Course of Action

She brought the glass of red liquid to her lips, reflecting on the events of the
day, pondering over what would happen next. Her legs covered in dark boots crossed, swinging in the air off the stool. She didn’t lean on the bar, as did the gentlemen who had been continuously consuming shots since he got here. She hadn’t seen him before, at least not before she left. He’d looked at her only once and ignored her the rest of the time—she hated him.

Bored of the rather dull atmosphere—no music, no entertainment, no men—she finished her numbing elixir in a soft gulp, head tilted back, long dark hair sweeping her back in fierce strokes. Rising, she grabbed her leather jacket and proceeded to the door. Putting on the jacket, she reached to pull the door open. A wave of shock hit as the blinding white light met her eyes—and he entered. Compared to the atmosphere, he was a God.

“Excuse me,” I managed to purr, as I brushed past, careful to graze his perfect arm as he held the door for me. She’d have to keep special tabs on him.

Her boots echoed as she made her way on the pavement, boots echoing her every step, unable to penetrate the noise of the city traffic. Without a destination in mind, her thoughts crept to the men she’d just met. She envied them. The alcoholic, in all his distasteful existence, seemed to even then have purpose, a reason. Since she got back, the direction of her life seemed elusive. She’d always lacked specific direction in her life, but she had an overwhelming sense that something needed to be dealt with—she just didn’t know what yet. It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how much alcohol she consumed. Wine—she needed more. Interestingly enough, her mind had been one step ahead of her; she had somehow made it to the front of Manny’s Grocery.

She entered the store. Taking a basket, she made her down the aisles to get to wine section. She thought back to the women she hadn’t previously given notice to: the weird woman on the sidewalk and the annoying twit on the elevator; even they had some path that they were drifting along, no matter how insignificant. She stood in the aisle, staring at the glass bottles that would be her sweet aid. Some woman was muttering next to her, she was also staring. She appreciated this woman’s taste, but it was rude to stare, even if it was at Nicole. She left the aisle, and bought her wine. Number one task out of the way, she headed to the coffee shop.

Sun high in the sky, she entered the shop.

Oh dear. Molina was in the convenience store talking to Dillain. The ding of the bell signaled her entrance, and they both looked up. Molina made a smart comment, followed by another. Nicole ignored her and went to the back room. She set her bag down and changed. Dark jeans and red blouse on, she returned to the front. Dillain had left, which only left Molina. How she was not in the mood…

“So?” Molina questioned, hand on hip, impatience in her voice.
“I wasn’t in my apartment, obviously. How can I help you?” Nicole retorted with equal attitude.
“Jus’ wanted to check on ya, hadn’t heard from you in a long time.” Her lack of speaking skills always infuriated her, other than that, Molina wasn’t so bad. Nicole even enjoyed her company some of the time, she’d been a good friend before she left.

“I’ll try to answer my phone next time, or bring my cell phone with me; whichever.” Effectively assured, Molina left.

And so work began.

Dillain entered the shop at 12 a.m., right on time.

“I’ll see you later,” Nicole said as she flew past him in her hurry to leave. She’d bee so eager to leave she’d almost hit him on her way out. She loved and hated Sketch Coffee. Taking ownership from her uncle had been easy enough, but as far as she knew, her uncle got the better end of the deal. Walking back to her building, home, she considered the people who’d come in. A woman, young, pretty brown hair, poor. Taking out change like an imbecile to pay for her coffee, which had been difficult to “make” in and of itself. A man who’d bust in the store, unwashed. She knew that these people stayed in her building, but that didn’t make them any more appealing to talk to, however convenient it might be.

When she stepped off the elevator on the 11th floor, she noticed a strange and eaciated character jiggling the door knob of my apartment.

"What the hell are you doing?"
"Well obviously I am trying to break into your apartment. It's much more difficult than it looks, I usually have someone else do this. Regardless, there is no point in continuing, I shall take my leave."

She'd of kicked his ass, but she had she more pressing matters to deal with; however, she wouldn't forget this encounter--or this insect. She watched him walk away and push the button of the elevator. She memorized his statue and appearance--she stored it in her memory for later. She entered the apartment. She breathed a huge sigh as she threw herself on the couch. Her dress and drinks were in the bag, but she’d get them later. With nothing to occupy her mind, she considered the problem that lay ahead and behind her. Something needed to be done about something, she just didn’t know what. She raised up and placed her arms on her knees, head in her hands. The unknown task harassed her thoughts until impatience flowed into her limbs. She had to get out.

She switched from jeans to her short, pleated, black skirt. She grabbed boots from her closet—red. The cold wouldn’t bother her after a few drinks, so she left her jacket and left the troubling apartment.

Back in Apt. 1112

Legs crossed, dark red pump rocking impatiently in the
air, she sat on the couch and stared at the door
opposite her over her glass of equally red wine. Her
only movement included blinking and the occasional tip
of the glass to her waiting lips. The only sound heard
was the constant drip, drip of the sink.

He was late. She had been courteous enuogh to call
ahead of time, an entire day in fact. He said he'd be
here at 8:00--it was now 8:06. Drip, drip, drip...It's
not like she expected him to be here exactly at 8:00,
he had to travel all the way to the 11th floor, to
room 1112. That took time, she understood. She was so
understanding, she'd give him an extra two minutes to
get here--drip, drip,drip. She put the glass to her
lips--drip--and took another sip; How does one know
they've taken a sip or not? How does one measure a
sip? Does it matter, no one's here--drip, drip--to
dictate how much I have...no one's here to even object
to alcohol in the morning anymore...doesn't matter.
She grinned to her self as she raised the glass to her
lips. She shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of
civility that surrounded this place. Ever since she
got back a week ago, she'd endured the stupidity,
incompetence, and outright retardation that are the
people that inhabit this hell hole. Washington
Heights--drip--how she missed it's grime covered walls
and it's less than adequate heating system. Drip--it
was depressing, it probably violated every health code
possible,--drip--but it sure beat where she'd recently
been--drip. It's not like being there had been hard,
but--drip--she desired, nay, needed her freedom. Yeah,
he was late, but it was better than the blatant
disrespect that she'd suffered--drip, drip--there. She
went by Coley, not Nicole. She hated that name, and
she tirelessly reminded them of that everyday, but
they--drip--refused to get it right, claiming they
knew better than her what she deserved. She turned
her head to the clock hanging--drip--on the wall near
the--drip--window, 8:11--drip. She got up, oblivous of
the glass in her hand, oblivious to the crash it made
as it met the unforgiving hard wood floor, oblivious
to the sharp remains surrounded in a crimson pool. She
began marching to the kitchen to do something about
that annoying drip of the faucet. She stopped short of
the kitchen when she heard the rap at the door.

She sweeped around to look at the door, hand on hip.
Knock, knock, knock. She walked to the door, slower,
purposeful. She stopped at the door, hand on the knob.
She didn't turn the handle, instead she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply...She thought back to why she
had to leave in the first place...Knock, knock--she
was in control. She opened her eyes and turned the
knob.
"You're late."
"Look lady, you're not the only person in the world
that requires my services."
Nicole wrinkled her nose, he didn't sound nearly as
bad as he smelled.
"Are you gonna let me in?"

She thought about it. Might as well, he was here for a
reason despite his obvious lack of repsect for her
time and her patience. She stepped aside without a
word, glaring at him all the time. She glared as he
dragged his feet to the kitchen, as he took out his
tools, as he began to examine the kitchen sink.
"So what's wrong with--what happened?"
This was unexpected, didn't he hear the constant
vexing drips of the damned sink? Yeah, he obviously
came from a worse shit hole than she'd ever been, but
was he really this dense? She hated ignorance. She
turned to where he was looking.
"What the hell's wrong with you? I want you to stop
that damned dripping,"
She lit a cigarette while she spoke, which she now put
to her lips--last one, needed to go out later and get
more.
"The mess doesn't concern you, fix the sink.'
8:17. She watched him work, leaning on the wall,
taking a drag every so often. She thought on his
tardiness, his rudeness, his abscence of self worth:
shoddy clothing, no people skills, no reason to live.
She looked at the sleek wrench sticking out of his
toolbox, it was everything he was not: clean, strong,
perfect...useful. She thought about ending the misery
of this fulfilled object. It'd be easy to eliminate
one more counterproductive organism that God puts on
this earth out of pure laziness; It'd be easy to take
that lustrous metal across his dirty face, to hit him
again and again, to hear his futile screams, to watch
his pathetic attempts to defend himself. Then again,
he might not defend himself: he's worthless, surely he
knows that. Surely he'd know that no one would
possibly come for him, of all people...

"That'll be--." He looked all the way up at me.
Without knowing it, she found herself not an inch away
from him, wrench in hand, cigarette in the other.
"Get out."
He heard a calm voice, but he saw a troubled girl, a
demented gleam in her eye. He hastily grabbed his
tools (leaving the wrench) and stumbled to the door
and left. She walked over to the door, grinning to
herself, and grabbed her jacket and boots nearby. The
leather felt cool on her skin, the contrast of her
deep red dress with the black boots and jacket pleased
her immensely. With the supply of her daily morning
drink on the floor, she needed to get her buzz from
somewhere else; she also needed to celebrate her
recent victory. Wrench thrown on the couch, she left
apartment 1112 and headed to the bar down the street.

It was good to be back.