2019-05-28 - Dream A Little Dream

The apartment is dark, lit only by a single candle burning on the kitchen counter, sliding door open while it storms outside. The sheer white curtain hung there billows, blowing in and puffing up, falling slowly before the next ocean breeze kicks through.

Sutton sits on a boxy, white upholstered couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, watching the curtains blow, the lightning flash outside. Rain pelts across the balcony furniture, loudest on the low glass table.

“Could you not?” Sutton’s voice is a little tight when she replies. The short, manicured nails of both hands dig into her knees when she looks up.

“No, you’re not. You never are. You weren’t sorry when you shoved me out of the tree when we were kids, and you weren’t sorry that time you bleached my hair yellow before prom, and you definitely weren’t sorry when you wrapped my car around a telephone pole.” Sutton frowns.

“You gave the keys to Jared Whitehead. You know he has the attention span of a squirrel hopped up on cocaine. I guess that worked out, though. Mom giving me your keys the rest of the year was pretty funny, I mean, I liked your car… once I got the bong-water smell out of the upholstery.” Her hands relax, but she backs subtly into her side fo the couch just a little deeper.

“No, you ass.” Sutton says. “Of course that’s not what I’m mad about. You know — “

There’s a huff from the woman. Her hands tighten then relax again. “You said let go. I let go. The bleach was you being a jealous shit because your crush asked me and not you.”

“Not the point.” Sutton says. “I know. My hair always looks good.” Her tone softens a little when she adds, “If it makes you feel any better, he barfed on my shoes from too much shitty beer, never even kissed me.” She falls silent for a while, then says, “I got an invitation to his wedding three months ago. He married an accountant. And his husband isn’t as cute as you.” She doesn’t use the past tense, though she should.

"Oh, shut up."

Silence falls between them and the candle gutters on the counter, throwing long shadows across the apartment. Several flash into different shapes, some ominous, at least one clawed, an afterimage streaking across the pure white paint of the wall.

The woman doesn’t notice.

For a moment she looks into the eyes of someone who’s been dead for many months. A face that hangs in over three-quarters of the photos down the hallway of her apartment. A face with which she shares many features, including identical eyes.

Sutton looks away, to see what’s up with the candle. Head turned, she asks, “I haven’t seen you since that night and all you want to talk about is high school?”

“What?” Sutton turns back just as a cold wind whips through the apartment, cutting the light with the snuffing of the candle. The brunette blinks, her night vision completely ruined by looking at the candle a moment ago. “Eli? Why would I leave — “ When Sutton blinks the afterimage of the candle from her eyes, the other side of the couch is empty. “What the fuck. You did not just show up, finally, and then leave without explaining yourself. Eli. ELI.”

"God damn it, Eli. You get your ass back here and you finish your sentence."

Sutton takes a sharp breath, and opens her eyes. She blinks at the ceiling. It only takes her a moment to realize she was sleeping, and she's awoken on her couch, reclined in a very uncomfortable position with her head on the arm of it, and a crick in her neck.

Her apartment freezing.

She gets up carefully, dropping her phone on the floor. Sutton sweeps it up without looking at it, and picks her way across to the balcony to close the sliding glass door just as a storm begins to blow in across the water.

She turns her phone’s face. On it, just two words: Wake up.