of surprise that crossed her face. "You want to see the book?" Was it possible that she hadn't pushed him away? She stood from the stool. "Would you...would you mind coming up to my apartment? I mean, I don't want to move it too far. It's very old."
Vincent gave a shrug. Elira nodded and tried to appear as nonchalant as he looked, though something inside her was bubbling up with excitement. Calmly, she stepped out from behind her desk and entered the forge, glancing over her shoulder to indicate that Vincent should follow. And follow he did.
Elira opened the door at the back of the forge and, with the deft flick of a lightswitch, made her way up the staircase. At the top of the stairs was another door, which Elira unlocked quickly with a key and opened. Inside lay her cramped apartment in all of its unashamed glory. She entered and, after pulling off her sneakers, walked around the rooms, turning on a couple of lamps. She came back to the door and waited for Vincent to remove his boots before leading him into her crowded living room.
It was not long after nine. Supper time. Elira let her mind wander over all of the groceries she'd bought on her lunch break, trying to decide what she felt like eating and what she could feed her guest. As Vincent wandered over to her bookshelf to inspect the titles there, Elira walked into the kitchen. While pulling some sandwich stuff out of the fridge, she called out, "The book's in the top cupboard of the wall unit."
She heard the squeaky sound of the cupboard moments later. And then the soft protests of the old springs in her sofa. Her mother's sofa, actually. It was the only piece of furniture she'd brought with her from Kalm, the last remnant of her old life.
The sound of the springs stirred a memory and she paused in laying out the bread. It was a memory of *him*. Shaking her head she tried to concentrate on making the sandwiches, but the thoughts would not be suppressed again. Steeling herself against the onslaught of grief, anger, and guilt that always oppressed her at any thought of him, she let herself remember, knowing it would be less painful if she just gave in.
She had been sitting on his lap on the old sofa. He'd been nuzzling playfully at her neck with his lips and nose, sending thrills through her that only he had ever caused. Her father had been out for the evening with his current girlfriend.
They'd made love on that couch. And then, he'd asked her to marry him.
Two months after the marriage, he was gone. Some bystanders had said he'd done it on purpose, that he'd known the train was coming. He'd just let himself fall...
...and the gunsmith had taken her in without any questions. When she'd cried herself to sleep every night, he hadn't said anything. When she'd neglected again and again to visit her hometown, he'd never asked any questions. Sometimes, she'd thought she'd seen something like a knowing pity in his gaze, as if he'd seen it all before. And when the time had been right, he'd known what to say, what to do. Barret, a friend of the gunsmith, had talked of Myrna, his wife who had died in a fire. And she had listened sullenly. Until she'd realized that she wasn't the only one who felt guilt for the death of a loved one. It had taken almost two and a half years, but she had finally opened back up to society. At least somewhat.
She thought of Terry suddenly and chewed her lip. She wasn't ready for that. Not a relationship. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be ready. Occasionally she was still haunted by those questions: Why had he done it? What had she done wrong? What had she done to cause his death?
It was a few moments before Elira could compose herself and stop her hands from trembling. She finished making the sandwiches and, putting them on two plates, carried them into the livingroom. Vincent was on the sofa with the book in his lap, thoroughly engrossed. Elira set the plate on the end table beside him and, though he gave a nod, he didn't look up.
She sat down beside him on the couch, curling her legs beneath her to keep her feet warm, and grabbed one half of her sandwich. Then, finally settled, she took a bite of her supper and watched as Vincent flipped slowly through the book.
His expression was so serious she realized, as if for the first time. His mouth never formed more than a straight line and his eyebrows never twitched to show any emotion. In her own seclusion of two and a half years ago, she recalled, she had also kept a stone face in front of everyone. She'd learned that it kept people from getting too close.
Vincent turned the page carefully, smoothing it down with the palm of his gloved hand. At the picture of a revolver that was more than forty years old, he let his fingertips linger, as if he was familiar with it. Elira frowned a little then, wondering just how 'familiar' he was with guns. She wondered to herself how he knew Barret.
She wondered if he had ever killed anyone.
Where had that come from? She shook her head. There was nothing about him so far that suggested he was a murderer. Why would she even think that?
So maybe he'd never killed anyone. But what if he had lost a loved one, too? And what if the memory of that death still haunted him?
Elira halted in mid-chew. He could be more like her than she'd first thought. There was nothing saying they hadn't experienced her same circumstances. After all, Barret had. Something in her quivered suddenly with a strange sort of excitement. Maybe they were the same...
Because she was still holding people at arm's length. Even Terry. Even Benita. Even Barret, if she thought about it. After *him*, there had been no one else. No one she could really connect with. No one who *really* understood. Not even Barret, not completely. Because Barret wasn't the type to get quiet and anti-social. He'd described himself in the years after Myrna's death as angry, unstable. He'd been sort of confused by Elira's withdrawal.
But Vincent would've understood why, she thought. She understood why he was doing it. She had been there, too. A part of her was still there, she acknowledged. They could help each other...
Elira didn't even realize what she was doing until her fingers had touched his pale cheek. Absorbed in the book, Vincent hadn't noticed her drawing closer until she'd touched him. And then he started, flinching away, his eyes full of surprise and...fear?
Elira dimly realized that she had overstepped the boundary. It had gone beyond professional, over the invisible line he'd drawn to keep others out. She had touched him, driven on by something she didn't quite understand. She needed...she needed to know if he was like her. She needed to know if he could help her, and if she could help him.
She moved to touch him again and he watched her with a confused, disapproving frown, shying from the contact. But not far enough. Her fingertips caressed his cheek, and she let them travel up to his temple. This time he hesitated. Encouraged, Elira drew her fingertips around his ear and then down his neck. He lolled his head back a little as she continued to touch him, his eyes fluttering shut. She wondered how long it had been since someone had shown him physical affection.
"It's all right, Vincent." She traced the contours of his lips and he opened them, giving an unsteady breath. She cupped his cheek in her hand and he leaned into her touch. Moved by pity, Elira got to her knees and put an arm around his back, drawing him slowly to her until his head rested on her shoulder. She then put her other arm around him and rested her cheek on his hair. She could feel him shaking and she began to rub his back.
"It's all right, Vincent. It's all right."
She felt him move and, in a moment, his arms had encircled her waist. He held her tightly, as if afraid that she would vanish if he let go. His touch felt strange, especially with the metal hand pressed against her back, but good. She hadn't had a man touch her like this in a long time, and she wondered how long it had been since a woman had gotten this close to him. But she didn't feel ashamed or self-conscious. This felt right in a way that gave her the courage to keep going. He needed this; she needed this. She had made the correct first step in the dark maze that was Vincent and had gained a piece of his hesitant trust. Now, if only she knew what to do next...
The shrill cry of the telephone made her jump. At the second ring, Vincent began to sit up, as if coming out of a dream. Elira tried not to notice how cold she felt without his arms around her. She backed away from him as the third ring echoed through the apartment and was disappointed to see that he wasn't willing to look at her. With a sigh, she stood from the couch and answered the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hello?" she asked, and her voice was muted as if she'd been asleep.
"Elira? Is that you?" came Terry's voice from the other end of the receiver. "You sound tired. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Good. I told you I'd call. Renard and Edwin are watching television and that gives me a little breather. Boy, those kids are like tumbleweeds. They don't sit still for long. I feel like a trampoline."
"Uh-huh." Elira watched as Vincent closed the book on his lap and stood to put it away where he'd found it.
"Elira?"
"Mmm?"
"Elira? Are you still listening?"
"Huh?" Without a glance in Elira's direction, Vincent closed the cupboard door in the wall unit and left the living room.
"So, what's happening with you?"
Elira picked up the base of the phone from the coffee table that sat a few steps from the couch and carried it with her until the cord was stretched to its limit. Peering around the wall that separated her living room from her kitchen, she could see the door of her apartment. Vincent stood next to it, stepping into his boots. And then he opened the door.
"No, Vincent! Wait!" She put out a hand as if to stop him, dropping the base of the phone in the process. Vincent ignored her and left, shutting the door behind him.
There was silence for a moment on the other end of the phone. "Elira?" Terry began falteringly. "What...what's going on? Is Vincent with you in your apartment?"
Elira sank to her knees and then carefully righting the telephone base.
"Elira! Answer me! Are you all right?"
"Yes," she croaked. "I'm fine, Terry."
"What's wrong? Why's Vincent in your apartment with you? It's after nine o'clock!"
Elira scoffed, angry at Terry for calling, angry at him for asking so many questions. "What, is nine o'clock my curfew?"
"Elira, no. That's not what I meant. I'm just curious, that's all. And I worry about you. None of us knows Vincent very well. Is it really a good idea for you to be alone in your apartment with him?"
"Why?" Elira stood and stalked across the livingroom, dragging the base of the telephone along the floor behind her. "Has he said anything to make you distrust him? Does he make lewd comments about me behind my back?"
"I just have a hard time trusting a guy who...well, you know, looks the way he does."
That did it. Elira had always thought that Terry was above that kind of thing. He'd never said anything bad about Barret and the colour of his skin. Then again, Barret hadn't been alone with her in her apartment. Elira had seen jealousy rear its ugly head a few times when regular customers had made passes at her. She'd always brushed it off before; it was just Terry's way. But this was starting to get ridiculous. Terry didn't own her. She wasn't his to be jealous about. She had never been his the way he wanted her. And now, she doubted she ever would be.
"And how does he look, Terry?"
"Elira, you're making too much of this..."
"You know, Terry, I thought you were different. I really did. Now I see I was just ignoring the obvious because you were my closest friend." She sat down on the sofa. The springs groaned under her.
There was a small silence. "Elira. Don't get all defensive on me. You know I didn't mean it that way. I just...don't want anything to happen to you, all right? I care about you."
"If you care about me, stop telling me what to do!"
"I'm not telling you what to do! I'm..." There was a pause as Terry took an audible breath. "Look, Elira. You're obviously stressed right now. Why don't we talk about this when you've calmed down a little."
Elira felt like giving him a swift, incensed retort, but instead gathered her wits about her and controlled her anger. "Terry, I'm not stressed. I'm fine, okay?"
"All right, all right. So, you're fine. I only wanted to know what you're doing? Is that such a horrible question?"
Elira felt like saying, 'I thought you wanted to know why Vincent was in my apartment!' but decided against it. "I invited Vincent up to see that book, and after work this evening he came up to see it. Then, he left when you called. There, that's what I've been doing. Do you want to know what I've eaten in the last twenty-four hours, too?"
"Of course not. Well, I'm sorry I ruined you're evening by calling."
Elira scoffed into the receiver. "Terry, you didn't..."
"Well, that TV show is done. I'd better go and take care of the boys. Good-bye, Elira."
"Terry, wait."
Only the dial tone answered back.
Elira got swiftly to her feet and, grabbing up the base of the phone, slammed the receiver down. She then banged the phone onto its spot on the coffee table and sank down onto the couch again. The spot where Vincent had been sitting only minutes before was still warm. Curling up in that corner of her sofa, she let it all out, crying until all of the pent of grief, guilt, and rage had faded, leaving only an empty, sick feeling, and finally sleep.