Maz steps outside to the alley behind The Frayed Spine.
Welcome to the graveyard of soggy neglect.
She slinks under the roof’s overhang where a strip of dry ground holds out against the rain that has slowed to a drizzle.
The back of her hand tosses her fringe aside as she gives a bitter chuckle at her view.
Neglect summons cigarette butts that drown in puddles. You wouldn’t have thought that’s got anything to do with entropy.
She takes out a folded pouch from her back pocket. Its creased plastic has long forgotten that its adhesive flap was ever supposed to stick. She digs into it and starts to roll a cigarette. Her fingers fumble with the paper. Tobacco spills off it like fine soil.
The lighter snaps. Flame quivers, caught between breezes that can’t agree on a direction. By the time the fire touches the end, her hands stop trembling.
She draws the smoke deep, and it only fills her mouth without finding its way to her lungs.
Her brows lift as she looks at the burning tip.
Great. So, you forgot how to do that too. Well done.
She lowers the cigarette. The smoke doesn’t wait for an exhale. It leaks from her parted mouth out into the breeze.
As she tucks the lighter into her pocket, her back leans against the stone wall behind.
Her eyes find a few pieces of broken glass on the pavement. She pokes them with her boot until they all reach a crack in the concrete, until they fit there looking like a stamped ‘P’, which earns a squint from her.
A vent above whirrs to life, and the sound continues to ring tinnier in her ear. She tilts her head, angling away from it. Her finger taps the cigarette three times, and five more after the ash falls.
You’re fine. Just count.
She gives it seven more hits, oblivious to the smouldering tip that edges forward and threatens to fall out.
Counting your heartbeats would be less wasteful.
Her hand travels to her neck to bracket the side.
The alley answers with its steady plinking-pat of gutter drip on the puddles. The wind’s swishing finds the side of her before a sudden whoosh changes its direction. Across from her, a dented bin lid, bowed as if imitating a tired skull, lifts and drops with the breeze in low, periodic fluttering thumps.
She waits. The drip becomes a metronome. The breeze finds its own flow. The thump, when the bin cover descends, keeps the pulse.
Her neck gives her nothing in return.
Fine. Everything else decided to count louder than you.
She takes her hand off herself as she taps the cigarette again. The ash falls, and she watches it drift from side to side, mimicking a lost grey ghost before it eventually scatters.
A door clicks open along the alley.
Ari steps out from next door. His hood serves as a canopy for his hair; the hoodie itself sways in the breeze, unzipped under a waxed jacket stained sticky. The scent of honey follows him with a metallic tang dragging behind.
Maz brings her hand to her mouth as a muted rasp breaks free from the light clearing of her throat.
Ari approaches the bins opposite Maz. His stride stretches too wide for the alley. With one arm, he cradles a bunch of spent jars while the other remains folded over a flattened cardboard box. He leans over a recycling bin and surrenders what used to be a box to it.
Maz’s free hand tugs one half of her cardigan to hug her waist.
He does move like he’s arrived from somewhere else, not just next door. Stop staring.
He looks over and catches her eye with a jaunty grin.
“Hi, Maz.” The wind swishes louder than his voice, which was never trying too hard to begin with.
“What’s chasing you out here?”
“Strange bookshop’s strange customers.” She salutes with her cigarette.
“Still, can’t be the worst…” Maz sneaks her phone halfway out of her pocket, enough for the screen to turn on. She checks and slips it back in all in the same blink.
“Monday.”
She taps ash before turning her gaze to a puddle’s ripple.
“How are your bees doing? Behaving any better?”
Ari begins to drop the jars into the next bin, one by one.
“Still aggressive.” The first one lands with a thud.
“Rain does things to their clocks.” He lowers a small glass pot that gives a subtle clink.
“Even they have no taste for a false season.” The next jar falls in, crashing against another.
“Well, the bees would remember where home is.”
“Depends on what home means.”
They share a jagged laugh that finishes with a pair of exhausted sighs. The rain thickens as they stand there. She flicks ash, and he watches her through the downpour.
Maz drags on her roll-up again and gets the same wrong answer from it.
Brilliant.
Ari looks at her hand.
“You’re over-smoking it.”
She shoots the cigarette a look.
“Apparently…” Her thumbnail gives the bottom of it a flick.
“I don’t even remember how to do that right today.”
He wipes a rivulet off his sleeve, which the rain renews in a flash, and leans towards her.
“It’s not… the smoke.” His words struggle to carry when he looks down the alley.
“You know, you’re late enough that I was starting to wonder if I’d need to send a squ–” He shakes his head.
“Not seen you two since you’ve got your tins – I know, I know, you’re not welded together, but…” His gaze returns to her.
“Everything okay at home this time?”
Maz presses her spine against the wall straighter.
“Yeah. We’re just… tired.” She folds her arms with her hands on her elbows as smoke spirals up to her face from the cigarette.
“Been a long week. I keep feeling like I forgot something, like…” The words evaporate, trailing into the rain.
“It’s… fine. It’s always fine.”
Ari’s eyes stay on hers, as if he were testing her answer for sweetness or venom.
“The door’s always open, you know, if you ever need anything.”
Her hand pulls the cardigan tighter.
He sounds polite enough. The aftertaste… anything but.
“So, what hap–” She stops herself.
Were you casually going to ask your dealer if he remembers more than you do? Shut up. Have a smoke and go.
She snaps a single nod.
“I’ll pass it on.”
Maz glances past him at the bins as she lets go of the cardigan. She hooks her thumb into her pocket, the rest of her fingers tap on the mint tin, and the scale inside gives a muted rattle.
“You two…” Ari draws in a deep breath that might double as preparation for a monologue.
“Look after each other, you get the picture, when it’s like this…” He points skyward.
“…things tend to get messy a bit too fast.”
Maz tips her chin up.
“That sounds suspiciously rehearsed.”
“It is.” He starts strolling back towards next door and offers her a dry smile over his shoulder.
“People keep having the same problems. I keep giving the same advice.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s the advice?”
“Don’t let… you know, things pile up because you want to put on a brave face.”
He shoulders the door open before disappearing inside. The door swings shut with a click after him. It takes one more second for the honey scent to fade. The phantom itch for the metallic tang, however, under Maz’s skin, insists on not leaving.
Her hand stays on the mint tin as she listens to the rain.
You’re fine. You don’t need it. There’s peace in here too. You–
The buzz from her phone cracks the moment.
Reluctant to let go of the cigarette or the mint tin, she tries to fish the phone out with her thumb and ring finger. She almost drops it twice. The roll-up goes between her lips before she finally retrieves the phone.
The screen lights cold against the alley’s grey as a notification glares back at her.
Excessive. Exaggerated. Over-exclamated. It’s been a while since you’ve seen one of these.
‘RegalRoute: New comment!!!
Story: “Bind.Breathe.Stay”
Author: Mazmire’
She stares at it until the screen dims, goes black, and shows only her dark reflection.
Mazmire. What a silly username to choose. You know it felt right at the time. Why does it make you feel strange now?
Her grip on the phone tightens. The cigarette juts past the edge where it leaks smoke around the corner of the case. For a second, the woman in the glass looks distorted, with an outline that ripples.
You’re fine. No?
She squeezes the mint tin over her pocket until the ridges carve themselves more clearly.
Which will break first? The phone or the tin? Or you?
The calendar app jangles before she can put the phone away. Her head jerks back, staying clear of the wall by a hair. A bright alert flashes on the screen:
‘Calendar – 5d ago
Reminder: V. Day 6′
Her mouth shapes a soundless laugh as she throws the cigarette into a puddle ahead. It puts itself out with a fizz, and the rain beats the rest.
Nope. We quit that after day five, thank you very much. And that reminder is from… five days ago? You must have been snoozing it since then. You probably should delete that.
She locks the screen and slides the phone back into her pocket.
Who sets an alarm for something they’ve quit?
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