Marie

Written: 9/1/20

It felt like the world was holding its breath.

It was the month when fires swept through the dry mountains and clouded the sky in warm gushes of orange, and when my neighbor’s lemon trees were to burst with fruit. That is, if I were still their neighbor.

I recently moved into an apartment situated in the uncanny outskirts of Los Angeles. There was a convenience store and a bank nearby, and the structure was easy to navigate, but I still hated it. It was the cheapest one I could find on the market, and easily the worst. The flowery wallpaper which its brick walls were draped in was chipping away and a layer of dust had been brushed over the creaky floorboards. Oh, and the lighting needed work. There was only one light source in the studio: a flickering lamp that sealed everything in a cool glow, placed ineptly in the kitchen.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they?

I leaned quietly against the edge of my balcony, my fingertips stroking the hoarse overlay of rust that had settled over its parapet. A surge of icy wind brushed up against my skin and sent a chill trickling down my spine. It was getting cold. I was used to the Californian weather—the streets veiled with fog in the morning and the afternoon pavement sizzling with heat. At night, temperatures were colder than you could imagine.

The sky was draped in sweeps of cobalt and the sun dipped seductively into a pool of red, and the streets were unusually still. Having grown up here, I found the silence a little creepy. I couldn’t make out the cracks of guns or illegal fireworks that evening, or the ugly barks of my neighbor’s festering puppy. I could only make out the faint giggles and lisps of white children playing tag on the street.

“Quincy hit me.”

“I’m gonna tell my mom!”

They were supervised by their overweight parents, who I heard sputtering frenziedly from below. I stared down at them from my decrepit balcony, and then their funny little heads turned in unison to look back at me, no longer sputtering and lisping as they did. I tried not to notice.

I had been standing there for what seemed like half an hour, occasionally drawing moony breaths from the warm cigar tucked between my fingers. It sent gentle waves of heat down my fingertips and still glowed faintly with ember.

What time was it?

The cell phone in my left pocket rang, its cracked screen glowing and vibrating with artificial light. What a shitty phone, I thought. I’d save up for a new one.

I really, really needed money.

Presumably, the call was from a certain coworker of mine—and I was right.

“Angel.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at my house.”

“You’re supposed to be at The Grove.”

I was supposed to be at the abandoned shopping mall by the children’s hospital. Sighing, I brought myself back inside and shut the sliding glass door behind me.

“Give me a couple minutes,” I told him, and I hung up.

The studio was small and gave off an overbearing scent of citrus and honey. A jumbo-sized bag of cough drops lay ajar on the kitchen counter.

I snatched the keys to my Prius off the cold kitchen countertop, put on the coat hanging from my wooden chair, and slid out the door. Room number 67, I repeated to myself breathlessly as I shut it.