Re-submission, edited

Crystal Vases :One

I think I was happy once. No, I know I was happy once. But that time's gone, isn't coming back, and it doesn't fucking matter. I shouldn't be musing about this bullshit.

I get up and move to the mantle, pausing a moment to stare at the vase seated there, alone on the shelf. It's a real piece of art, that vase - crafted out of fine crystal, the glass heated and then reheated so that the maker could pull it into that flawless hourglass shape it has. The detailing, the craftsmanship, is all perfect. A real piece of art.

After staring for awhile, I reach out and tip the ash off the end of my cigarette into the vase's open mouth, and then I walk away.

That thing, that piece of art – it used to hold flowers. Lots of them. Its mouth used to burst with color and life, alternating from store-bought roses, to wildflowers, to tulips stolen from the neighbor's window. All it holds now is ash. Layer upon layer of ash, deposited by me, smoking two packs a day.

Damn that stupid, fucking vase.

/

She's asleep. I'm looking at the way her hair is falling across her face so perfectly, at her eyelashes and how long they are, looking at her lips. I'm looking at the tiny scar on her chin and remembering the time that she told me how she got it, remembering how after she told me, she blinked, smiled, and then told me in the softest voice that she had never told that story to anyone before.

She's in my bed, and I'm holding her.

She was ten years old when she got that scar, living in a suburb in Wisconsin. She had two brothers, one older and one younger than herself, and another sister, who was just a baby at the time. Her parents were out with the youngest children, at the grocer's or something, she couldn't remember, but her older brother was supposed to babysit her. Instead, he took off on his bike to meet up with some friends. After five minutes of silence in an empty house, she jumped onto her own bike and pedaled after him.

They lived on a no-outlet street, so there was only one direction he could have gone, but after biking for what seemed like ages, there was no sign of him. She didn't know that he hadn't actually gone down the street, but had walked his bike through the trees and grass to a bus station, where his friends had pulled up and loaded both her brother and his bike into their SUV.

After biking all through the neighborhood without catching a glimpse of her brother, she pushed her bike onto the grass and lay out beside it to catch her breath. After a few minutes, she heard a car come down the road and then stop in front of her. When she sat up, there was a man leaning out the driver-side window, smiling. He asked her what she was doing, if she had fallen off her bike, and if she was okay. After explaining that she was looking for her older brother, he invited her into his car and offered to help her look. After all, a car was much faster than a bike, and two sets of eyes were better than one. She agreed and climbed into the passenger-side seat. The man smiled and began to drive away.

When she told him they were leaving her bike behind, he didn't say anything, but put a hand on her leg and squeezed. She was wearing a skirt, and his fingers were too close to the hem. When she tried to move his hand and complain about her bike again, he only moved his hand further up her leg. That was when she got scared, and tried to push him. And that was when he hit her.

She tried to move out of the way, but his fist glanced off her jaw, his wedding ring nicking the skin. She started screaming then, instinctually, flailing and making the biggest fuss she could, until the man pulled over and shoved her out of the car. She was on the ground only a moment before she got up and started running home again, the sound of the man's tires screaming away into the distance burning into her memory as her shoes pounded the pavement.

When her parents asked her about the bike, she told them she had left it in the yard and it was stolen. She hurt her chin while they were gone, playing with a friend; she fell on the concrete and scraped her face on the curb. Her parents put some Neosporin and a bandaid on her jaw, grounded her for being careless with her bike, and left it at that. She didn't tell them about the man, or about her brother skipping out on baby-sitting her. She never told anyone.

I touch the scar on her chin and her eyelashes flutter in her sleep. I feel happy that I know that story, and that no one else does. When I kiss her, she wakes up.

/

I'm standing at the window, staring out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ash building on the tip of my, I don't know, somethingth cigarette. It doesn't matter. Just as I'm about to turn and walk to the crystal vase and ash it, a van pulls up and stops at the front of my apartment complex. A boy gets out of the passenger-side door, dressed in a loose white polo and jeans. He's probably a student at the nearby university. His hair is blonde and a little curly, hanging about his face. Like most kids these days, he needs a haircut. I watch him as he moves to the back doors of the van, opens them, and wheels a cart full of cleaning supplies onto the sidewalk. I realize he's from the cleaning staff for this complex, a perk you can get for an additional fee. Being too lazy to clean my own place these days, I paid that additional fee. He must be new.

I'm about to turn away again when he looks up. I swear he sees me standing at my window and watching him. I close the blinds and walk to the crystal vase, ash my cigarette, and sink into the cushions of my couch. Silently, I curse university students and their stupid part-time jobs.

/

It's morning. I wake up to an empty bed, try not to think about it. I try not to think about how it wasn't always like this, how there used to be another body there, a body that was warm, and soft, and gentle…

Fuck.

The sheets are twisted around my ankles and it makes it difficult to get up, but I do. The window's open, and it's muggy; my skin feels sticky and slick. I make it to the bathroom, start running the shower. I let the water stay cold as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like shit. My hair is tousled from sleep, but it isn't just that. I'm pale. My skin looks sallow and my cheekbones look too prominent. There are bags under my eyes, and they're dark. They're practically purple.

For no good reason, I spit into the sink, then strip off my boxers and step into the shower. The cold water shocks any remnants of unconsciousness out of my body, and I start jumping up and down a little, just a little, like a bounce. My body's coming alive again, the muscles firing signals to my brain, telling me it's time to get my ass in gear for another day of wasting myself. Maybe five minutes later I'm stepping out, wrapping a towel around my waist.

I think I hear a knock at the front door and I pause, unsure of my own ears. But then, sure enough, there comes another knock, this one a little louder. I run a hand over my face, through my hair, then stick my head out the bathroom door.

"Who is it?" I yell. I know my voice sounds hoarse. There's a pause, and then I think I hear a voice, like a faint mumbling.

"Speak up," I yell again, walking out of my bathroom to lean in the doorway to my bedroom, holding my towel with one hand and bracing myself with the other.

"Cleaning," comes the reply. I don't recognize the voice and arch my neck to look at the clock. They're early, and I tell them so. There's another pause, and I imagine them checking their watch. The voice sounds like a guy, which is odd. I was sure that all the help in the complex were female, usually with accents. But this voice is definitely male, and definitely without an accent. When a response doesn't come, I figure they're leaving to come back in another hour or so. Who knows. I turn and move back into my bedroom.

But then I hear the door open. And a flood of outrage and confusion sweeps through me.

"What the fuck?" I boom, storming into the hall, still gripping my towel, but ready to punch out whoever this is bursting into my home. I round the corner and there's a boy there, pushing a cart full of bottles and sprays into my hall. He freezes and ducks, like I'd thrown something at him. But I hadn't.

"Who the fuck are you?" I ask, pointing an accusing finger at him. He doesn't respond, but just stares at me instead. Outside my window, I can hear a car blaring its horn. In here though, it's silent, and I shift, pushing my shoulders back and tilting my chin to glare down at him. His shoulders rise in response, but still, he doesn't speak, just stands there. He's like a rabbit, caught in a cage, ready for the dogs. What I mean is, he looks ready to run.

"Well?" I'm loud, forceful. Growing really damn impatient, more than anything. At this point, I already know who he is. I'm just annoyed that he hasn't answered me. He jumps, looks away from me, and glues his gaze to the wall where he blinks rapidly for a few more seconds before deciding that he's finally going to use his voice.

"I, uh, well, I'm…"

I sigh and shake my head, interrupting him. He's just as useless making noise as he is silent. It doesn't matter who he is, and I tell him so, turning my back on him to move back into my room. It's the boy from yesterday, the one in need of a haircut. The new kid from the cleaning staff. What I really want to know is how he's in my hallway when I locked my door.

I grab some pants, pull them on. I'm buttoning them as I step into the hallway again. The kid is still there, and he stares at me with wide eyes when I confront him again. I almost want to laugh, but I'm too irritated for it. The kid is just so jumpy.

"What do you want?"

An obvious question. He wants to clean, he's from the cleaning staff.

"What I mean is," I correct myself, "How did you get in here. Huh?"

He struggles with his words again, fiddling with the nozzle of one of the bottles on his cart, some sort of window cleaner. I can see his eyes shooting around the room, never focusing on one thing, and never meeting my gaze again. He moves his hair out of his face. I think, if he had a haircut, he wouldn't have to do that.

"I, uh, well…"

It's the same way that he started his last failure of a sentence. I sigh heavily and he grimaces a little. I'm not sure if he's irritated with himself for not being able to articulate like a normal person, or with my impatience at his inability to do so. It had better be the first option.

"I'm from cleaning," he says, still avoiding my gaze. I raise my eyebrows, cross my arms.

"Yeah, I got that," I reply. "Doesn't answer how you got in here. Do you have a key or something?"

"Well, actually, I do," he says, and fumbles in the pocket of the apron tied around his waist. I expect a jangling ring with the keys to every apartment, but instead, he just pulls out one. My key. At least I think, until I recognize the floral key cover.

I step towards him and grab at it, even though it's far out of my reach and I don't actually expect to get it. He looks startled, all wide-eyed and shoulders up as he backs an unnecessary distance away from me. For a moment, I'm still too startled at the sight of that key to ask him about it.

I was with her when she bought that key cover. It was when we had just bought this apartment. We were in a hardware store, buying essentials for some bullshit do-it-yourself project she saw on a television program. At the checkout, it had been hanging with all those other cheap, little last-minute buys that stores cram into that space, hoping to get just one more purchase out of you before you go. Well, they did.

I remember her snatching it into her soft, little hands, dangling it in front of my face and laughing that laugh of hers.

"Look at this!" she said, "Isn't it cute? It'd be perfect for the house key!"

I remember shrugging, smiling, not really caring about the key, but watching the way she looked when she got excited about nothing. She would do that. Find something she really liked, usually something really cheap and pointless, and just get so worked up about it, like it was the greatest thing she had ever seen. And all always for under five dollars.

That was her key. Her key to this apartment.

"Where the fuck did you get that?"

If I had been irritated before, I was furious now. I hadn't expected to be reminded of her. And how the hell did something of hers get into this kid's hands? The boy cowered, shoved the key back into his apron pocket. His shoulder bumped the wall as he backed away from me. You'd think I had a knife. It's been awhile since I interacted with someone face to face. Maybe it isn't just this kid, maybe I'm scary now. Or maybe it's just him.

"I, uh, I-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Would you spit out one goddamn sentence?"

He freezes, seems to gather whatever courage he might have. The kid swallows, ducks his head, and then finally, finally meets my gaze again. I raise my eyebrows, waiting.

"A-Aldona gave it to me," he says, his voice shaking only for a moment. For whatever reason, he must have realized how pathetic he was being and is now making an attempt at correcting it. He's not doing that good of a job though, because he still looks like I'm going to produce a sharp object and hurl it at him.

I recognize the name Aldona though. She's one of the older women working on the cleaning staff. She moves slowly, shuffles down the hallways. Despite her age, her hair is only a little gray. She could be from Spain, or Mexico, or somewhere like that, judging by her accent. I have to admit, I really don't know the difference, or really care. The point is, I know who he's talking about.

"And where did she get it?"

"I-I don't know. How would I?" He steps forward again, grips the handles of his cart like it's going to give him strength for whatever he's going to say next.

"Look, mister," he says, and I almost have to laugh again, "I don't know who you are, and I don't know what your deal is. I'm just here to clean the room. Aldona gave me the key to get in, she said you usually lock your door and won't open it to cleaning. I guess I'm early, but I don't know why that matters; a clean room is a clean room."

When I narrow my eyes he seems to shrink again, just a little.

"Hey, I'm sorry I startled you," he continues, softer this time, "but I'm just trying to do my job. I'm new here okay? Aldona said that when I got to apartment 503 to use this key if you didn't open up. You didn't open up, so I used the key. Okay?"

I look at him awhile longer, and then shake my head, again. This kid's an idiot. He's luckier that I'm not crazier than I am, lucky I don't have a bat on hand or something. I know a few people in this complex who would have attacked the kid, asked questions later. I tell him so and he frowns.

"Whatever," I say, and pull a shirt off the couch behind me, pulling my arms through the sleeves and barely bothering with the buttons, then slip my feet into shoes, not bothering with the laces either.

"Hurry up with the room, and don't pull that shit again. If you get here on time, I'll open the door. Now, get out of my way."

With that, I push past him and leave, like I always do when the cleaning comes. I'll never understand people who can just sit there while someone goes about their place. He stiffened under my hand when I moved him. I think about going to find Aldona, questioning her too, but I feel too tired for it. That kid pisses me off. Being new isn't an excuse to go barging into someone's house.

And that key. That damned key. I never thought I'd see that again. It's funny how stupid little things can mean so much. When we were together, I never would have thought that one day I'd put a lot of gravity into that stupid floral key cover. I must've seen it every day, either sitting on the counter or hooked onto her purse.

I make myself stop thinking about her, pat my pockets in hopes of finding a stray cigarette. Sure enough, there's two tucked into the back pocket. Can always count on myself to have emergency cigarettes stashed everywhere. There isn't a lighter, but it doesn't matter; that guy at the front desk will have one. I focus on getting there so I don't start thinking about her, about her hair, or her lips, or her smell…

Fuck. Fuck that kid and that key.

For the second time, I'm cursing university students and their stupid, fucking, part-time jobs.

Lengthened the first chapter, re-submitted.

Thanks for reading~!