Rosario Ortiz (reluciente) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2023-07-23 01:19:00 |
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Drinks on the roof? It’d sounded pretty much perfect when Cathal had suggested it. It had been a long shift, on the heels of a couple weeks straight of long shifts, and fate had stalked her like a shadow from clock-in to sign-out. Wherever Rosario had looked, it’d been there, staring back at her: a constellation blazing through a speckle-patterned ceiling panel, a message hiding in title of a kid’s book, a reminder oozing up through a necrotic bedsore— god, she was not going to think of the bedsore— Every way she turned, a nagging something trying to pull her away in the other direction. By shift’s end she’d been sick and twitchy, jumping each time a door had swung open. When Apollo had appeared noiselessly behind her to ask if she was feeling alright, she’d had to swallow a screech. So drinks? God yes. Rosario had never needed a drink more. It was cold out, sure, but it was clear, and the crisp air made it that much nicer to curl into Cathal’s side on the big creaky sun lounge. Well— possibly not so much chance for roof snuggles tonight, she thought regretfully as a gang of zombies pushed their way down the train car with guttural groans and hoots of laughter. Halloween night would mean company for sure: a few of the olds drinking wine and sharing war stories after running the trick-or-treating gauntlet, a few of the youngs preloading ahead of Halloween parties, maybe a couple of very-youngs making themselves sick on their loot. But, whatever, it was a big roof, and it wasn’t like people were gonna hang around for long. They all had someplace else to be. The muffled rumble of voices as Rosario climbed the stairs to the roof was her first indication that she’d underestimated the draw of Halloween drinks. She’d stopped by home only long enough to shower off the sticky feeling of hospital and shrug into something that might be called festive if you squinted (a chunky orange knit sweater over black jeans). Now, she reached the top of the stairs and stopped just short of being bowled over by a Spider-Man and some kind of leering cartoon fox as they burst through the door. She caught a glancing elbow from the fox, who sang out “sorry!” before charging down the stairs after Spidey, waving a hook-hand. Well, that was kids. And it was Halloween, as if she needed another reminder. With that thought, Rosario pushed through the door and stepped out into a sea of graves. Somebody had gone to town on the decorations. The cardboard headstones were painted with skulls and crossbones and names like Freddy Krueger and Bloody Mary and Dracula. Bats and spiders dangled off some; others featured blood-red handprints. (One was, incongruously, decorated with love hearts.) Rosario stared at them bleakly. Creatures returning from the grave. Of course. Of course they were. What a fun and not at all stomach-churning concept. There was quite a crowd on the roof. Rosario squeezed by a bunch of men who’d obliviously taken up the entire walkway and skirted a couple more small kids, searching for Cathal among the faces. She found somebody else instead, as rounding a table that had been claimed by a gaggle of loudly gossiping abuelas, she was brought face-to-lack-of-face with a grinning skeleton. It had been laid out on the sun lounge as though basking in the moonlight; somebody had even put a plastic cocktail glass in its hand. Rosario felt another nerve fray. |