2I've been playing around with changing the time period of Five Quarts, and somehow this happened. Separate story for new readers, relatively spoiler free, not my best work, not even really complete, idk.
I never notice when Leslie wakes up in the middle of the night. She's like a ghost, slipping from the bed and down the stairs without a sound, not a single clue to my subconscious mind that she's gone. And often, by the time I wake, it's too late.
I'm pulled from my sightless dreams when I hear a shatter from the kitchen. There is no Leslie to my right, only wadded sheets and a crooked pillow. To my left a citrine streetlight beams through the windowshade slats, criss-crossing with the shaft of gold that peeks through the open door. I sit up, and stand, and with a sense of dread, step outside.
She's at the kitchen table again, fingers pulling through her knotted pale hair and palm pressing into her forehead, her free hand gripping a martini glass full of red wine. The wineglass is on the floor in a thousand pieces; a half-drained green-glass bottle lined parallel to a crystal bowl of dried cranberries. She doesn't turn her head.
"Leslie?"
Now, she looks up — her dark eyes are glazed. "Nightmare," she murmurs, and the syllables blur together. "Nothin'. M'fine."
You're drinking wine out of a martini glass, I want to say, but don't. Instead I pry the glass from her unresisting fingers, cork the bottle and clean up her mess. The sink smells like vomit but I, again, say nothing. There are dried cranberries everywhere.
She's like a rag doll as I, not for the first time, heft her limp liquor-sodden body in my arms and carry her up the stairs, her head lolling against my chest. "It was about the rat bastard again," she mumbles, and carefully I set her down on the bed.
"I know," I tell her, and go to fetch a fresh pair of clothes. When I return, she's standing in the shower shivering.
"I'm sorry," she keeps saying as I clumsily help her dress again. Her movements are jerky, hesitant; her touch fevered and burning. I try to tell her it's fine, she has nothing to apologize for, but she doesn't seem to hear. She throws her arms around me, lays her head on my shoulder. "I...I'm sorry..."
And there's nothing I can do except to hold her, to run my fingers through her starlight hair and to kiss her forehead, whispering comfort that I already know isn't working. "It's fine. Shh. Shh, you're okay. You're okay."
Gently, I nudge her chin up and kiss her again, before letting her take it over and return the movement. She tastes like the tang of cranberries and fermented grapes, and of salt; tiny seawater drips from her midnight-black eyes. Her breath, in small gasps across my tongue, is warm but surprisingly light, like the air after a summer rain. After a moment, she pulls away and buries her head into my shirt.
We sway with the music of our memories, my hands alone keeping her standing and her, all that's keeping me.
"Please don't hurt yourself anymore," I whisper, hugging her ever closer. She doesn't respond.
After a while I help her climb back into bed and we just lay there, her hands tangled in my hair and my hands around her waist. Her breathing is even, and still smells like cranberries and wine.