by Frankie Rose
MOVEMENT WAKES me.
“Hey.” Luke sits down on the edge of a large bed. A large bed that isn’t mine. He holds out a glass of water and a pack of Tylenol, but when I don’t take them he sets both items down on a small table beside the bed. I frown and prop myself up on one elbow, trying to figure out why the room is spinning.
“Where…?” I manage.
“My place. I gotta go to work but I wanted to let you sleep until the very last minute. I have just enough time to take you home if we leave now. Can you manage it?”
He isn’t in his uniform. “You aren’t even ready,” I groan, hiding my face underneath the pillow.
“I don’t wear it while I’m going to and from work. People might see me and follow me home or something. Cops get lynched that way.” He tugs on the pillow, freeing it from my embarrassingly pathetic grip. “You can stay and sleep some more if you like. You can just lock up when you leave.”
I think about it. I think about falling back to sleep in this big, comfy bed, and it is tempting. But the idea of having to try and make my way across New York City via public transport with the biggest hangover I’ve ever had is enough to counterbalance that.
“Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”
“All right. I don’t mean to be a dick but you’ll need to hurry. I can’t be late.”
I crack an eyelid and survey Luke head to toe. He’s wearing a light grey hoodie that’s a size too big for him over another plain black t-shirt. The jeans are faded out again, frayed around the pockets. He really can pull off a scruffy look. He slips out of the room and I sit bolt upright in bed, holding my palm to my temple when my head begins to pound. I’m freezing cold. I knock back the Tylenol and get up, realizing I’m still fully dressed, and pull on my shoes, which I find by tripping over them at the bottom bed. Very uncoordinated. I suppose a half bottle of whiskey will do that to a person. Luke is waiting by the door with a big sweatshirt in his hand when I come out of the room. He doesn’t look half as bad as I feel.
“How much did you drink last night?” I croak.
He puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head. “As much as you.”
“You look completely fine.”
“Well, I feel like shit if it’s any consolation.”
I hurry to him and take the sweatshirt out of his hand, slipping it over my head, grateful of the warmth. I catch sight of a welter of rumpled blankets on the black leather sofa where he must have slept. “That actually does make me feel a little better.”
He exhales in a tired way and smiles. “Well, they do say misery loves company.”
