Chapter Text
Twenty-four minutes. Almost twenty-five. That’s how long Carol lasts before she crawls out of bed and storms off to the storage room to grab a broom and bang it up against the ceiling. Obviously, the thumping sounds from upstairs are too loud for it to make a difference, and she gives up after her fifth useless try.
Oh, how she misses those nights when she took silence and sleep for granted. It’s been two weeks since they have stopped, and the repercussions are starting to show in the sluggish way she moves about in the morning. In the headaches that remind her of the worst kind of hangover. And in the irritation she feels at the slightest inconvenience, or even at her lack of inspiration when she sits in front of a blank document on her computer.
Well, maybe that last part isn’t entirely someone else’s fault. But still, she should do something about the fucking noise.
She slips into a robe and huffs, feeling the aggravation surge up to the tips of her fingers. Now, if she were a fully-fledged asshole, like some of her students seem to believe, she’d call the fucking cops and show them right. But she isn’t. In fact, maybe less than ten years ago Carol would’ve been the upstairs neighbor throwing a rager in the middle of the night. But in fucking Albuquerque, New Mexico? Hell no. She’d be somewhere cooler, like Berlin or Barcelona. Kids these days have no idea.
Carol walks past the mirror on the way to the door, and as she’s about to pull it open, she scurries back to have a look at the state she’s in. Fucking ridiculous. She’s the epitome of the pain-in-the-ass neighbor with five cats and a house that smells like soup, even though she has only one – a fat ugly thing that’s like a hundred years old – and her house doesn’t smell like soup because she can’t cook for shit.
She tries to make herself look more presentable. Doesn’t understand why, considering that she’s about to get cursed by a bunch of drunk people who are definitely not going to care about her appearance. But still, as she smacks her slippers against each cold concrete step, she thinks that maybe she can endure another sleepless night. That maybe there’s no need for this.
Just as she’s about to turn the corner and ring the infamous buzzer, the door is thrown open by a tall blonde woman who seems to have popped straight out of a fashion magazine from the early 2000s. Low waist jeans, flimsy top with thin straps, glitter on her chest and gloss so shiny it looks like an entire disco ball.
She doesn’t acknowledge Carol, merely a fly on the wall for her, and instead turns back to another woman in the doorway. Carol can only see dark hair from where she’s standing, but doesn’t miss a single frame of her grabbing the blonde by the nape of her neck and placing an open-mouthed kiss on her lips. If the music wasn’t so loud, she’d probably hear just how sloppy they’re being, although she doesn’t really have an interest in prolonging this weird impromptu voyeurism session.
As she settles on turning back and going downstairs, the brunette – still lip-locked to the model – slightly pushes her to the side and against the doorframe. Then, her eyes find Carol’s while her hands slide up the model’s chest, slipping under her top.
Carol, who in response gasps like someone has just punched her in the ribcage, feels her cheeks burn in embarrassment and stands there, bug-eyed and mouth agape, with absolutely no reason to keep staring. Except that woman smirks into the kiss, and it’s not aimed for the one she’s making out with.
That look hits a weird spot in Carol’s lower body, and that’s when she glances away and realizes how strange it all was. She doesn’t hear the two women say goodbye, nor is she aware of the model walking past her, squeezing through the space between her and the wall.
It’s only after a moment that she notices the deafening beat is now more muffled. The woman leans against the closed door and looks at her with something in her eyes that Carol doesn’t know where to place on a scale from curiosity to contempt.
“Can I help you?” she asks, bringing a cigarette to her mouth and lighting it with a match that ends up in the empty umbrella holder beside the door. Odd to the point of being incredibly annoying. Why not use a lighter like any other fucking normal person?
“Uhm,” Carol clears her throat and wonders when exactly she’s decided to become so lame. “You can’t smoke in here.”
That’s all she can say. The woman takes a long drag and strides closer, hips swaying like she’s trying to get something out of it. When she stops in front of Carol, she studies her for a moment before blowing out a cloud of smoke. Carol coughs as it hits her, and that earns her a chuckle that’s neither amused nor amicable. Jury’s verdict says the scales are tipped entirely towards contempt.
“Oh,” she whispers, close enough that Carol can smell the alcohol in her sultry slur. “Who are you, the smoke police?” She lifts her wrists up and pouts. “Want to arrest me, officer?”
Carol doesn’t move a muscle, but her heart does pick up a stupid pace at the suggestion.
“The fuck, no,” she says, snapping out of it and waving her hand to disperse the smoke.
It’s not that it bothers her. She does smoke from time to time. But this entire situation is idiotic, and she probably should’ve looked up noise-cancelling headphones online instead of trying to reason with her new neighbor who seems to have the utmost disregard for basic societal rules and common sense.
“You’re going to set off the alarm.”
“It doesn’t work,” she replies with a shrug. The smoke reaches the ceiling and infiltrates the air vents. Nothing happens. Not even after three minutes, during which Carol sort of hoped she’d be right. It would’ve been a nuisance, having to vacate the building and wait for the all clear from the fire department, but at least she would’ve had that tiny satisfaction. “Told ya. Take it up to the landlord.”
“Whatever.”
The door opens again, spilling loud music out in the hallway where Carol really doesn’t want to be anymore. Two women stumble out, giggling and barely managing to stay upright, leaning on each other. They wave goodbye to their host, even though it looks more like they’re both trying to eye-fuck her on the spot.
What the fuck is this woman’s deal, Carol wonders.
She doesn’t miss the wink she throws at the taller one as she turns for one last look, and then it’s back to the two of them, smoke hanging heavy in the air. All of a sudden, Carol feels incredibly aware of her state. Messy hair, tired slouch, ugly robe and even uglier slippers. And the other takes it in too, carefully, slowly dragging her narrowed eyes all over Carol’s figure. That makes her clutch the lapels of her robe tighter, trying to hide behind the soft fabric.
“Well, then? Do you need something?”
Carol takes a deep breath. For the first time since moving in this awfully sleazy apartment complex, she’s about to be the wet blanket everybody hates – or maybe appreciates for the intervention, she hopes.
“Yeah,” she mutters and points to the door. “Could you turn it down? I – I’m trying to get some sleep.”
The other seems to ponder her request for a second before shrugging. “It’s not that loud.”
“What – Not that loud?” Carol huffs in disbelief. “Not that loud! I’d check my hearing, if I were you.”
“You seem closer to that point in life than I am.”
Carol frowns. This woman is unbelievably, unnecessarily and uncomfortably rude, but that seems to be just a hobby for her.
“Wow, okay. Fine.” She throws her arms in the air. There’s no point in playing such a losing game. “Be a fucking asshole. See where that gets you.”
She doesn’t wait for another snarky retort, hastily turning around to return to her apartment. Once she’s back downstairs, she slams the door and leans against it, feeling like a kid running home from school after an entire day of getting bullied. Definitely not an unfamiliar sensation, for Carol, but she certainly had put a distance between her and those days.
Her chest tightens – a mix of anger and frustration – when she hears the thumping bass, almost louder now. Like she’s doing it on purpose. She breathes in deep and closes her eyes, trying to find a place in her mind that might evoke calm, peaceful memories. Maybe a nice beach. The full natural sound of waves breaking gently on the shore.
Something upstairs falls to the floor with a loud high-pitched crash.
“Oh my fucking god.”
Carol spends the night reading noise-cancelling headphones reviews and falls asleep with her laptop on her leg. When the alarm abruptly ends the measly two hours of sleep she managed to get, it’s with a jarring sound that pierces straight through her brain. Her laptop falls on the floor with a thud, and she can already feel the headache settling behind her eyelids.
Getting out of bed and ready for work is a different ball game, and she does it reluctantly, groaning with each step she takes to the bathroom, then to the kitchen.
While she waits for her moka to heat up, she scrolls on her phone to read the morning news. The usual stuff, nothing encouraging. She does her daily Wordle, and when her espresso is ready she gulps it down like a shot, without even letting it cool a little. Then, she leaves the dirty cup on the counter and grabs her blazer before heading off to work.
When she opens the door, she almost steps on something placed on her mat. Thankfully, she doesn’t, because getting her expensive leather loafers dirty would’ve been the last straw to a shitty day that’s barely even started.
She crouches down and eyes the item suspiciously. A tall cup from a local coffee chain. There’s a note under it, but it’s a bit damp and floppy. She takes it anyway and, before reading, takes the lid off the cup and smells its contents. Seems to be a regular black coffee.
Sorry about the noise yesterday. It will probably happen again – Zosia
Now, Carol likes to think of herself as a reasonable, level-headed person. But a peace offering isn’t really a peace offering if the person making it is this smug, inconsiderate, unrepentant and trying to be a smart-ass about it. At this point it wouldn’t surprise her to find the coffee laced with MiraLAX, which is precisely why not only does she refuse to drink it, but she storms upstairs with a specific purpose. Once she’s standing outside Zosia’s apartment door, she empties the cup of discord into the umbrella holder and tosses the container in there too, for good measure.
“Asshole,” she mutters as she heads back downstairs.
*
After she’s done with classes for the day, Carol spends a couple more hours in her office receiving all sorts of students: the quiet freshmen who don’t really speak in class, the diligent ones who are looking for thesis advice, the careless types who beg for deadline extensions and come up with the most absurd excuses to get them. Today she’s too tired to hear their reasons and just agrees to give them a couple more days, and they leave thanking her profusely – even though Carol knows they think they’ve played her.
Once she’s finally alone, she shuts her laptop and leans back in her chair with a loud sigh of relief. She takes off her reading glasses, folds them and sets them on the desk, then she closes her eyes.
Just for a second.
The office is pleasantly silent, no chatter outside. Everyone else has long since left, but Carol remains in her comfortable swivel chair, giving it gentle half-spins to the cadence of a quiet lullaby. Her shoulders loosen.
Maybe a couple minutes.
When she opens her eyes, the office is dimmer and the peaceful silence from before now feels unsettling and gloomy. She stares at the ceiling, disoriented, and then glances at the clock on the wall.
Three fucking hours.
She slept for three hours, although her body doesn’t really count it as rest, because her neck is incredibly stiff and her mouth feels drier than the Sahara desert. But still, this is probably the best sleep she’ll get for the entire week.
Ever since Zosia moved in the complex, her nights have been nightmarish to say the least. She has the vampiric habit of being incredibly quiet in the mornings and afternoons, but as soon as dusk settles it’s hell unleashed. Furniture scraping against the floor, loud music – sometimes a guitar, sometimes rock records, and then suddenly it’s techno beats and acid grooves blasted all night long with a bunch of people and their shuffling steps and brassy conversations.
And then, there are some other kinds of nights. The ones where Zosia has someone over and apparently fucks them literally through the floor, because Carol can hear everything – from the way they moan her name to the sounds she makes when she’s close too.
It had been easy enough to just tune that out for a couple of days. But now she knows what Zosia looks like, and the worst part of it all is that she’s fucking hot. And she really doesn’t want to listen to her hot neighbor fuck women and then hear them leave in the middle of the night, giggling while she walks them downstairs afterwards.
She has a few options, of course, because the truth is that she doesn’t really need to be living in this apartment. She owns a house that’s been locked and abandoned for almost two years, and if she weren’t such a coward she could still be living there – but it’s not that easy.
That house is a reminder of something gone forever. It holds a decade of memories, both sweet and painful, that dwell inside every object; in the indentation on the left side of the couch, in the board games buried under signed first editions of her books, and in the pictures framed on the walls. That house is Helen, and she can’t deal with the fact that Helen isn’t here anymore, and hasn’t been for quite some time.
Which is why – some would say it’s absurd, crazy, wasteful – she’s chosen to rent this lousy apartment instead. Because it’s still better than packing her dead wife’s belongings and having to deal with her empty wardrobe and cold pillow.
Maybe one day she’ll manage to go back to her house, but not today.
*
Carol drives back home from campus with the anxious demeanor of someone who’s afraid they’ll fall asleep at the wheel. Taking naps that aren’t as satisfying as a full night’s rest always backfires for her, making her feel even more tired than before. But still, between cursing one annoying and slightly misogynistic radio host and some drivers who apparently do not know the definition of a safe distance, she manages to stay awake and get to the apartment safely.
When she pulls into the reserved parking area, there’s a motorbike in her spot, and she doesn’t even have to guess who it belongs to.
“You little fucking –”
She doesn’t have time to finish her thought, thankfully, because it probably would’ve led to her driving straight into that bike to knock it down. And also because Zosia skips out of the building in a leather jacket, dark-washed ripped jeans and combat boots, and walks straight towards Carol’s car, helmet under her arm and a smug smile on her stupid face. Insult to injury, she looks fucking magnificent, as if she doesn’t usually sleep three hours per night.
Once she’s standing there, Carol eyes her – scowls, really – and doesn’t move a muscle. With a huffed laugh, Zosia taps two fingers on her window. A silent request that Carol really doesn’t want to grant. Yet she rolls it down and raises an eyebrow.
“What’s up?” She pops the p, hoping to sound casual, but her eyes stay narrow and her lips tight. She doesn’t like being at the mercy of that piercing gaze, and she nervously taps her fingers on the wheel to ground herself and focus on something else.
“Did I mess up your order?” Zosia speaks as if she has no doubt it’ll make Carol fold. It doesn’t, obviously, but she misses the hint. “I could’ve sworn you were a black coffee kind of girl.”
Carol shakes her head. “No,” she says curtly, with no further explanation.
“Then why didn’t you drink it?” Zosia places her helmet on the roof of the car, then leans on it with her forearms. Her face is definitely too close for Carol’s liking.
“Didn’t ask for it.”
“You could’ve just thrown it away.”
“I did,” Carol replies, flat and impatient, before pointing to Zosia’s motorbike. “That’s my spot.”
Zosia looks back, pursed lips and furrowed brow, then says, “I didn’t see your name on it.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t even know my name.”
“Maybe we should fix that, don’t you think?”
Carol doesn’t like the way Zosia is smiling. Like she’s playing a game, one that has been played countless times before and that she’s grown bored with, and one Carol certainly doesn’t want to entertain. So, she lets Zosia’s question hang and rolls up the window, tapping her index finger against her ear.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” she says as the glass finally puts her at a distance. Zosia pushes herself off the car, slow and unhurried, and reaches for her helmet. Then, she glances one last time toward Carol and rolls her eyes, although now she definitely seems amused. Or maybe she’s just making fun of her, plotting ways to disrupt her days even more.
Carol’s hand lingers on the window switch a beat longer than necessary, just to make sure it’s fully closed, and once she’s sealed in the comfort of her car, she inhales deeply and exhales, searching for some kind of Zen state she has never really been familiar with. Zosia starts her bike and leaves with a grandstanding roar of engine, echoing in the quiet evening. And, as Carol watches her disappear, one thought makes its way into her mind, enthusiastic and exhilarating: she’s not home tonight. Which means that she’ll finally get a fucking chance at sleeping without having to bury her head under three pillows.
Carol decides to make the most of these peaceful moments. She practically flies upstairs, once she’s parked her car in her spot – which, by the way, doesn’t need to have her name on it, because everybody knows it’s hers – and runs herself a nice hot bath. She lights up a few candles, pours a full glass of red wine and sips at it while listening to a ten-hour compilation of relaxing music and rain sounds. When the bathtub is almost overflowing with bubbles, she refills her glass and slips in the steaming water. It sloshes around just like the wine in her glass, threatens to spill and then settles in a comfortable stillness.
The warmth all around her seems to work wonders on the tightness in her spine and neck, and she massages the taut muscle until she feels the knots there loosen. A sigh of relief escapes her lips.
By the time she’s on her fourth glass, the water is now cold and definitely uncomfortable, and her head is slightly fuzzy. Her eyelids feel droopy, and before she risks falling asleep with her head half submerged, she removes the stopper and lets the tub drain, rinses off with the hand-shower and gets out. There’s only a bit of wine left in the bottle beside the tub, and she thinks it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Although she probably should’ve been more sensible and avoid drinking this much in the middle of the week, sometimes she just can’t be bothered to care. So, she grabs the leftover wine and downs it straight from the bottle.
Carol is very much aware of the fact that she shouldn’t really have any alcohol in her house. It wasn’t that big of a deal when Helen was there and kept an eye out for her, telling her enough, baby when she started to stumble and sound incoherent. Or guiding her to the passenger seat when she had one too many at the bar yet still insisted on being able to drive. Helen was responsible, reliable, safe.
And Carol can be too, just not tonight.
So, she dries her hair off with a towel – too lazy to do it properly with a hairdryer and careless about the neck pain she’ll likely have in the morning. She puts on a set of clean silk pajamas, brushes her teeth in the hope it’ll discourage her from drinking more.
Then, just as she’s about to settle comfortably on the couch – with plans to watch a boring documentary about Scottish castles – she remembers that there’s a bunch of trash she needs to take out. With a huff, she stands again and feels her head spin for a second before heading out, dragging two bags down the stairs and out to the back of the building.
As she turns the corner to get to the trash cans, she sees that now familiar black and red motorbike, parked a little over to the side. Zosia is leaning against it, facing away from Carol, who in turn is trying to stay as quiet as possible to avoid catching her attention. Not a tough feat, since Zosia seems completely absorbed in the conversation she’s having on the phone.
Now, eavesdropping wasn’t Carol’s intention – she only wanted to throw away her trash and get back to the comfortable silence of her room. But the night is still and Zosia’s voice carries easily across the narrow strip of pavement.
“No, I told you, I’m not,” she says, shaking her head. “I know, I know. But –”
She stops, listening to what whoever’s on the line has to say.
“Dude, stop. If she’s there, I’m not going. That’s it, I don’t want to discuss this again.”
Carol freezes with one hand on the lid of the trashcan. If she weren’t drunk, she probably would already be skipping upstairs to her bed. Honestly, not even being drunk is a good enough reason to explain why she’s standing there like she needs to know the rest of it. None of this concerns her – Zosia’s life, loud and irritating, and her refusal to go somewhere because of someone shouldn’t really register as anything of relevance.
And yet. She lifts the lid slower than necessary, careful to avoid the metallic clang that would give her away.
“Why would I even want to talk to her? She’s the one who –”
Zosia cuts herself off with an irritated click of her tongue, dragging a hand through her hair. The movement makes the dim light catch on the sharp line of her jaw, on the thin silver ring hooked through her ear. Carol realizes she’s staring, again, and doesn’t pay enough attention to the way she drops the bag in the metallic trashcan. It resonates with a loud thud, and that’s enough to ruin her plans of lurking in the shadows.
“Hang on,” Zosia says, turning towards the source of the noise. Carol remains there, stock-still, as if not moving might make her invisible. But as soon as Zosia spots her, though, she lets go of all pretense and unceremoniously dumps the other bag in the can.
“I’ll call you back,” Zosia whispers and doesn’t wait for an answer before slipping the phone in the back pocket of her jeans. She circles her bike and makes her way toward Carol.
“Hey,” she says with a smirk. It doesn’t feel light-hearted and cheeky like the others, but it does have the distinct effect on Carol of making her stomach drop a little. “Were you planning some sort of revenge on me, neighbor?”
Carol frowns, suppressing a hiccup that threatens to come out instead of words. Then, she shakes her head and says, “What? No. Uhm, I was just –”
“Relax.” Zosia lets out a low chuckle. “I’m just kidding.”
When Carol doesn’t say anything, she gets closer. Once again, the state she’s in makes her feel incredibly self-conscious, embarrassed even. But Zosia slowly drags her eyes across her figure, clad in dark blue silk pajamas, and seems to linger on a few places where the fabric clings tighter. Carol is suddenly very aware of the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra. And when she realizes Zosia has noticed too, she crosses her arms over her chest and clears her throat.
“Okay,” she replies, and when Zosia doesn’t look away, she huffs. “What?”
“Your cheeks,” she murmurs, as if that’s just something anyone would notice. “They’re flushed.”
The way she says it, hushed like a dirty secret and confident as if she has any right to that intimacy, probably makes Carol turn impossibly redder. But she tries to hide behind a shrug and a casual, “Yeah. I’ve had a few glasses of wine.”
“Oh, nice,” Zosia replies, eyes still glued to Carol’s. She doesn’t let go of her gaze even as she fumbles with something in the pocket of her jacket. “You know, I have something that goes perfectly with that.” She takes out a rectangular metal tin, which she pops open to reveal a few pre-rolled joints. She slips one between her lips, then lights it with one of her stupid matches, and Carol is enraptured by those long fingers deftly moving like they’ve done this a million times. Somehow, she ends up focusing on her short nails, and she swallows so audibly she’s sure Zosia’s noticed.
That embarrassing thought snaps Carol back into the moment. Zosia, her annoyingly loud and careless neighbor, is being civil and is currently blowing out a thick cloud of pungent, not entirely unpleasant smoke beside her. And, after a few more drags, she holds the joint out between her thumb and index finger for her.
“Oh,” Carol eyes it and wonders how bad an idea it would be to get high on top of drunk and slightly horny tonight. She remembers one of the last times she smoked weed, on a fucking camping trip with Helen for her thirtieth birthday. She’d wanted them to do something unusual, and Carol hadn’t had the heart to admit that she’d hate every second of it, so she went anyway only to end up high as a kite in a massive tent, crying because she was convinced they were about to be mauled by bears.
Somehow, that memory still isn’t enough of a deterrent, and she has to forcefully shake off the temptation and stop herself from reaching for the joint.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she replies instead as she moves her hand back to her side.
Zosia shrugs and doesn’t say anything. Now, the air hangs heavy between them, thick with the smell of weed, and a chill gust of wind makes Carol shiver.
“Okay, then. I’ll, uhm, leave you to it,” she blurts out, awkwardly pointing over her shoulder. But before she leaves, Carol asks one last stupid, lame question. “Oh, wait. Are you by any chance planning to have a party tonight? Or maybe rearrange your living room?”
Zosia chuckles and makes a scene of thinking about it. “No, I don’t think so,” she says, tapping a finger against her chin. Then, a lazy and infuriating grin plays on her lips. “But I was thinking I should find a new spot for the couch. Want to come up and help me figure it out? Test out a few angles?”
Carol chokes on her spit and coughs to make it sound casual. “What? No. Just, whatever you do, keep it down, please?”
“Yeah, yeah, got it.”
“Oh. That was easy.”
“Not in the mood to argue tonight,” Zosia says, blowing out more thick smoke, and turning to the side to look at Carol with a quirked eyebrow. “Disappointed? Were you expecting a bit of a fight?”
“I – uhm.” Carol shakes her head. “Sort of.”
“Next time, maybe.”
Carol leaves Zosia there, alone in a cloud of smoke, and steps into the building with a weird sensation in her stomach. There have been looks – subtle, but also not really – that she’s still feeling on her skin right now. And it’s the second time that she’s had Zosia study her as if she was just waiting for the right moment to bite, have a taste, and then move on to the next prey.
She keeps thinking about those dark eyes – the way they moved up her body, paused like they were taking notes, and finally settled on her face. And it was such a magnetic energy that she can’t shake it off long after she’s locked herself inside her apartment.
Later, in bed, she tries to think of virtually anything else. The essays she’ll have to grade tomorrow. Her book club meeting on Zoom in the afternoon. Taking Nacho to the vet. It’s all useless, because her mind – still hazy in its drunken state – drifts back to Zosia.
Who, by the way, waits only a couple of hours before breaking her promise to keep it down for the night.
There’s someone else in her apartment. Carol knows it by listening to the steps that follow each other and keep a distinct cadence – rubber soles and clacking heels. Turns out that, after two weeks of hearing someone walk over your head, you learn to discern their patterns. So, where Zosia’s steps are light, sometimes slightly dragged, this new unknown pair is slow and uncertain, but heavier in the way it lands against the floor.
She hears muffled voices – a conversation, first, of which she can’t make out words, but then the inflection becomes unmistakable. And among the banging sounds against the wall and the high-pitched moans, she hears a woman cry Zosia’s name so loud it sounds like they’re practically fucking in Carol’s bed.
And that’s such an unnecessary thought for her to have now, mixed with images that she’s desperate to pull out of her mind because that’s inappropriate, stupid and weird. She forces herself to think of something ugly and disgusting, like the time Nacho had the shits on a carpet Helen had just bought, but then the thought of Helen makes her feel even worse. At least, she thinks, it’s the sadness that prevails. And thankfully, after a while, the entire thing upstairs sounds a bit tired and overplayed, a performance that doesn’t hit the same anymore. Still, it keeps going relentlessly, until that’s basically what lulls Carol to sleep.
The morning after, Carol feels like shit, looks like shit, and is incredibly late for work, by her standards. She doesn’t really worry about that, because she doesn’t have classes until ten, but she likes to be available for students who might need her, even outside of her office hours. It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes a few stragglers come by early in the morning with questions about projects and essays they’re working on, and she likes to be the reliable kind of professor for those who actually care about creative writing.
But now she takes her sweet time brewing coffee and fixing herself some breakfast – which she usually skips – just for the hell of it. Nacho jumps on the table behind her and sniffs the air, meowing so loud she worries he might wake the entire building. Which, naturally, makes her think about Zosia, and how she wouldn’t care if it was her cat being that noisy.
So, she lets Nacho be as annoying as he likes, and then gives him his long awaited and well-deserved prize – a can of foul-smelling wet food, which he devours ravenously.
Finally, before leaving, she gives herself one last look in the mirror, straightens her necktie and adjusts her belt. Then, she puts on her suit blazer and heads out.
As Carol locks the door and puts the keys in her messenger bag, she hears footsteps from upstairs and flinches internally. She shuts her eyes and inhales, getting ready for the grating interaction she’s sure is going to happen in a matter of seconds.
Indeed, Zosia comes down looking like she’s in a rush, but also entirely unbothered by it. Her hair is haphazardly tied in a low ponytail and she’s wearing a white top, sweatpants and sunglasses, which she makes a show of pushing down the bridge of her nose to glance at Carol. Again, it’s a once-over that lingers a beat too long for Carol’s comfort. And even so, she can’t help but feel the thrill of being checked out settle low in her stomach.
She definitely doesn’t miss the way Zosia wets her lips.
“Hey,” she says, shifting her weight and leaning against the railing.
“Morning,” Carol replies, pretending to be busy locking her door for the seventh time, probably.
“Late for work?” A question that feels rooted in a familiarity they absolutely do not share. It leaves Carol baffled, to the point she has to blink at Zosia a few times.
“Huh?”
“I mean, we never run into each other in the morning.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not late,” she says as she adjusts the strap of her bag and feels weirdly defensive. “I just like to be early.”
Zosia hums, as if she’s filing that information away for future use. She straightens from the railing and steps down one stair, then another, until she’s level with Carol and once again too close for her liking.
“You look nice,” she observes with a nod of her chin. “I like the tie.”
Carol feels her mouth go dry and clears her throat before weakly saying, “Thanks.”
Then, Zosia reaches for the knot and Carol wishes she had the swift reflexes of a startled lynx, or something, to get away from that grasp. But she doesn’t, and she stands powerless, heart skipping when Zosia’s fingers brush against the fabric on her collarbone.
“Let me just –” she says, fixing the knot and her collar, which definitely did not need that. “There. Better.”
As soon as Zosia’s hands are back to her sides, Carol inches a bit further away and finally releases the breath she’d been holding.
“I could’ve done that.”
“Sure.” Zosia nods, lips tight and eyes never leaving her. “Well, I’ll see you, Carol.”
“Wait,” Carol blurts out, a curious crease in her brow. “So you do know my name.”
“I’ve asked around,” Zosia replies quickly, as if that’s obvious, and then toys with the cap of her metal water bottle. “You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“That’s an understatement.” Carol rolls her eyes, then tries to walk past Zosia, who follows her every move like she’s just waiting for an opening to strike.
“Let me make it up to you?”
Carol realizes that Zosia isn’t the type who’s used to hearing the word no. It’s obvious by the way she carries herself, by the ever-present smirks and the laid back attitude of someone who always knows things are going to turn out in her favor. So, naturally, Carol would love to be the one to wipe that smug smile off her face, and yet she almost falls for it. Even the fact that she takes a few seconds before coming up with a rejection is a very telling sign that whatever Zosia has got going on, works.
Her neck still tingles with the ghost sensation of Zosia’s fingertips, and she wonders how they would feel without the barrier of her shirt. It doesn’t help that she knows exactly what Zosia sounds like when she’s preoccupied with that particular instance of unbuttoning and taking someone’s clothes off. And it doesn’t help that she wants to make it up to Carol for being an asshole either, because making up could mean a thousand different things now, and all of them involve some degree of getting naked – in Carol’s head.
At this point, she’s veering off into dangerous territory, which is why she needs to get a fucking grip. The only thing that comes to mind, though, is finding an easy way out.
“I have to go,” she says, skipping past Zosia, their shoulders brushing ever so slightly.
“Thought you said you weren’t late.”
“Well, I will be if you keep wasting my time,” Carol snaps, and now she’s pretty much halfway down the stairs, heading for the entrance. She misses the way Zosia frowns, but then she immediately hears footsteps following behind her.
“Oh, come on,” Carol scoffs, turning around sharply.
Zosia raises her eyebrow questioningly, almost daring her to finish her sentence, then reaches for the front door handle. Carol realizes she’s just made a fool of herself and feels her cheeks burn.
“Have a nice day, Carol,” Zosia coos and winks at her, before letting the door close behind her.
*
After that morning, over the next few weeks Carol ends up seeing Zosia pretty much every time she sticks her nose out of her apartment.
When she goes grocery shopping, Zosia leaves for a run, wearing the skimpiest pair of shorts ever created on this Earth, possibly a figment of someone’s wild fantasies. She always makes a show of stretching, jogging on the spot just long enough for Carol to notice the flex of her muscles and the shine of her exposed skin.
And Carol does notice it, when Zosia turns and leaves her like an idiot on her doorstep after saying Hey, Carol in a way that shouldn’t sound this sexy, but it fucking does.
Then, when she gets back from work, she often catches Zosia parking her bike exactly next to her spot and they end up walking to the building side by side, ignoring each other until Zosia reaches for the door handle and opens it, gesturing for Carol to go in first. She always hesitates before ducking her head, nodding a thanks and flying upstairs.
And when she leaves for work in the morning, sometimes she finds Zosia outside, smoking a cigarette like she doesn’t have anywhere to be while every single person in the city scrambles to get to their office jobs. Carol always fights the temptation to ask her what her deal is.
One day – a completely ordinary Friday morning – Carol feels a bit out of sorts, and leaves her apartment later than usual, juggling a reusable cup filled to the brim with coffee, her phone, and her keys. It had been a while since Zosia’s nightly activities had kept her up, and after that rather short dry spell, the night before she had been obscenely louder, like sex on fucking steroids. Carol has a hard time believing it can ever be that good.
And yet, all the sounds are ingrained in her brain now. Especially the way Zosia’s partner praised her, moaning oh, god, yeah, right there, fuck, you’re so good, like she was putting on a show for the entire building. When she sees a woman come down the stairs, she puts a face to those sounds, and she has to do a double take before she chokes on her coffee. She’s probably in her forties, sporting messy short hair, a white shirt with a few top buttons left open, grey slacks like she’s never gotten home from the office the night before –
It’s uncanny, really. Like looking in a fucking mirror.
As soon as the realization hits, Carol feels a deep thrum settle low in her body. This woman, the woman Zosia’s been fucking the entire night, she does have something that reminds Carol of herself. Maybe it’s the way she’s dressed, and obviously it’s the hair and the fact that they seem to be close in age. Now, if Carol were an idiot – and jury’s still out on that – she’d think that that’s an incredible coincidence, but it does seem too deliberate to ignore.
Maybe Zosia has a type. Fair. But the fact that said type looks a lot like Carol puts things in a new perspective. The warmth in her belly sinks lower, heavier and harder to ignore, as she recalls one of their first interactions – out in the back of the building, Zosia looking at her from head to toe like she was trying to figure out what was underneath Carol’s silk shirt.
Fuck.
*
Carol spends the morning in her office, unfocused and feeling an uncomfortably unresolved tightness in her stomach that she doesn’t really want to address. It’s not like she has enough evidence to build a case against Zosia for the fact that she likes to fuck women in their forties. If anything, that’s entirely understandable.
Still, there are images in her head that pop up at the most inappropriate of times, like when she’s in the faculty lounge getting some coffee and Manousos walks up to her to tell her that she looks like shit, and she’s there thinking about Zosia’s fingers buried deep inside of someone who looks just like her.
“Geez, thanks, man,” she groans, rolling her eyes and focusing on pouring just enough coffee to fuel an army.
“De nada,” he says and gives her a lighthearted pat on the back. They’ve been good friends for a long time, so Carol knows he doesn’t mean it in an insulting way. He just speaks facts. Even though, sometimes, those aren’t really necessary either.
“No, seriously, what’s up with you?” He prods, arms crossed on his chest and a curious frown on his face.
“Nothing, really. I’ve just had a hard time getting some good sleep lately,” she replies with a low exaggerated sigh, then sips the lukewarm coffee and grimaces at the taste. “Disgusting.”
Manousos nods and pushes a tray with coffee creamer pods toward her, then wiggles his eyebrows and elbows her in the side jokingly. “Someone keeping you up, huh?”
“Dude, don’t you think I’d be happier about it if that were the case?”
He seems to think about it for a moment, then shakes his head and says, “Well, no. You’re always sulking. Figured it was part of your…” He glances at her from head to toe, waving his hands to emphasize the extent of his judgement. “Charm.”
“Ha-ha, fuck you too, Manny.” Carol frowns and leaves her half-full cup on the counter before walking to the door and leaving the room.
“¡Venga ya, Carol! I was just messing with you, there's no need to be so touchy.” He trots behind her, and when Carol picks up the pace, he does the same to catch up. They walk in silence side by side until Manousos snaps his fingers once and stops Carol in her tracks. “Ah! You know what you should do?”
“What?”
“Go out a little more,” he suggests, like he’s just found the solution to every global-scale issue ever. “Have some fun. Let’s grab a drink tonight.” And when Carol narrows her eyes and seems less than convinced and maybe a little offended, he adds, “On me.”
“I’ll make sure you regret this,” she says then, but her frown turns into a thin smile as Manousos claps his hands once and then leaves for his class.
*
That night, they meet at a place Carol knows like the back of her hand, theatre of many benders with Manousos and even on her own, which is infinitely sadder and probably a sign that she needs to find somewhere else to unwind after stressful days and lonely nights.
Manousos is already sitting at the counter when Carol gets there, still in her teacher attire – black slacks, white shirt with unbuttoned top, a loose tie and blazer on her arm. She places it on the back of the chair he’s saving for her, and immediately, as she plops down onto it, Manousos pushes a beer in her direction.
“Thanks,” she says, grabbing it and taking a sip. “But I’m going to need something stronger if I have to put up with you for tonight.”
“That makes two of us, then,” he replies, and Carol playfully smacks his shoulder.
They drink in silence, for a while, backed by the hum of voices and clinking glasses that becomes more muffled with each drink they throw back. And glass after glass, inhibitions come loose and Carol ends up spilling the truth about who’s really keeping her up at night, how she can’t stand her stupid sexy face and how she seems to be so eager to disrupt every instant of Carol’s daily life by being a fucking nuisance like it’s just her mission.
“And then I said,” Carol declares, high-pitched and unfiltered, “You can’t smoke in here. And she was like boo-hoo, who do you think you are, the police?” She mimics Zosia in a singsong way that didn’t really happen, but she prefers to spare Manny the actual tone of Zosia’s reply. Maybe because it’s hers to keep, but most likely because what she said that night made her feel a bit offended and a bit too horny in retrospect.
“Hombre, Carol, eres una causa perdida,” he mutters, slapping his palm on his forehead in mock frustration.
Carol frowns. “Huh? What? Why?”
“Don’t you think she was being, I don’t know, flirty?”
“What? Nah. Come on, man. Do you have a habit of insulting people you want to sleep with?” She lowers her voice then, and gets closer to Manousos’ face. “She called me old! Said that I needed to get my hearing checked. That’s just… rude.” She grabs her glass, almost knocking it over in the process, and downs the rest of its contents.
Manousos shrugs and doesn’t say anything, as if whatever point Carol is trying to make isn’t as reasonable as his own. Instead, his attention seems to be caught by the people fixing cables and starting to sound check their instruments on the small stage – which almost looks like it could fall apart any moment – at the back of the venue. Carol pays them no mind, and busies herself with ordering more drinks.
Then, as she’s about to sip some of her Negroni, an all too familiar voice – grating, taunting, low and fucking sensual – cuts through the room, amplified tenfold, and she doesn’t have the nerve to turn towards its source, gripping the glass tighter instead. What even are the odds of something like this happening, tonight of all nights?
“Testing, testing,” Zosia says, amusement in her voice as if she knows damn well that everybody can hear her and at least a dozen people can’t take their eyes off of her. Carol tries her hardest not to be one of them.
“Is this thing on?” She taps the mic and lets the feedback answer for her. Someone in the bar yells that yes, they can hear her, and Zosia huffs a laugh. “That’s good. Gotta make sure you don’t miss any of this.”
She strums her guitar once, and the distortion reverberates through the room, which suddenly feels hotter, smaller, and like she really can’t fucking escape that face for just one night. Manousos taps her shoulder, urging her to turn around – oblivious to Carol’s internal struggle. She knows that if she looks at Zosia something’s going to give.
“We’re the Hivemind,” she says in between power chords. “We’re going to play a few tunes for y’all tonight, so grab a drink, get comfortable and let’s have a good fucking time!”
Some people cheer, and that is enough to drag along pretty much the entire venue. Carol watches as many patrons stand and move to get to the stage, although she still does her best to avoid direct contact with it. But then Zosia starts playing, and she’s really too good for Carol to not have a peek. When she turns, her breath hitches and her cheeks burn, because she looks like she owns the entire fucking world, tearing fuzzy sounds from her guitar – riot grrrl to the bone – and smirking and nodding to those who are lucky enough to be in her orbit.
She’s magnetic. And Carol feels it deep – not just in her bones. She chugs her Negroni down and slams the glass back on the counter, taps it for another, and misses the puzzled look Manousos directs at her.
When she turns back to the stage with her refill, she almost drops the glass, because she finds Zosia already looking straight at her, a pleased smirk on her lips as she sings words that shouldn’t feel inviting – or personal, for that matter – and can’t help but imagine that in a room full of people she’s really, sincerely, referring to her. That’s stupid and childish, and yet it doesn’t make her love the attention any less.
She wishes she could just slap herself. Instead, she keeps her focus on Zosia’s swift fingers deftly pulling electric sounds from those strings.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, picture me on your bedroom door,” she sings, eyes never leaving Carol. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, invite you back after the show.”
Right then, Carol has to look away, because Zosia winks at her suggestively, and it makes her squirm pathetically. Zosia keeps going as if that doesn’t mean anything to her, finding someone else to look at, and Carol wonders if she’s that good at making every single person feel like they’re uniquely interesting or if it really was just her.
It doesn’t matter, though, because for the entirety of the gig she’s drawn to Zosia more times than she’s willing to admit, and she always finds her staring right back. It’s a continuous push and pull, and Carol loses each time she averts her gaze.
Manousos glances between the two of them, eyebrows raised in piqued interest.
“Dude,” he says, snapping his fingers in Carol’s face. “Close your mouth.”
“Huh?” Carol doesn’t even look at him.
“You’re drooling.”
Carol wipes her chin, obviously finding it dry, and just then realizes that Manousos is laughing at her.
“Fuck you,” she says. “I – uhm. Shut up.”
Carol feels her cheeks and neck burn in embarrassment and she gets so hung up on her discomfort that she doesn’t realize the show’s over and the room is back to records and chatter like that moment hasn’t even happened. It has, though, and there’s no way Carol can pretend it hasn’t made her heart skip beats and her body thrum low with a weird kind of excitement.
One that’s even more intrusive and solid when she hears Zosia’s voice beside her, speaking to the bartender, who swiftly serves her an ice cold beer. Then, obviously, it’s time to face the music.
“Hey,” Zosia says, and Carol doesn’t know how three letters can even sound that enticing, but they do, and she forgets Manousos is there to witness just how pathetic she can be.
She turns to the side, facing her and barely holding back a gasp at the sight. She’s wearing a sheer mesh top and fucking cross shaped pasties and Carol feels like a creep because she has a hard time looking away. But then she notices the thin sheen of sweat on her collarbone, her flushed cheeks – obviously from the heat, and she can pretend that it’s the same for her. And that fucking smirk, the one that tells Carol she knows she could make her do any single thing she wanted.
If she asked her to drop to her knees and bark, Carol probably would. But thankfully, she behaves like a normal person and asks her a rather simple question.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
“Oh,” Carol says, quickly glancing at Manousos to subtly ask for his support, even though he keeps quiet by her side. “Yeah. I didn’t know you were that good.”
“That’s strange. You know, since you’re always listening.” She smiles, the implication of what exactly Carol listens to loud and clear. It makes her choke on her spit, and she lets out a pathetic dry cough to conceal it.
Then, Zosia looks at Manousos, who’s barely holding back a laugh. Carol knows that he has just realized who this woman is, and she’s never going to hear the end of it if the conversation keeps going. She can’t recall a time she’s felt more self-conscious than tonight.
“Uhm, this is Manousos,” she blurts out, just to be the first to say something. “A friend. Manny, this is Zosia, my neighbor.”
“Ah. Encantado,” he says, waving his hand and sticking to Carol’s side with a polite smile. “Great show.”
“Thanks,” Zosia smiles and takes a long swig from her beer. Carol stares at her throat as she swallows, immediately regrets it and has to bite her lip to avoid saying something stupid.
“You know, Carol,” Manousos turns to her with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty beat. I think I’m going to call it a night.” He glances between her and Zosia, and he probably thinks he’s being slick, but she’s sure it hasn’t gone unnoticed. “But you, huh, enjoy the rest of your night, yeah? I’ll see you Monday.”
He squeezes her shoulder, says goodbye to both Carol and Zosia, and then leaves like a traitor who has just sold her for a few bucks and a story that he’ll likely use to make fun of her at work.
Now that she’s alone with Zosia, Carol feels her stomach tighten nervously. Zosia takes Manousos’ barstool and drags it closer to her, and when she sits their knees are almost touching.
“What are you drinking?” She asks, pointing to Carol’s glass.
“Uh – I think I’m good.”
Zosia rolls her eyes and gestures for two more drinks, mouthing something that the bartender catches quickly. “Come on, have a drink with me,” she says then, as the guy places two glasses in front of her and she pushes one toward Carol.
“Fine.”
Zosia raises her glass and seems to be waiting for Carol to clink hers against it. When she notices, she does it clumsily, avoiding the other’s stare like it might just be enough to kill her on the spot.
“Eye contact,” she calls, tilting her head, a glint in her eyes as she tries to get a glimpse of Carol’s. “It’s bad luck if you look away.”
Carol shrugs and takes a sip. “Doesn’t get worse than this,” she says, pointing to the little space between them.
“How flattering.” Zosia brings the glass to her lips, and keeps her gaze on Carol behind the rim. “But who knows, you might get lucky tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence where Carol tries to ignore the implication of what she’s just said. But when it gets clearer in her hazy brain, she hides behind a cough and chews on her lips. Pathetic, fucking pathetic.
She remembers a few instances of her younger self struggling to approach someone at a bar. It’s really never been her thing – mostly because her stars had aligned the night she met Helen and then she never had to try again, but also for the simple fact that she’s never been a confident person. Independent, sure. Resourceful, even. But confident? Breezy? Absolutely fucking not.
So it’s only natural that she feels a slight tinge of discomfort when she notices Zosia’s unwavering eyes trail down to her neck, where her tie hangs loose and a few buttons lay open.
No, maybe discomfort isn’t the right word for it. But it is something she hasn’t felt in a while, a callback to evenings where her wife would lead her through restaurants, bars, back alleys and cars only for Carol to end up splayed on a bed with Helen three fingers deep inside of her.
That’s the sensation. Weird anticipation, now unfamiliar in the form it takes, which makes it feel less than good but not entirely horrible. Of course, Carol has been with other people, after Helen. None of them particularly remarkable, but that is just to say that she’s not some sort of quick trigger that hasn’t been pulled in a while.
But the way Zosia looks at her – like she’s testing the terrain before claiming the prize – makes her clench her thighs and cast her eyes around the room for a distraction, an escape, and simultaneously feeds a desperation that she didn’t even know was there.
“Earth to Carol,” she murmurs, and her hand reaches for Carol’s wrist, fingers dancing on her skin so lightly she doesn’t register the touch at first. But as she does, she flinches, looking down to where those short nails have left a burning impact.
“Huh?” She blinks slowly, like the dumbest person in the world.
“What are you thinking about?” Zosia keeps her tone low, hovering closer. Carol gets a waft of her sweet perfume, mixed with smoke, and she finds that the combination doesn’t bother her. In fact, it’s oddly enticing, and she breathes it in deep before trying to get ahold of her resolve. She can’t fall for this – whatever Zosia’s trying to do.
“Excuse me.” Carol pulls her arm away from Zosia’s reach. “I need to – uhm. Restroom.”
Zosia seems taken aback. She nods and bites her lower lip. “Of course,” she says, and Carol doesn’t dwell on the slight disappointment she hears in those words, quickly standing up instead.
That’s the third stupidest thing she does for the evening. Going out at all was the first one, and then letting Manousos leave her alone with Zosia is the runner-up. And now, as gin and vermouth catch up to her, she gets dizzy, the room spins for a second and she has to steady herself by grabbing the first thing that she can get her hands on. And that happens to be Zosia’s shoulder.
Zosia, who immediately stands and holds Carol’s weight against her, and is now unbearably close. Carol notices her eyes, one darker than the other, but maybe it’s just the venue’s dim lights, and averts her gaze just a bit too late for Zosia not to see it. There’s the usual smirk on her face, though it’s laced with an odd shade of concern – a crease in her brow that’s just barely there as she takes in Carol’s state.
“You okay?” She asks, pointedly holding her steady. Carol thinks that there really is no need for her hand to feel this good pressed on her back. Or for her voice to sound this hot. But it is, warm against the shell of her ear, breathy in a way that makes Carol weak in the knees.
She pulls back, then, because her mind is starting to wander too far out of her control, and leans against the counter to regain her balance.
“Yeah. All good. I –” Carol points to the back of the room, where the toilets are, and gestures vaguely, waiting for Zosia to catch her meaning. When she does, she just nods, but makes a point of following Carol’s movements as if she’s now responsible for her not falling on her face.
In the quiet privacy of the restroom, Carol splashes some cold water on her neck and face. She grips the sink tighter than necessary and wonders how exactly she can get out of this situation without making a fool of herself more than she already has.
Zosia is being Zosia, of course. Annoyingly charming, overstepping boundaries that exist only in Carol’s head and honestly, if anyone asked her why, she wouldn’t even know what to say. She doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being one more win in her book, sure, but she also doesn’t particularly like her – beside the obvious appreciation for her appearance.
And tonight – like any other week, really – her appearance is definitely playing a major part in Carol’s inability to be coherent and mature enough to just up and leave. It’s like those mornings where Zosia stretches before leaving and lets her t-shirt roll a bit higher, exposing her lean stomach, carelessly unaware of how Carol can’t tear her gaze off of it. Or when she drops something – a cigarette, a matchbox, her wallet – and makes a show of bending to grab it. Truly, utterly unnecessary.
So, she makes up a plan that could temporarily ease her suffering. The venue is big and busy enough that she could get lost in the crowd and reach for the exit without being noticed. But when she opens the door and gets out of the restroom, Zosia’s right there, leaning against the wall, a hand in her pocket and phone in the other. The second she spots Carol, she puts it away and gets closer.
Carol has just the time to mutter a fucking hell through gritted teeth, then tries for a smile that looks more like she’s having a stroke.
“Everything alright?” Zosia asks.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to do…” She gestures to Zosia’s entire figure. “All this.”
“You look kind of freaked out, though.”
“I am not!” Carol snaps and backs away defensively, but Zosia seems to hover in her space like she owns it. “I’m just tired. I’m going home.”
Zosia nods, pursing her lips. “And how do you plan on doing that? You can barely walk.”
“That is so not your concern.”
“It kind of is,” Zosia places a hand on the wall when Carol tries to move past her. “Your friend left you here with me. I don’t know why he did that, since apparently you’d rather crash your car into a fucking wall instead, but he did. So I think it’s only fair that I make sure you get home in one piece.”
“I can manage on my own,” Carol claps back, and then leaves her there.
Zosia doesn’t let her go too far, though. She catches up to Carol’s wobbly pace in a few seconds, and bumps into people’s shoulders in doing so – some recognize her and try to make conversation with her. Carol overhears a “Can I get you a drink?” and huffs in irritation when the guy gets closer and doesn’t take the hint that Zosia really doesn’t want him to buy her a drink, and would rather cut her own fucking limb off instead.
So, even though that would’ve been the perfect excuse to leave undisturbed, she turns on her heels and reaches for Zosia’s arm, glaring at the guy’s hand on her shoulder, and whisks her away, out in the chilly open night.
Carol doesn’t let go of her even when they’re far enough away that there’s no chance Zosia will get hit on again. The simmering heat in her chest seems to subside for a second, then surges up again when she realizes how tight she’s holding her arm.
Zosia raises an eyebrow, cheeky and suggestive, and pulls her arm back – but Carol doesn’t let go quickly enough, and she ends up being yanked closer to her. She looks up and swallows past a suddenly dry throat, and then loosens her grip.
“What was that?” Zosia asks, a flutter of lashes that makes her eyes twinkle and Carol’s breath catch.
“What? I just, uhm. He was being a jerk.”
Zosia lets out a crystalline laugh, throwing her head back, hand on her chest and a coquettish smile on her face. “Well, thanks for saving me, my knight in shining armor,” she coos, and even though she’s obviously mocking her, Carol is hit with a weird sense of euphoria when Zosia clings to her arm and squeezes the muscle there. She tries to flex a bit, doesn’t know why, and feels stupid when she realizes.
“Let me give you a ride home,” Zosia says, then, dragging her fingers up to her bicep.
Carol doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or it’s just the way Zosia speaks, but it doesn’t sound like that’s the only thing she wants to do. And when her hand reaches her shoulder, her collarbone and then her tie, tracing the soft fabric with steady fingers, Carol knows she’s a goner.
She holds her breath as Zosia wraps the tie around her fingers and pulls at it, gentle, yet firm. And when Carol expects her to make a move – fuck, at this point she’s hoping she does – she backs away, letting go of the tie and turning away.
“Come,” she calls, and Carol feels like she’s basically on a fucking leash, because she doesn’t wait two seconds before following her.
*
Carol doesn’t know what compels her to just go with it and climb behind Zosia on her motorbike. Alcohol would be a good excuse, but she isn’t even that buzzy anymore. She wishes it were the case, though, because at least she could forget about how good it feels to have her arms around Zosia’s midriff, grasping the firmness there through the sheer fabric of her top. And also, the fact that she’s wearing her blazer doesn’t really help.
Carol had insisted she wear it as soon as she realized that she was shivering, and Zosia definitely wasn’t shy about it. So, now, she can smell her own perfume mixed with Zosia’s, and it’s messing with her head, because somehow it makes her hold onto her tighter. Zosia seems to notice and leans into it. Carol hears a sigh, but maybe it was just her imagination.
She wonders how much more she can push and doesn’t understand why she wants to gain the upper hand in a competition that she’s just made up in her head. So, she splays her fingers on Zosia’s stomach, pressing into her abs, and dares to slide her hand up – just a little bit. Really, if she weren’t paying attention, she would totally miss it.
But she doesn’t, and Carol swears she hears a groan that gets lost in the biting wind. It’s exhilarating, and maybe she trips a little on the power it gives her to know that Zosia is affected by her just as much as Carol is.
When she pulls in the parking lot, Zosia goes straight for Carol’s spot. Then, she kills the engine and taps Carol’s thigh twice.
“Hop off,” she says, and when Carol does, she follows and pulls the kickstand down. She takes the helmet from Carol’s hands, places it on the saddle, then pats her jacket for a second, before remembering that it’s not her own. “Fuck, I left my shit at the bar.”
“I’m sure your bandmates will get it for you,” Carol points out. “Also, sorry for dragging you out without notice.”
Zosia chuckles, and for the first time it doesn’t sound condescending or teasing. It’s rather sweet, actually.
“I mean, that was probably the best part of the night,” she whispers, closing the distance between them swiftly.
“You have low standards.” Carol shrugs and shakes her head.
“I don’t,” Zosia replies. “And apparently neither do you.” She reaches for a strand of hair in Carol’s face and tucks it behind her ear. It’s weirdly intimate, and it almost makes her flinch. She tries to ignore the sharp, stupid little shiver the contact sends down her spine – but then decides against it.
Instead, she tilts her chin up, almost daring for something to happen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zosia’s thumb brushes against Carol’s jaw. “Come on,” she breathes out. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Not just tonight.”
“Like...how?” Carol asks, swallowing around a dry throat, feeling her pulse pick up a frantic pace.
“Like you want to take my clothes off,” she replies, and her lips hover close, so fucking close to Carol’s, without ever giving in. “Don’t you?”
Carol opens her mouth to say something, but any admission here would make her feel ashamed beyond measure. Because this woman is young, gorgeous, she could have whoever the fuck she wants – and she does – and is absolutely right. Carol wants to rip her clothes off. She wants to know just how good exactly she is with her tongue, and whether all the women she’s heard her fuck before were just putting on a show.
The realization makes something hot and defensive coil in Carol’s chest. “You’re very full of yourself,” she mutters, though the bite in her tone lacks conviction. Her fingers tighten unconsciously around the lapel of the blazer still hanging off Zosia’s shoulders, knuckles brushing the warmth of her collarbone beneath.
Zosia doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans impossibly closer, like she’s testing just how far she can push it, how much more Carol can still take. “Maybe,” she whispers. “Or you’re just that easy to read.”
Carol huffs out a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as if that could scatter the tension building between them. It doesn’t. Nothing does. Not the cold, not the silence of the empty lot, not the faint hum of distant traffic. Everything feels narrowed down to the space between their mouths.
“You know nothing about me.”
Zosia’s eyes flicker down to her throat, taking in the way Carol swallows, her pulse visibly jumping. Her hand, still on Carol’s jaw, slides lower to rest on the side of her neck, warm, steady. Possessive.
“I know you watch me,” she murmurs. “In the mornings. And I know you can hear me at night. Tell me,” she moves to brush her lips against Carol’s ear. “Does it turn you on? Listening to what I do with other women?”
Carol freezes. For a split second, she thinks she might stop breathing. Zosia’s words land somewhere low in her stomach and spread from there, slow and unbearably hot. She should step back. Laugh in her face and tell her to get off her high horse and fuck off. But instead, she stands there like she’s been nailed to the pavement.
“That’s –” Her voice cracks a little. “That’s a very bold assumption.”
Zosia hums, unconvinced. Her fingers tighten slightly at the side of Carol’s neck, just enough to make her aware of how easily she’s being held in place.
“Is it? You can just tell me I’m wrong. I can take it.”
Carol’s hand is still fisted in the blazer. She becomes painfully aware of that – of how close their bodies are, of the way her own hips have drifted forward without permission, of the stupid heat pooling under her skin.
“You think everything revolves around you,” she spits out. Zosia laughs softly in her ear.
“No,” she says. “Just this. And that’s not an answer.”
Carol turns her head then, finally, because she can’t stand not seeing her face while she says things like that. Their noses almost brush. For a second she gets distracted by something trivial – the faint smudge of eyeliner at the corner of Zosia’s eye, the way her lips are slightly parted like she’s already halfway into a kiss, and it makes her stomach flip in a way that’s definitely too close to surrendering.
“The thing is,” Carol says, and she doesn’t know how she musters the mental capacity to utter a fully coherent sentence. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“You’re right,” Zosia replies quietly. “You don’t.” Her hand slips from Carol’s neck, and the sudden absence of contact feels loud, almost painful. Her skin tingles where Zosia’s fingers were, the ghost of that sweet pressure still lingering there.
Then, Zosia takes half a step back. She's not out of reach, but Carol feels the emptiness and regrets her poor choice of words. She wonders how desperate she’d look if she reached back for her and pulled her flush against her, again. A lot, probably. And it would absolutely prove Zosia’s point.
So, she doesn’t move. Instead, she resorts to a muttered, “Fuck, you’re insufferable.”
Zosia laughs and shrugs like it doesn’t affect her, and the switch almost startles Carol. She’s still there, practically squirming – possibly dripping already, and just by the closeness of it all – and Zosia is fucking laughing. And turning away from her, putting her helmet on.
“Mind if I keep the jacket?” She asks, climbing on her bike. She doesn’t wait for an answer, and she pulls up the kickstand as she starts the engine. It’s loud, just like everything else about her.
Carol blinks, too stunned to say anything. She waves her hand dismissively, because she couldn’t care less about her jacket now.
“Thanks,” Zosia says, seemingly reveling in the fact that she got Carol wrapped around her finger. “I guess I’ll see you, then.” She winks at her, a victorious smile that tells Carol this is definitely not over.
Carol watches her ride away, bewildered and utterly frustrated, and only when Zosia’s out of sight, she heads for the entrance.
Once she’s back in her apartment, she kicks off her shoes and pulls her tie loose, letting it fall on the bedroom floor. She makes a mental note of never wearing one again in Zosia’s presence. Then, she unbuttons her slacks and kicks them off as she walks to the bathroom.
Under the lukewarm stream of the shower, Carol wonders what the fuck has just happened. Her hands trail each spot Zosia has touched, trying to mimic the feeling and failing miserably. She supposes that touching herself would be equally disappointing, but she does it anyway, pulling out of herself muffled whimpers and an orgasm that’s more like a sorry excuse for release than anything truly satisfying. Her body trembles, the tension coiled from the night unraveling in short, frustrated bursts, as she comes on her own fingers and pictures Zosia’s.
She groans softly, leaning against the shower wall, wincing at what she’s just done. Then, when her breathing evens out, Carol turns off the shower and wraps herself in a towel, knees weak and pulse still racing.
As she slips into a new set of pajamas, uglier than the silk ones that had caught Zosia’s attention, she wonders just how long she can keep up the act and pretend that tonight hasn’t affected her the way it actually has. Of course, she’d be caught dead before she does something as desperate as knocking on Zosia’s door to beg her for a quick fuck and thank her after. But she’s not above trying to get even.
She falls asleep, then, without even realizing. It doesn’t last long – maybe two hours, tops – because, of course, Zosia has other plans for the night. For a moment she isn’t even sure she’s fully awake, caught somewhere between sleep and the thick, humming awareness of her own body. The room is dark, the air cool against her skin, but the sound drifting down from upstairs is unmistakable.
A low, drawn-out moan. Then another.
Carol opens her eyes slowly. “Jesus,” she whispers into the pillow, though there’s no real outrage behind it. It’s just one voice, that much is obvious, and relief washes over her. And it’s loud in a way that feels deliberate, almost theatrical, like someone performing for an audience they know, or hope, is listening.
Carol tells herself she should just roll over, put a pillow over her head or turn on some music, the fan, anything to tune those sounds out. But she doesn’t, and instead she stares at the ceiling, focusing on the faint strip of streetlight that filters through the blinds.
She shifts slightly under the covers, heat pooling low in her stomach again despite herself, and exhales through her nose, hoping to breathe the tension out. Her fingers curl into the sheets as she hears a change in rhythm. It all seems to become less polished, and that makes her listen harder, like she’s building a catalogue of each sound Zosia’s capable of making.
Her mind drifts to her jacket. She thinks about the very likely possibility that Zosia is touching herself while wearing her clothes, and that’s enough to get her wet again. She presses her thighs together under the covers as Zosia lets out one last moan.
“Fuck,” Carol whispers and rolls onto her side and, as much as she tries, sleep doesn’t come back after that.