Chapter Text
To say Sydney Adamu was having a bad week was an understatement. She was having the week from hell. Somehow the ground had swallowed her up and directly deposited her into the depths of the Inferno.
Her head’s been so gone, she’d almost missed her deadline on her Chicago Hot Spots piece. It was shitty and rushed and her boss made sure to tell her so, and Margaret wasn’t happy about the extra editing she’d been tasked with.
Damien picked a fight with her over some fucking grapes after, or he said it was about the grapes, but it wasn’t really about the grapes. It was about how little they saw each other, how little they fucked, how they moved around each other on eggshells, like dorm roommates rather than husband and wife.
They’ve got a shared history than runs so deeply, she’s not sure who she is without him. She met him in kindergarten. She remembers him coming up to her and grasping her hand as she cried for her dad, and he’d not left her side since.
He was her first everything. She fears he’ll be her last.
Work flew her to California to explore how Covid had affected businesses out there. She’d spent the past week around so much despair, having to stay impassive through it all. It was awful, generally, but Maria had been the worst. Having to close her family restaurant after over a century of operation. Of watching her children grow up within its doors, and then being forced to sell. To have nothing of that heritage left.
Now she’s at an airport in the middle of fucking Nebraska because the windshield of the plane cracked. The plane stopped at the nearest airport, and they’re putting all the customers up for the night. Everyone had been strangely calm at the announcement, apart from one woman who had burst into tears. Syd slipped the mask back over her eyes and fell asleep listening to SZA, did not think about how she had to relive other people’s suffering and put it in print when she got home, but relieved she wouldn’t have to face Dami for another week at least.
Luck was resolutely not on her side.
She needs a drink. Jesus.
The bar is kind of tacky and dark, red velvet curtains by the window, a dejected bartender’s soft smile the only greeting. The floor is sticky and the bar top is cold, but she doesn’t care about that.
The bartender, dressed neatly with a name tag that reads Josh, says, “What can I get for you, ma’am?” and no matter how many times she’s been called it, she feels so fucking old at every instance.
“Hey,” she scans the bottle selection. Shit, shit, even worse shit. “Can I get a gin on the rocks?” She points to the crystal bottle of Beefeater. “That one, please.” She smiles curtly and waits for her drink to be made.
Her phone dings, it’s Dami.
U home?
She puts her phone face down on the counter, her head in her hands. Tries to breathe. Everything’s fine.
The clink of a glass by her head alerts her that her drink’s prepared. She gets herself together, runs a hand over her face.
“Thanks. How much?”
“The gentleman at the end of the bar’s got this one.”
She feels her head rear back in surprise. “Huh?”
Sydney then realises how empty the place is as she follows the direction Josh shrugs toward.
At the end of the sleek bar, there’s a man. He’s hunched a little, and she feels embarrassed to be acknowledged by another day drinker. Caught in the act, stealing cookies out the jar. Except the cookies are a warm spirit to soften her cold, resentful heart.
He raises his glass with a small smirk, and he’s got the bluest fucking eyes she’s ever seen. He’s kind of weird looking, but in a way that’s enticing rather than off putting. His biceps ripple beneath the white circumference of his sleeve, and his tattooed fingers are tight around his glass, and oh. She’s - well. He’s quite hot, actually.
Sydney feels warm under his gaze.
She doesn’t smile back, in fact, says, “Can you ring me up? I don’t want - I don’t want to accept it.” She flashes her ring finger at him, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“I don’t really know how to do that ma’am. I’m new.” He tucks his hair behind his ear and Sydney feels bad.
“They put you out here alone?”
“Understaffed. Sorry.” He shrugs.
“Don’t worry about it. Uh, it’s fine. Yeah. It’s fine.”
She drinks and finds resolve in the burn in her chest and the warmth in her cheeks, forces herself not to look at him, even though she sees those ocean blues watching her.
She checks some emails and gets frustrated at the shitty wifi.
He comes over because of course he does. Sits one stool over from her. She gets a proper look at his face and he looks weirdly familiar, but Sydney can’t place him. Maybe he’s, like, moderately famous? Some kind of social media person?
“Your flight delayed?”
She pretends not to hear him the first time.
“Look - I’m not a weirdo, alright?”
She swivels in the chair. It creaks under her weight, and she looks pointedly at him.
“You do realise buying women drinks at a bar has a very strict societal connotation?”
He runs a hand through his hair, something she will later learn is a self-soothing gesture of his. He then trails it down the side of his face, across his lips, like he’s being careful with his next words. There’s something she recognises in his movements.
“Yeah, no, I totally get that. You just - you looked a little stressed. I thought it’d be a nice gesture.”
“Well, thanks, but -“
“Please - just accept the drink. I don’t want anything from you. I promise. Just a good deed. Alright?”
She presses her mouth shut, nods. A few braids slip from beneath her scarf with the action. “Alright.”
He finishes his drink, orders another. Sidles into a booth, the only part of him visible his mop of honey-brown curls.
She knows him. It’s going to annoy her if she doesn’t figure it out.
Sydney takes a shot (god knows why) and plonks herself, unceremoniously, down in front of him. He looks at her with confusion drawn across his features. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me?”
“Well. I don’t. But - something’s bothering me.”
“Something…about me…is bothering you?” A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. She’s bumbling and clumsy with her words and it isn’t due to the alcohol.
“Yes. Well no. I mean - I feel like. How do I say this without sounding cheesy - I feel like I know you. Have we met?”
His foot taps beneath the table. He studies her. She feels a rush of warmth again, hot and flowing along her body, a tightness between her sternum and womb.
“I don’t - I don’t think so. I don’t think I could forget a face like yours.”
“Dude.” She rolls her eyes and pretends she doesn’t like it. Sue her, being flirted with isn’t so bad.
“Okay. That was bad. But true.” His eyes glint.
“I’m gonna ignore the fact you said that. This is driving me insane. Are you, like, famous?” She leans forward on the table, her fingers clasped together, studying him.
“Uh…in a sense.”
“In a sense. In a fucking sense. What does that mean?”
“I’m a chef. So like. I guess if you’re in the world you know me? Are you in the industry?”
“Yeah, I was, for a bit. I went to CIA and then I got a job and -“ She swallows around her words. She’d rather not talk about him with a stranger. “Yeah. Wasn’t for me. I became a writer. But I’m a food writer, so I guess, yeah?”
“Ah. You one of those stuffy critics? You a hack?”
“Hey. Shut up. Don’t go there.”
“Okay, okay.”
It’s quiet and then the deja vú hits her like a truck.
“Wait. Are you…you’re Carmen Berzatto, right? Holy shit! Do you remember me? Well, obviously you don’t, but you were like, one of the very first people I interviewed, way back when. Holy shit. Blast from the past.”
“Yeah, that’s me, and whoa, I think I remember “ he pinches the bridge of his nose “- that was for, um…Ambitious Kitchen, right?”
She nods and his eyes light up with the memory.
“I remember you. I do.” He says, gentle, holding her eyes.
“No, you don’t, and that’s okay,” she laughs.
“No, seriously! I do, I do. You had on, like this button up? I remember because it reminded me of strawberries and cream.” His eyes fall down to her chest, and then back up to her face, but not a creepy way, just like he was imagining her in the shirt now. “And ‘cause you had on these fuckin’ insane green pants. Didn’t match at all.”
“Hey, fuck you! But I agree. It was a bad fit.” She laughs. He smiles.
“This one isn’t though. It’s nice.”
She evades the compliment, because, no. They’re just not going there. He might just have a flirty personality.
But also: what the fuck. How does this man remember what she had on?
“Your hair was different. You wore it in an afro. I liked it then. I mean - I like it now, too.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Sorry. Think that’s why I didn’t recognise you. You’re Sydney Adamu, yeah?”
She’s dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you remember all that. This is so weird. This is really weird.”
He just shrugs and fiddles with his glass. He wants to say more, she can tell. He doesn’t.
She remembers it being sort of awkward - Sydney with all her nervous excitement, Carmen, almost the antithesis - reserved with tension thrumming under his skin. She’d managed to coax enough information out of him for a decent interview, but she couldn’t help but be thrown off by how much he looked like he resented every minute.
“You were kinda hard to interview. Not gonna lie. I freaked out a little. I thought you hated me.”
He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, then leans forward. “I didn’t hate you. Was just in a shitty place. But that’s New York, right?”
“Yep. I got outta there pretty soon after my apprenticeship ended. Went back to Chicago. You’re from there, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, but - there’s nothing for me in Chicago, really.” He clears his throat, something she comes to learn means he’s being untruthful. “I’ve been in NY so long and still haven’t cleared out my Chicago apartment, so that’s what I’m flying out to do. I went to train up some chefs in California for a bit.”
She nods and takes another sip from her drink.
Sydney’s writing focus moved to more understated, small businesses as time went on. She stopped keeping up with who was working at EMP or Noma, or who Michelin were dishing out their stars to, and focused on giving local businesses a place to shine. She guesses she fell out the loop, because Carmen seemed a bit of a hot-shot now.
They get more drinks and talk for hours. She really has been out of the loop. She learns he’s got James Beard awards, worked at both EMP and Noma, and retained Michelin stars on top of that. She can’t help but be impressed, the admiration swelling in her chest. He’s attentive, tilting his head as he listens to her. She realises this is best conversation she’s had in god knows how long, and the thought is quite frankly embarrassing.
She doesn’t realise she’s drunk until she stands up. The high points of his cheeks and the tip of his nose are ruddy. Lighting in the bar is an sunset orange, and it brings out the blue in his eyes impossibly further. She didn’t find him this pretty the first time around. He was short - he still is - and scrawny and had a terrible haircut. He’s packed on all this muscle and Sydney shouldn’t like it as much as she does. Shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Shouldn’t be here. But being with Carmen has made Dami an (almost) distant memory.
Carmen says something stupid and Sydney laughs way too hard at it. It’s been such a long time.
Josh calls last orders and Sydney’s heart drops. She doesn’t want to stop talking to him.
She stumbles a little bit and he steadies her. His touch jolts her through all three layers she’s got on.
“Fuck. I think we drank too much.”
“Mhm. Yeah. We definitely did. Fuck. Sorry, Carmen.” She apologises, giggling anyway.
“No, it’s good, uh…well. Let’s go up.” They stand awkwardly by the elevator that leads up to the hotel.
He walks her to her room. She feels affection sweep over her. Bad, Sydney. Very not good.
They mill by her room.
“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Sydney Adamu.” That smile pulls across his lips again. He fiddles with his hands, like he’s restraining himself from touching.
She sticks her hand out. She figures a handshake is appropriate.
“Yeah, Carmen. It was super nice to catch up. So so nice. Yeah.”
The conversation’s over, but neither of them make a move. Her hand lingers in the negative space between them.
“Hey - do you want to come in? Like, we totally, totally, shouldn’t drink any more but I kind of want to, and I don’t wanna drink alone, so -“
“Yeah.” He says quickly, eyes shining. “Yeah, sure, Sydney. Of course.”
She shouldn’t. But it’s fine, right? He’s respectful - no weird vibes, and he knows she’s married. Just one more drink.
He’s taken the chair in the corner, lazily leaning back with his legs spread obscenely. Sydney pulses.
She grabs two beers from the fridge. Sidles over with her knees knocking the whole way. He pops the cap off against the table in a swift motion. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is, and oh, Sydney feels so guilty.
She stands between his legs and he looks up at her with a half-lidded gaze.
He takes a sip, the beverage wetting his lips, and then he licks over them, also obscenely. It’s all so obscene.
She moves away. Being this close is not good.
“So, uh - why’d you invite me in?” He asks it innocently enough, even though she knows he’s pressing for a sinful answer.
“To drink? Obviously. Why else?” She begs her voice not to shake.
“Sydney,”
“Carmen.”
He rises, then - so close she feels his heat buzzing around her. “You got, uh - you got something.” Reaches up a big tattooed hand, swipes across her cheek with a tenderness that makes her wilt. Her eyelash is curled on the pad of his finger. She wraps her hand around his, and he lets out a breath as she blows across his finger, their breaths melding before their lips even meet.
They kiss slow, experimentally, at first, and then when she doesn’t push him away, he deepens, dips inside her mouth, leaving an imprint of his tongue over hers. He moans and her knees almost give out.
She pulls away with reluctance.
“Fuck. Carmen. We can’t -“
“But you want to?” He sounds eager. Like he wants her. Fuck.
“Yeah.”
“Me too, Sydney. You’re so beautiful, you know? Like, inside and out. I’ve - I’ve had the best fun just talking to you. I wish I could’ve gotten to know you.” She squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t look at him. It sounds like a line, but he’s so earnest. “But you’re right. We, uh. Yeah. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Thank you. Okay. Okay, bye, Carmen. Good luck with everything.”
He turns his back and he’s gone.
Sydney throws herself against her bed, rolls over, groans in frustration. Fuck. She’s gonna come so hard thinking about him. About how rough his hands were. About how he looked at her like she was something to eat. His lips, small but soft and pliant. Fuck it all to hell.
Dami rings her. She does not want to answer, but it’s unfair of her to ignore him.
“Hey baby, are you home? I’ve got a package coming.”
“Oh. Uh, no.”
“What? Where are you? Are you with TJ? You know how much I can’t stand him.”
“No, Damien. I’m - I’m in Nebraska. The flight got fucked up. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Yikes. Nebraska. Well, let me know when you get home. And when my package comes. You know I hate when they leave that shit outside? Like, just wait for me to come down, damn -“
A knock at the door. It’s probably room service. She’d ordered some chicken tenders because she was absolutely starving.
She cuts off his rambling. “Hey, I gotta go. Talk soon, okay?”
“I love you, Syd.”
“Love ya. Bye.” She puts the phone down with a long sigh. Almost doesn’t answer the door, but they knock again.
She opens it and it’s Carmen.
“Sydney, hey -“
They’re on each other before the door’s closed.
He places his mouth back on hers and she’s struck by how well they fit, slotting together perfectly like puzzle pieces, matching at the shoulders and the waist and the hips, and Sydney thinks Carmen’s what she’s been missing.
He backs her up against the desk, or at least, he tries to, but the alcohol makes them sloppy and she almost trips up on the way there. There are frenzied kisses burning a trail down her cheeks, then her throat, where he nips ever so slightly and she keens.
She’s grinding and rolling her hips against his thigh, needy like a cat in fucking heat. She can’t believe how good it feels - just this, just being close to another human being, feeling the silk of hair, the warm squeeze of flesh tenderised by fingers, the thump of a heart through a chest cavity, and white cotton, speeding up with her touch. The sweet-sour flavour of his drink, then something grittier, she wonders what she tastes like to him, wishes she could experience herself through his senses just to see if it feels as fucking holy.
After god knows how long of just this, kissing and fondling like goddamn teenagers, until they’re breathless, Sydney gets impatient.
“You gonna - you gonna fuck me against the desk?” It takes all the oxygen within her to get it out.
“That what you want?” He asks, stroking his hands through her hair in this oddly gentle and beautiful expression, kissing her cheek. Her heart thrums.
“No, dude!” She shakes her head desperately, his fingertips cool against her scalp, “There’s a bed right there.”
He smiles. “Right. Right. You know calling a guy dude is a definitive boner killer?”
She rolls her eyes but he doesn’t see, he’s got his head buried against her shoulder and neck, kissing there, whilst he tugs the belt in one smooth motion from her jeans. His erection presses against her. “You feel pretty hard to me, unless you’ve got a banana in your pocket.”
“It is a banana. You know I keep it on me.” He returns, just as quick. She laughs at his stupid joke.
“Carmen. Shut up and fuck me.”
“Alright. But can I - uh - can I eat you out? First?” His face flushes again, two little circles of red on his cheeks, like this little cartoon character she used to watch called Noddy. The comparison is so silly she can’t help the fit of giggles, and Carmen frowns, “or not? I don’t know, sorry -“
She straightens. The thought of him rescinding the offer sobers her up like a shot of espresso.
“Oh, no - I mean, yeah. Most definitely. Yeah.”
Most definitely? Really fucking smooth Sydney.
She figures she should feel nervous but she doesn’t. Not at all. Carmen doesn’t feel like other hookups, and that thought is mildly concerning - but she placates herself with the fact she probably won’t see him again, and he’ll just be the guy she thinks about sometimes because her husband won’t touch her.
She shucks off her jeans and ugly panties, leaves her shirt and bra on. Carmen’s still fully clothed. Doesn’t matter. It’s just a hook up.
He settles himself between her thighs and the way he looks like her makes her shiver. He kisses her thigh before kissing her cunt, and she’s so starved that she could probably come from that, but Carmen treats her, lapping gently at her, at first, before increasing his strokes, his tongue broad and firm and encompassing and making her whole body quiver.
“Fuck, Sydney,” he breathes, like he’s receiving instead of giving, and what the fuck. What the actual fuck. His eyes find hers over the smooth length of her torso, and they’re lustfully dark, black holes that’ll swallow her up if she looks into them too long. He smooths a hand up the soft skin of her thigh, over the jut of her hip, and just rests there, gripping her gently.
Her wedding band burns like a brand. She should’ve taken it off.
He teases around her clit for a bit, gentle, then sucks and slips a thick finger inside. “This okay, Sydney? You good?”
She can hardly speak. The response she manages is weak, “Yeah. So good. Fuck.”
She wants more. She’s greedy for it. Greedy for him. Her hips cant wantonly, the grip in his hair salacious. There’s her conscience, nagging and shameful and embarrassed of her lust. She manages to push it aside as he adds another, and that’s all it takes really, a few filling pumps before she’s coming undone, biting her tongue so hard it might bleed to avoid letting out a sound that is not very appropriate of her. She’s got to keep her dignity somehow, but it’s waning away with every minute he’s got his hands on her.
He keeps going, wringing out the after shocks. She’s sweaty, feels the sensitivity down to her fingertips. He lifts his head with a a slick-shiny mouth and his cherry red swollen lips. He looks positively debauched. It’s a good look on him.
It’s just a hookup. They happen all the time. Married couples sleep outside a few times. She tells herself it’s totally normal and right and just for her to want this, so she won’t throw up from the sheer force of her guilt the next morning.
She thinks, if this is the last time she’ll see him, she wants to see all of him.
“Take your clothes off. Please.”
“Yeah - okay.” He does so and she’s not unhappy with what she sees.
“Fucking hell.” She gasps, feeling her eyes pop. If she were a cartoon character they’d fall right out her head. “You’re - what? A chef? How are you so jacked?”
He looks all coy, twisting the shirt around his hands. She feels something, something she doesn’t want to identify - but it feels a lot like fondness, and oh, that’s not good at all.
She reaches out and feels because he looks inhumane. Like he’s been painstakingly sculpted, chiselled meticulously from smooth white stone, by someone Italian or Greek or something. All abs and strong pectorals. Beautiful. He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and his dick is just as impressive, to be honest, red and crying for attention. She drags her hand up, in one firm stroke, and his stomach clenches beautifully, he lets out a sound she won’t ever stop thinking about, high and breathless.
“I - I don’t know.” He says, catching his breath, like it’s normal to just look like this. “I run - sometimes.”
“What the fuck.”
“Can I kiss you again?”
“What?” She’s still gaping and rolling over the mountains on his torso. Then she remembers they’re currently in the midst of sex and she can no longer attempt to burn his body into her retinas. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, please do,” and he does, hard and deep.
“Can you - I want you to ride me?” What should be a statement is now a question. He speaks with such an air of uncertainty, like she’s going to change her mind any moment.
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah, yeah.”
“Your turn.”
“Oh, fuck, yeah, sure,” he helps her pull her shirt over her head, unclasps her bra deftly. She sounds so stupid, her mouth unable to form anything other than a litany or curses or moans.
She sits back against his thighs, legs spread. “Pretty.” She shudders again. She’s drunk on the spirit as well as the attention. Her head swims, intoxicated by his tongue, the callouses dotting his palms sweeping her back.
“Fuck. You’re gorgeous, you’re so gorgeous, Sydney,” he presses his whole face into her chest, gathers her up over his lap. The curve of his nose presses right against her sternum, and he breathes deep, “you smell good, too. You taste good. You’re the best thing I ever tasted.” She’s going to die, right there, on the spot.
“Carmen. Put it in.” Her voice comes out raw and needling.
Her eyes are closed and her chest is heaving. She hears the telltale sound of a condom wrapper, trusts that he rolls it on.
“Carmen, please. Please, just fuck me.” Her voice lilts an octave higher in a desperate whine, her face and body hot with growing embarrassment, this untamed beast screaming inside her.
“Jesus. S’okay, Sydney. I got you.” He repeats that action from before, the smoothing through her hair, kisses her shoulder. All extremely tender. He treats her like he’s known her for years, and it’s easy, the way they pair, the way he slips inside from below, the way she sinks down to meet him.
They curse in unison at the sensation.
It feels so right, Sydney can’t help but forget it’s wrong.
His hands are fisting the sheets, head thrown back and his mouth open. He’s bucking his hips to meet every bounce, and her thighs are starting to burn with the effort but she can’t stop. Doesn’t ever want to stop, wants to stay impaled here forever, and she winces at the violence of the verb but finds it fitting, because it’s going to fucking hurt knowing she can’t have this every day.
“C-Carmen, touch me. Get your hands on me.”
“Tell me - fuck - tell me where.”
He hits something inside that has her seeing stars, falling forward. She has to brace herself on his broad shoulders.
“Anywhere. Anywhere,” and she grabs his hand from where it’s wrapped in linen and places it on her breast and it’s amazing, it’s incredible, it’s a whole fucking thesaurus and more, she doesn’t know if there are words to describe how she feels, so she just tries to memorise it all.
“Hm, you’re so wet. Fucking hell. You’re - gonna be the death of me. Jesus Christ,” he’s moaning, mumbling, but almost to himself, as lost in her as she is in him.
It’s true, she feels it all down her thighs, she’s so wet it’s dulling the sensation, and if she wasn’t sure she’d never see him again she’d be horrified, she’d roll up into a ball and die, mortified by her desperation. But she won’t, she’s convinced, so she grinds down on him, licks up his neck, committing his taste and feel to memory.
She feels electric and elevated. She’s not sure it gets any better than this. She’s going to go home even more fucked up that before. But she supposes it’ll be worth it. She’ll put it all in her spank bank. She wishes she wasn’t drunk. There’s going to be parts of this missing in the morning.
He hits that spot inside her again, the slide of him absolutely wrenching, sparks building low in her gut.
“You close?”
She can only whimper, him picking up the pace, strong arms wrapped bracingly around her back, her head against his shoulder. She wants to bite it, stops herself. He reaches his hand down to thumb her clit, but she halts him. Wants to come just from the feel of him inside her, filling her, owning her.
“C’mon, that’s it, baby, let go,” and she does, clenching around him. She comes just from being fucked, which is - new. New and beautiful. She feels like she’s seeing god. That might be blasphemy.
After, he doesn’t last long, his hard stomach concaving as he follows her lead, and well. That’s that.
She does everything you’re supposed to do after sex. She pees, cleans herself up. Tightens the green scarf that’s slipped halfway down her head due to their…activity.
Offers him a washcloth as he lays sprawled against the mattress, looking so calm and still you’d think he’s dead save the rise and fall of his chest.
“Carmen.”
“Yo. Hey.”
She throws his clothes back at him. He can’t just lay like that on her bed. It was a mistake. She doesn’t want to make it again.
“Get dressed. I’m going to sleep. Our flight’s in like, five hours.”
She slips back into impassivity so easily Carmen must notice her change in tone, in demeanour. “Hey. Are we good?” He’s asking it like he cares, his brow furrowed sweetly.
“Yeah, we’re good, but don’t you need to, like, get back to your room?”
“Oh.” He swallows around nothing. “Oh no, yeah, totally.” He’s slipping his clothes back on lightning fast. “This was. Nice. It was really nice. Great to see you, Syd.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Sydney.” She corrects. Syd feels way to personal, too close-knit for what they are. “You too. Take care, okay?” He nods again, in that abortive, jerky way. Bites his lip. “Oh, and Carmen? Please don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Yeah.” His eyes drop to her wedding ring. “I understand, Sydney. You look after yourself. And, uh, good luck on your piece. I know you’re gonna kill it.”
“Yeah. Keep being the best CDC in America.”
“Fuck off,” he laughs, actually laughs, this time, no heat behind the words. It hits her that she’s not going to hear it again. That she’s never going to touch him again. That she’s going home, and leaving Carmen contained within the four dingy walls of an airport hotel room.
He kisses her cheek. His smell lingers long after he’s gone, tangled in her sheets. She doesn’t cry but she wants to.
She sleeps horribly. She gathers her shit. There’s something glinting at the foot of the bed. It’s a gold chain. She slips it in her pocket with the intention of handing it in. It stays there long after she checks out.
There’s a note slipped under the door.
IN CASE YOU NEED ANOTHER INTERVIEW
773-524-5237
CARMY/CARMEN
She smiles at the gesture. Rips the paper into tiny little pieces, drifting down so beautifully to the trashcan that awaits.
She remembers then that her food never came. It doesn’t matter now.
Time goes on. Sydney only masturbates to thoughts of Carmen rarely now. Dami still comes and goes, but he seems a little more interested, now. They fucked twice before he left. She’d apologised about the grapes even though she wasn’t in the wrong. She just felt bad about Nebraska. She really does love him.
She doesn’t tell a soul. What happens in Nebraska, stays in Nebraska.
The California piece does incredible. She gets a raise and she feels okay. She feels happy.
She’s on her way home from work drinks when she hears commotion on the stairwell. There are always kids messing around up there, kicking balls, sometimes you can even hear couples fighting through the paper-thin walls. She feels bad for those kinds of people.
She knows a new couple has moved in across the hall but she hasn’t seen them yet. She always seems to just miss them, but apparently the girl is pretty and the guy’s alright too. Both white, that’s the extent she knows.
Her footsteps must be loud because they quieten their voices, as she rounds the corner, she stops because - she recognises that back. The jacket, the hair, even though he’s turned away, she knows him.
The girl smiles. “Oh, hey! You must be our neighbour. I’m Claire, and this is -“
“Carmen?”
He swirls around, faster than she’s seen him move.
His eyes bug out. He gulps almost audibly.
“Sydney - wow. Hey.”
Claire looks confused. “You - have you guys met, or…?”
Sydney’s not sure she’s capable of speech, which is rare.
“Yeah, babe. We met - what was it, like 2017, 2018? Sydney, uh, interviewed me, way back when.” He clears his throat, shifts his eyes, still so bright and striking.
She wills her mouth to close. “Yeah. That’s - that’s right. What a coincidence! This is - wow. So great. Nice to see you both. I mean - nice to meet you, Claire. Nice to see you, Carmen.”
She smiles, saccharine, and flees into the safety of her apartment. Bangs her head against the wall. Killing herself seems like a good option right now.
This is so fucked.