Morning. Sleazy, shit-faced morning.

Dim, greasy light drips its way through the mangled blinds, hitting the comforter in a spider-web pattern. Almost blindly, I reach up and grab at Geoff’s shoulder, pulling his back down so that I can see the alarm clock. Cue the bleary-eyed squint. The red lighting of the clock glares back at me, accusingly, as if I’m late for work.

Alas, this machine has been misinformed. Being in a business such as mine, I set up my own schedule. When I get up, I get up, and the workday starts. Period.

The clock doesn’t take the excuse, and continues to stare. Geoff grumbles, disgruntled that he has been moved one way or another, and rolls back onto his side.

The angry gaze of the clock vanishes.

I reach up and pull Geoff’s shoulder back.

The clock reappears, like a mother who keeps telling her daughter, “When are you going to find a nice boy to marry?”

I once again examine the time.

Nine o’clock.

Eh. The day starts when I say it does, but even today, that does seem a little bit–what’s the word?–late.

“Rickie?” Geoff asks quietly, slowly opening one eye and glaring at me.

I, to look as innocent and–bet it a must–cute as possible, snuggle closer to Geoff’s t-shirt covered side and look up with big eyes.

“Yes, love?”

The one eye narrows suspiciously at my behavior.

“Why the bloody hell do you keep moving me?”

Flutter of the eyelashes. “Because I need to see the alarm clock.”

The other eye opens. Now they’re both glowering. Geoff shifts position slightly.

“Couldn’t you have just looked over me?”

I drop the act. Geoff isn’t ready to have his sleep disturbed this early in the morning, and though once in a blue moon we enjoy pissing one another off, this clearly is not the time.

“That would have been too much work,” I finally confess.

A somewhat amused grunt is his reply. “That excuse will work for now.”

A genuine smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “Excellent.”

Silence.

...We seem to have a lot of that in this relationship.

“Are you going to work?” Geoff finally asks, shaking the stillness in the air.

“Um...” Yes, Geoff, I didn’t meet my quota of heroin last night, so if you’ll excuse me... “Yeah.”

His eyes are open fully now, somewhat alert, and framed by pale eyelashes and eye crusties. They blink twice. I blink back in reply. Then Geoff frowns.

“Rick, is your boss a sod?”

To an extent, I guess that I can classify as one, but not usually...

Uncomfortable by the abrupt interrogating, I move my head away from Geoff’s gaze and stare at the night stand. A yellow Post-It with barely decipherable handwriting sticks out from the side–it’s a fin with no airplane to steer.

“Rickie?”

Right...Is the guv’nor a prick?

“Not really...I mean...” I just want to kill the crack that killed Mum–“I just need the money, Geoff.”

The pillow makes a light sound. I reposition my head slightly to see Geoff staring at me pointedly, frowning and trying to decipher what I’m saying.

This is becoming awkward.

Wanting to escape this self-made prison I have made myself, I bolt up, throwing the covers back, and throw my legs over the side of the bed. Boyfriend-slash-occasional lay makes a noise somewhere between surprise and dismay.

“Where are you going?”

I reach towards my t-shirt, draped over the end of the bed, and pull it on as I shuffle towards the bathroom. Along the way: “I told you. I have to get ready for work.”

“On a Saturday?!”

I slam the door.

---

What always surprises me about this absolutely disgusting excuse of a flat is the bathroom. Shockingly enough, there are no cockroaches skittering under the toilet, no mold-like creatures clinging to the barely large enough shower stall, and a mirror that–though cracked–is clean enough so that I can see my reflection when I barge into the room. A rippled glass window, barely large enough to be certifiably “window-ish”, is shoved into a corner, but it allows just enough light so that I can examine my lovely, hasn’t-seen-a-mirror-in-weeks Chevy Chase. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid to turn on the naked, forty-watt bulb that probably posts something of a fire hazard and really observe the nastiness of yours truly; the dark is much more forgiving, especially on a hawkish creature such as I.

Originally, I tell myself that my face had been at one point full–not nearly as hollow. Fortunately, I’ve never been fat, but at one point my cheekbones weren’t nearly as defined. They’re rather gaunt now–craters amidst pale plains.

Mum would tell me I need to eat more.

She would be right.

Thin lips, small nose–and my hair is looking somewhat hedgehog-ish this morning, the dark brown frizzled out in all directions. The gray eyes narrow, and--carefully observing my reflection-- I remind myself that I really should get the hair cut. Trying to contain it in a bun can only go so far before the protein strands refuse to comply...And today is a day when the hair must submit. I’m making ‘the move’.

No. It’s not the move you might be thinking of–but in its own right it is something monumental.

I’m leaving Poplar.

I’m leaving the Docklands.

...Not permanently, of course, but I’m actually leaving this place for more than two hours. You must understand that the furthest I’ve ever gone away from here since I started my revenge streak has been up to Bow Church. Business thrived in the area where I had left it, and there was no need to go down towards Tourist-Ville USA (literally–damn Yanks) and immerse myself in coppers. I was fine in the Docks, thank you very much. No need to get myself nicked.

But now?

There have been change in my plans. Vast changes. Things I need to confront before I make my way to the tube, and ride to Westminster.

For one, I want one more look at the “old life”--that existence I had before I started to become Rickie Carlisle. A feeling of longing has come up, and I find myself missing that bitchy, bitter life, complete with loyal friends and bizarre neighbors, the yipping lapdogs and the ankle-biting children.

Companions need to be seen to. I miss them all, and considering how disconnected and invisible I had suddenly appeared, they know not of my existence. Janay vanished off the London territory a year ago--shortly after her mum’s death--without a word as to where she was going.

Alice–my best friend since primary school–knows nothing.

Petie–piss-head brother--knows nothing as well. Though I don’t know if that’s a bad thing.

The others?

Clueless.

So now work must be done to put everything in order. Beauty must become evident. I preen down my hair to the best of my experience, and carefully open the medicine cabinet (bottles and whatnot have a habit of attacking upon opening) to reach for some mascara, balanced carefully atop a jar of Vaseline.

That’s Geoff’s.

I don’t know what it’s for, and I probably don’t want to know.

Apply black to the eyelashes, extending outward. Move downwards to another shelf, grab at some mild blush and powder and carefully tap on face. Stare in mirror.

I’m forgetting something.

Oh, right! The eyebrows…

Another frantic search through the cabinet, finally finding the black pencil. Stare at the mirror again, though this time pivot the head so that only peripheral vision can really work.

Extent eyebrows out and down.

Evaluate.

…I don’t look like Janay Applegate, and that’s very good.

An impatient knock sounds at the door.

“Rickie?”

I place everything back in the cabinet, careful to make sure that this time I know where everything is going and can get to it if I need to.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you nearly done?”

Glance at mirror again, pat top of head for reassurance…

I smile. Move away from the mirror and towards the door, flicking off the lock and allowing Geoff to push himself in.

“Yes, dear, I am.”

He cocks his head at my makeup, then looks down at the pajamas and gives a quizzical frown.

“Where are you going?”

I push past him, smiling reassuringly as I do so.

“Work, Geoff. It’s always work.”

He shakes his head as I leave, shutting the door behind me. I hear the mutter, “On a fucking Saturday?” once again before the quiet tinkling of piss in a toilet-bowl makes itself evident.

Yup.

That’s my boyfriend, all right.

---

A/N: Many thanks to Unhappy People, Kelaia, and Taige. Your reviews so helped me keep pushing forward with this, even when my muse deemed it brain-dead. Thank you.