These industrial lofts are so strange to you. Alien. You feel as if you'll never get used to them and their high, drafty ceilings. Places like this make you feel like you can never get fully warm. There is no coziness. No nooks. No crannies. Only sharp corners and bright venting snaking along the walls. It strikes you like déjà vu every time you come up the shaking elevator shaft here that this loft is much like the other you know so well. That is likely part of the reason you feel more comfortable here than you know you ought to.
Still the cold is pervasive. Even as you sit so close on the artsy, minimalist sofa, you feel it creeping up your legs, the slow spread of icy fingers. It clutches at your heart too, but that's a sensation you're used to. It doesn't take much to ignore it. You pull your feet under yourself to warm them and look sideways at the girl next to you. Her long, straight hair is splayed over the back of the crisp, white sofa. Her nose is short and pert, her lips, painted a purply pink, are quirked into an amused half-smile. Her eyes are glued to the television. The screen is reflected in her glasses. You watch the miniaturized figures move in black and white across her lenses as the chill continues to cover your body. You wonder if she has her air conditioner set to 40 degrees or something.
She feels you looking at her and glances over, one eyebrow arched, just visible over her thick, maroon frames. "Not into Buster Keaton, I take it?"
Your stomach drops several feet, flipping the entire way down, because you know you've been caught staring. Inwardly, you thank God it's dark as a sudden heat flushes your cheeks. You give an embarrassed shake of the head, not wanting to tell her your thoughts had been elsewhere - miles away, on someone else. You know you could tell her. She'd listen and sympathize - "Boyfriends can be like that," but... you're confused and aren't yet sure of what you want to do.
Most of the day had been spent with you crying. You had sat in the bed you shared with your boyfriend and had just cried. This was becoming something you did nearly every day - a habit - and not a good one. But you didn't know what else to do. You felt lost and angry, but also just kind of crazy. Your thoughts chased each other in circles until you were dizzy. You spent hours arguing with yourself over the best course of action. At least twice, you had a letter written out completely before you ripped it to shreds and, at least once, when you had his number dialed into your phone before you lost your nerve. It was only an hour ago that you had found your phone again (you'd thrown it across the room and it had disappeared behind the dresser) and saw you had a missed call from Mallory.
She wanted to watch a movie. You were big on silent films and she had torrented Sherlock, Jr., so she thought maybe you'd want to come over and see it. She had popcorn. Lacking anything better to do, you said you'd be over and now here you were, not a foot from her on her couch. You look at her as she turns back to the screen, trying to assess the situation. She is pretty, you think as your heart starts beating hard and fast, though you don't find yourself especially attracted to her. Her top is nice. It's gold and a light lilac.
There is a long moment of you cursing at yourself in your head for even thinking about the attractiveness of the girl next to you. It makes you feel sick and you lurch abruptly from the couch to your feet, saying you'll be right back, she doesn't have to pause the movie. You walk almost drunkenly into the bathroom and lock the door behind yourself. You feel yourself sweating. A part of you wonders if Aubrey had similar thoughts about whoever it was he spent so much time with. Another part of you grows infuriated in response. You turn on the faucet and listen to the cold water splashing into the big, metal basin. It is nearly a foot deep. You could bathe in it. Idly, with sluggish eyes, you watch the water spin around before being sucked down the drain.