content warning: blood, violence

Zach staggers home in the early hours, strips off his clothes, dresses his stinging wounds and stumbles into bed to the sound of the six o’clock radio. Sleep comes a little harder this time, preceding the start of a storm-like nightmare. He wakes up several times with his nose full of sweaty blanket, and his skin on fire with the memory of fists and knives.

The squawk of his alarm banishes his sleep two hours later. He levers himself upright and presses his bare soles to the cold floor. His skin delights in the painful tingle. In the shower, the burning water whips against his skin; the coppery smell of blood feels thicker this time. He gets out of the shower, steam following him like an old friend.

As he pulls on his pants, skin aching at the feel of the fabric, the ghost of fingers lingers against his thighs. His crucifix is cold against his sternum, and as he does up his shirt, he says a Hail Mary with every button. He draws his tie tightly around his neck, prompting a blurred memory of his lover’s hand on his throat to briefly flash across his mind. The pressure of his tightly laced shoes makes his jaw tighten and the iron frame of his glasses weighs down his nose like a warning.

He has no idea where his lover is, has no idea how he ended up five blocks from home with blood in his mouth last night. All he remembers is her stealing brief moments of intimacy—squeezing his hand and brushing her lips against his cheek— whenever her husband went to the bathroom or wandered off to order more drinks.

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

He collects his satchel and cane from the stand by the door and leaves. Outside is blisteringly cold, unusual for early autumn. He stands on the stoop for his usual five seconds and listens to the world outside. He breathes in the accelerant-like smell of the hotdog stall and sets off. Clicking along the pavement with his cane, Zach hears people’s surprise, feels it in the intake of breath from passers-by. Ordinarily he wouldn’t be nearly so heated about it, but if he had hurt his lover in any way last night...

His watch bleats that it’s quarter to nine. Not wanting to be late—and face the wrath of Christopher Lewis—Zach picks up his pace. Twenty steps down West 55th this time, turn at 9th Avenue. He can always play the blind card, of course, but that stirs something bitter and ashamed in his throat like old coffee grounds.

Zach enters the building. To reach the elevator, it takes eight long steps across the foyer. Once in the elevator, Zach slides in between two people smelling strongly of bleach and disinfectant. There’s the familiar rush of floors falling away, the sharp whistle of air ducts, the zap of electricity arcing through cables, then finally the metallic voice announcing his floor.

As he opens the office door, his senses are assaulted by the pungent scent of coffee and the feeling of arms wrapping around him. He freezes, briefly panicked, before the memory of where he is reasserts itself. Zach lets his satchel drop on the filing cabinet by the door, praying nobody noticed his guard was up. The only person who could relinquish his iron grip on control was his lover, but he had no clue where she was. Usually by now, she would have at least sent him some sort of message, but after the way he had treated her last night, she would likely never approach him again.

The marketing materials for their office’s housing outreach program are spreadeagled on the table. Zach traces their spines with a fingertip and wishes he could fall between the braille, to a place where he didn’t have to face this.

“Jeez, I’d hate to see the other guy,” Chris snickers from his desk.

Zach forces a wary smile. “What?”

“Don’t tell me that blond at the bar knocked out all your brain cells last night,” Chris says, concern colouring the bemusement in his voice.

“What blond?” Zach responds, his skin instinctively prickling with the memory of knuckles against his ribs, of stubble and stale beer. He sags into a nearby chair and exhales.

“He really did a number on you, huh?” Chris hoots. “Rose gave me an earful on the way home about not calling you a cab. Did you end up booking in to see a doctor in the end? Some of those punches looked nasty.”

Zach shakes his head as a wave of relief floods the pit in his stomach. As his spiralling train of thought begins to stabilise, his screen reader squawks a new text message: U @ 2000 - R x. Usual place at 8, love Rose.

She is always discreet, but most importantly, she’s alive.