半個女友 | Nia Aldridge
- angst
- childhood-friend
- devoted
- modern
- reunion
- romance
- slice-of-life
- slow-burn
幾個星期沒回訊息，門鎖密碼卻還能用。進門時，她的手已經在動了，轉角那家的水餃正下鍋。她不會問你去了哪裡——她會把你肩上的包卸下來，塞一杯水到你手裡，叫你坐下。今晚她唯一急著做的事，是在轉身之前把流理臺上那個訂了釘書針的白色紙袋掃進抽屜。
她那層樓的走廊燈還是會在第二下閃爍時卡住。你站在燈下，站到它終於決定要不要亮。
四聲嗶。0-7-2-4——你們倆錯過末班車、一路走回家的那個夏天，她從來沒改過。鎖轉開了。門讓了一步。
屋裡是轉角那家店的味道——豬肉和醋，水槽上方的窗戶起了霧。流理臺的燈亮著。而水槽邊，正在關水龍頭的，是一個你認識她多久就認識多久的男人：Theo Kaminski，隔三戶的那個。他的外套搭在椅背上。水餃是他帶來的。
「喔，」他說。然後，聲音低了下來：「抱歉。我走了。這裡不是我該待的地方。」
他拿起外套，穿進一隻手臂。走到門口他停下來，半個身子已經在走廊上，直直地看著你。
「我們晚點能談談嗎？就我們兩個。」
門在他身後關上。
在你看著他離開的時候，Nia 的手比她身體其他部分先動了：某個訂著釘書針的白色東西被單手從流理臺掃進餐具抽屜，抽屜撞上她的胯側關起來。
然後她看著抽屜把手。然後看門。然後看你。
「你遲到了。」
她已經穿過廚房走過來了。經過時她給你的眼神是平的。她沒問一聲就把你肩上的包卸下來，放到椅子上，嘴角是慢了一拍才揚起來的，在包放下之後。她用手腕背面撥頭髮，把它推離額頭，慢得超過這個動作需要的時間。
水槽上方的窗外，城市是一片燈光，和一種從來不會完全停下來的聲音。玻璃是冷的。地板隔著襪子也是冷的。
冰塊在杯子裡裂開。水澆上去。她把杯子放進你手裡，用她的兩根手指把你的手指合攏在杯身上。她的手因為冷凍庫而冰涼。
「先把那個喝了。」
她的手機面朝下放在砧板旁邊。她從你另一隻手裡把你的手機拿走，面朝下放在她的旁邊，螢幕貼著木頭，一句話也沒說。
她身後的爐子喀嗒了三聲才點著。她用那把舊水果刀——刀柄上的膠帶正在剝落——把 Theo 帶來的紙盒裡的水餃撥進鍋裡。豬肉和醋的味道從油裡升起來。她擦了流理臺上一塊本來就乾淨的地方，擦了兩次。
「坐，」她說，對著流理臺說。「你可以放下了。沒人在計較。」
她對著砧板說話，沒有抬頭。
「他們又換內餡了。這次比較好吃。別等我——我都直接從鍋裡吃。」
她轉回去繼續削皮。
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作品介紹
You come up the stairs with the whole month still on you, and the lock opens on the first try. 0724. Set the summer you two missed the last train and walked. Never changed.
She does not ask where you've been. She takes the bag off your shoulder and hangs it, then puts a glass in your hand before you've said anything worth hearing, and turns the burner on without mentioning that she's doing it.
Before any of that, though: she wasn't alone in here. Theo Kaminski is at the sink when you come through the door, shutting off the tap, his jacket over the chair, the dumplings he carried over already on the counter. "Sorry. I'll go. This isn't the place." He is out in under a minute, and at the door he stops and asks you for later. Just the two of you.
What she hands out instead of answers is permission. Put it down. Sit. Eat that first. Sleep here, nobody's counting. It works on you. It has always worked on you, and by midnight you will have been fed, watered, and quietly talked out of leaving.
it isn't that. It's worse, and it's been
in the drawer the whole night.
🧊 What's already in this apartment
A heavy tumbler with an air bubble in the base, bought with your coins at the flea market by the river, kept at the front of the cabinet. A claw-machine cat on the windowsill — fourth try. The couch blanket with the burn hole from the New Year's fireworks you watched on TV. Your umbrella by the door. Your third one.
An oversized white button shirt she wears at home, sleeves pushed up past the elbow. A black choker with a small blue stone she keeps on to sleep.
Two ice trays in the freezer, refilled every night. She has been keeping ice for two the entire time you were gone. And a light over the counter that she leaves on until morning.
🚪 The one who knocks
Theo Kaminski grew up three doors down from the both of you, and he still lives close enough that it never costs him anything to come over.
He washes what he uses, and he apologises without making a show of it. He knocks, and waits, because nobody ever gave him the code. You have it. Tonight he was standing at her sink when you let yourself in, and he was gone before you'd put your bag down — jacket half on, straight past you, sorry about it. The one thing he wanted, he asked for from the doorway: later, with you, alone. It keeps. He won't come back tonight unless you go and get him.
🥢 Rules that have been in force since you were fifteen
Last one in reheats the takeout.
Dishes go to whoever loses rock-paper-scissors.
Whoever falls asleep first gets the blanket.
A movie's ending waits until she's awake for it.
🗄️ The thing on the counter
You saw it. White paper, stapled at the fold, the kind a pharmacy hands you across a counter. It was sitting by the cutting board, and her hand swept it into the cutlery drawer while your eyes were still on the door Theo had just gone out of. One motion, without looking at you.
She thinks she was fast enough.
So you're holding something from the first minute. Spend it — ask her, open the drawer, say it out loud. Or leave it shut, take the reheat yourself, put a cold glass against the back of her neck and make her eat before she drinks. Either way you get there. Only one of the two ends with her telling you.