Part One

No city refused solitude more stringently than the city belonging to this story. Its windows glowed in varying hues of grimy mustard yellow; light did not die in this city, even in the latest and earliest hours. The streets were never empty: when suited men deserted their cabs and hollered on their phones as they disappeared around the corner, a string of howling youths, or cursing drunkards, or indecipherable shadows, skulked and tottered and staggered in their place. When one person lapsed into silence, their generous pause was crudely interrupted by a shriek, or a guffaw, or the jangling click-click-click of heels on concrete, or wolfish honking. Sometimes, a band might play on a street corner—a practice usually chaperoned by sunlight, but welcome in the later hours nonetheless. Still, there was the occasional passer-by who didn’t take a liking to the blaring trombone, or the rumbling drum, and a fight might break out. Fights were always breaking out in this city: some bloody, some adolescent, some unfortunate. Splinters of glass littered the sidewalk like tears, grieving. Sometimes, the echo of a scream sailed on streams of wind, coursing through the streets and passing by apartment windows.

There was one apartment building, tucked neatly between its neighbors, which was thickly veiled in indigo. If one were to inspect it from a far enough distance, it wouldn’t appear like a building at all, but an extension of the sky, dark and curious. That is, until you squinted, focusing your attention obstinately on that one window on the sixth floor, the one with the curtains drawn, and a faint, golden haze encircling it: the window of Terrence Miller’s apartment.

The apartment was a surprisingly quaint affair, a palpable protest against the scenes that transpired beyond its windows. It was cramped, its rooms narrow and appliances arranged in strange combinations—Terrence had a sink squeezed beside his desk, for instance, which always earned him a chuckle when he had visitors. Despite the apartment’s modest size, its neatness made it impressive, with a lovely round table that always had a vase of tulips on it, and a string of framed paintings lined across the wall. There were three paintings in total: one was his sister’s, a clever portrait of a woman holding a cat in her lap, with a straw hat atop her head and a circlet of daisies. The woman was their late mother.

Beside this portrait, the other two paintings were from the same artist, purchased from an old neighbor who had been trying to get rid of some ‘knick-knacks’ before he said goodbye to the place. Terrence suspected nobody would take the paintings because they appeared to be unfinished, naked canvases poking out from between splotches of greens and yellows. There was a signature in the bottom right corner of each painting, but Terrence had never managed to make out the name, for it was a mighty, unintelligible cursive that had begun to fade many years ago. When Terrence inquired about the origin of the painting, the neighbor barked, ‘Huh! How should I know? My wife got it from god-knows-where.’ The neighbor and his wife had split up on dreadful terms; Terrence said no more. He liked the paintings immensely, fond of the artist’s miserable attempt at capturing a rural landscape of meadow and blue sky. Terrence hadn’t left the city for many years, and was thankful for the stranger’s crude and honest attempt in helping to make his apartment less gloomy.

That’s not to say his apartment was gloomy: it was only burdened with the unavoidable knowledge of what stood outside its windows, and how long it had taken him to save up for this wretched, tiny excuse for a home. It was still bigger than the home he had grown up in, and his flowery curtains functioned as a constant reminder to himself of that old house, and Grandmama, who he missed fiercely. He was sorry that Grandmama never got to see his apartment; he was sure she would have loved it, and called it ‘swell’ or something like that, and gently patted his head, as she liked to do. She also would have complained that he hadn’t painted his walls, to which he would’ve just shrugged, because arguing with Grandmama never ended well.

Terrence’s landlord, a red-cheeked white man who thought himself ‘mighty generous’ to offer up a room to a man of Terrence’s ‘background’, praised his good behavior with unnerving devotion. He would tell anyone who passed them in the hall that Terrence Miller never brought back girls to the apartment, nor did he drink, nor did he forget to pay his rent. That would earn the young man—what could only be described as—a delightful clobber on the back. Though Terrence’s landlord was perhaps half his height, he seemed to find no trouble in knocking his tenant off his feet.

In those scattered occasions where Terrence agreed to host friends at his apartment, he never failed to receive complimentary bouquets as guests’ eyes lingered on his bookcase. Though he always feigned some kind of courteous indifference, Terrence treasured his bookcase with the same ferocity you might feel towards a child or a beloved pet dog. He had built it himself, this beautiful triumph of oak, and, like laying bricks, carefully filled its every breathing crevice with a book. He had read every title two or three times, and there were a lot of books tucked into this bookcase, do not be mistaken: it ran across a stretch of wall so long, and towered so high, it seemed more like a wall itself. Sometimes Terrence forgot there was a wall behind this bookcase, until he pried a book from its place, and spied the eggshell white hidden behind.

Jordan Reid’s eyes had been fastened to Terrence’s bookcase for the last minute or so, and she had yet to utter a word. Terrence shifted uncomfortably, deciding that at the very least, a curt nod of approval would do, even if she did not swoon with admiration. Jordan did not turn when she shook her head; he was glad not to see her face, lips pursed, eyes squinted, as though examining a spot on the horizon. ‘It covers the wall,’ was her verdict.

Terrence’s shoulders sagged. ‘I know,’ he agreed.

When Jordan turned, he found he was not embarrassed to behold those knitted brows and squinting eyes and scrunched lips. A part of him was sour but, for the most part, he tasted some kind of relief at recognizing her, even with her back turned, like those two paintings on his wall, the strokes pulsating with that nostalgic cadence. ‘It makes the room look smaller,’ said Jordan.

Terrence laughed, ‘I’m not sure it could get any smaller.’

Jordan Reid was not a tall woman, but her broad shoulders and unrelenting spine created a stubborn illusion that commanded a firm posture. Terrence supposed he should tower over her, but her eyes were level and defiant. They were brown, but the kind of brown that doubtlessly earned a person more confusion than compliments. It was not that whispery hue that revealed golden flecks when the sun kissed her irises. Terrence only knew her eyes were brown because of how intently he had stared into them, forehead creased with concentration, heart slow, when they had lain in bed together over a decade ago.

The woman in Terrence’s apartment was not the girl who had shared his pillow eleven summers ago; the one whose scent he remembered—sweet and earthy, crafted meticulously from a routine of working her favorite soap into the folds of her body. She was crazy about her soap, a lovely, pricey concoction of pomegranate she had purchased on a trip to Italy she loved to remind everyone about. ‘Oh—thanks! That’s my soap,’ she would twitter, a strange, prideful grin plastered onto her face; ‘I got it in Italy!’

Now she smelled not of summer fruits, or vivid berries, or even some kind of rose or lavender flower that women always smelled like. He had noticed this even before she’d launched herself into his arms, after she had spotted him at the club she worked at. It wasn’t a stench that could be simply defined, like her pomegranate-flavored soap: it was, frankly, unsavory; she stank of tobacco and beer and men’s cologne. It made his nose wrinkle and his heart shrivel and clench. The ghost of a man’s arm looped itself around Jordan’s waist, trapping her with an impish cackle.

In some peculiar manner, Terrence thought Jordan was not a person but a memory—or something in between. Her outlines wavered with the familiarity of an innocent youthful girl, whilst her hard mouth betrayed the cynicism of someone worn down by the city. He wondered how he had never seen her around before, floating about his neighborhood like a lost spirit; eleven summers felt more like eleven eternities, lengthening still as his curious eyes locked with her dark ones.

Those dark eyes were narrowed now, with something that Terrence recognized as disapproval and stinging anticipation. If he were a white man, he might have flushed, embarrassed by the absence of his usual hostly conduct. Because he didn’t dare to admit to Jordan that she unnerved him, he offered, limply, ‘Would you—like a drink?’

That appeared to amuse her. Her eyebrows shot up, as though he had suggested they strip to their underwear and perform the Charleston. Nonetheless, her surprise was fleeting, quickly corrected by a, ‘Sure, I don’t mind,’ and a small smile which Terrence wouldn’t forget for the next few weeks after this encounter with his high school sweetheart. He almost stumbled as he nodded and felt his way toward the cabinet, stumbling like a toddler being prodded by his mother to take his first steps. Upon locating the cabinet and prying it open, Terrence made an unfortunate discovery. A few tinned cans were strewn across the top shelf, in addition to a discarded bottle of whiskey, perhaps from a gathering he had hosted several months prior. He did not want to inspect the bottle in front of Jordan, afraid to offend her.

Sheepishly, Terrence began to confess that he didn’t drink alcohol himself, but, when he expected company, he always made sure to have a few drinks prepared. ‘I don’t suppose you would mind some other refreshment?’ he proposed. ‘Lemonade, perhaps?’

Jordan let out an undignified chuckle. ‘Lemonade’s fine, Miller,’ she giggled, holding a hand before her mouth. Her face was doused in a glow so fulgent that Terrence was forced to wrench away his gaze, hauling open the fridge. It buzzed quietly as Jordan’s laughter faded. His fingers trembled as they curled around the cap of a pink lemonade bottle.

When he turned, he found her eyes had drifted to the three paintings on his wall. He rummaged in the drawer beside the fridge, forced into the corner of the room; his shoulders sank gratefully when he found a corkscrew.

‘It’s Esther,’ said Jordan, gaze fixed to the painting of Terrence’s mother. A blind man would have caught the grin in her voice. ‘Was it your sister who did this painting?’

‘She did,’ confirmed Terrence, breathless. He was overwhelmed by the sober and exhilarated reality of the glass bottle in his grip. A blurred vision of shards spattered onto the carpet crossed his mind. His fingers clasped the bottle tighter, though his palms were terribly cold. He felt more like a man dangling from the edge off a cliff by his fingertips, than a man who had invited a woman to his—relatively—comfortable apartment. A curse died on his lips as he struggled to unscrew the bottle. In his sweaty desperation, he almost missed Jordan’s eyes leaving the painting, landing neatly on the stubborn cork.

When Terrence finally succeeded, his cheeks were hot and swollen, as though a bee had stung both in turn. He set the bottle down onto the round table clumsily, before retrieving two glasses. Jordan poured the pink lemonade into the glasses, raising hers in his direction before downing its contents without further delay. She exhaled loudly and leaned against the dinner table. Terrence’s eyes flickered to the chair beside her, then returned to her face.

Jordan motioned foggily with her glass. ‘So what is it that you do, Miller?’ she asked.

Terrence thought her voice sounded slurred, but decided that couldn’t be right. He was sure the pink lemonade had no alcohol in it, and she had only finished one small glass. Scratching the back of his neck, he answered, ‘I’m a cab driver.’

Again, Jordan guffawed, her body almost careening forward with the impact. Terrence felt a short urge to hurry toward her slanting body and hold her upright. ‘A cab driver?’ she echoed, incredulous. ‘You drive people ’round?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah.’ His voice was hoarse.

Jordan’s head snapped to one side. It swerved as her eyes laggardly combed over Terrence’s apartment. He shifted uncomfortably as he waited for her inevitable response, one he wasn’t unfamiliar with, but never satisfied to receive. When Jordan was finished with her performance, she rested her gaze on the vase of tulips on the round table. She nudged a white petal. ‘You got a place like this, an’ you drive a cab?’

Suddenly, Terrence felt impatient. He returned his untouched glass to the table. ‘You weren’t so keen on my bookcase a minute ago,’ he bristled, before grimacing at his own petulance.

Jordan smiled. ‘Yeah. I ain’t,’ she clarified.

Terrence picked up his glass again, assessing its contents. It hardly resembled the pink lemonade his sister, Felicity, used to make herself during the hot summers. Despite its name, Terrence had always thought the color of the lemonade was more crimson or orange, yet the contents of his glass were pink like cotton candy. Once again, he set it down on the table, his lips refusing to graze its rim.

The puzzling nature of this impromptu rendezvous was quickly becoming unbearable. Terrence was bewildered that they were having some kind of conversation while leaning against a dinner table. If it had been winter-time, he did not doubt that Jordan might have been standing before him, still snug in a wool coat, prepared to flee at any moment. He was about to suggest they sit while they continue their discussion; that word, ‘discussion’ felt far too flattering, indeed. Jordan interrupted his train of thought by asking where the washroom was.

With Jordan occupied, Terrence was free to sink into one of the chairs, his legs stiff and senseless. He felt besieged, all at once, by a flurry of emotions, fears and desires, all of which he chose simply to discard, crushing each with the heel of his foot. The apartment felt uncomfortably hot, the air somewhat stagnant. Defeated, Terrence dragged himself toward the window, pushing it open a few inches; he was grateful to find his nausea quelled by the familiar hum of traffic, and a kind of pandemonium outside: the sound of shrieking girls mingled with some hoarse grunting and huffing, and the sound of glass bottles clinking. Terrence poked his head out, inhaling, disappointed to find no crisp wind welcoming him but even more static, warm air. Someone below was whistling. He jerked his head back inside.

When he turned back to the room, he was startled to find that the door to the washroom was open, but Jordan was not by the sink. It was not a large room, cramped and tight like the rest of his apartment; still, he peered inside, as though he might uncover a secret corridor. No alien sight greeted him, only his bemused expression staring back at him from the mirror. Frowning, Terrence stalked toward the front door, yanking it open and looking out.

It was not Jordan who met his eyes in the yellow corridor, but Terrence’s unruly neighbor, Todd. Todd was that dreadful person you wished you didn’t know, with a face eternally stretched into a leer, and a terrible stench that scampered behind him like a dog. He had tucked between his quivering fingertips a cigarette, which he was struggling to light. His eyes were sunken and hollow, and his head appeared to be balancing on his shoulders at a precarious angle.

Terrence’s heart thudded unsteadily as he retreated, shutting the door to his apartment. ‘Jordan?’ he called out as he addressed the deserted room. One glass of pink lemonade stared back at him expectantly; the other, empty and sat a few feet away, appeared to glint. Striding forward, Terrence seized his neglected glass and fed its contents to the sink beside the cabinet. He watched quietly as bubbles died on the metallic surface, and the unnaturally pink stream dissolved into the sinkhole.