Pain Killer

2 ~ Between Dust and Stars

My walk home is quiet. Uri's face sits in my mind like an old gummy on the floor mats of Martha's minivan. It's just kind of stuck there. And not quite annoying enough to actually do anything about cleaning it up.

Reaching the third floor on the elevator, I step off and trudge down the flickering, yellow-lit hallway towards door 103, Martha's apartment. Not really mine, but hey, when your parents lose their will to tolerate each other, the aunt with two cats sounds like a dream. Lucky me, I get to have that dream.

I unlock the door and drop my stuff below the hooks on the wall. "I'm home," I announce to the clanging pans in the kitchen.

"Hey, dinner's almost done," Martha responds, her back facing me as she washes dishes at the sink. Her hair is pulled into a low knot, light blonde strands sticking out in a few places. The hairstyle makes her look thirty years older than me even though there are maybe only twenty years between us. Her wardrobe does a little better but having all of those flannel shirts puts her on the backwoods-cabin-wife scale pretty high. It still puzzles me why she's not married. She's pretty when her hair isn't in a low bun and when her flannel shirt is ironed. That happens rarely, like never actually. I'm sure some of my younger professors could see past the un-ironed plaid and ponytail wave. Her skin's not wrinkly or anything.

A mirror hangs above the set of hooks and I glance at it, making sure my hair is presentable and not a wind-snarled bird's nest. My fingers run through the black locks a few times in an effort to smooth the static-charged flyaways. I stare at the brown and golden hue of my eyes framed by stubby little lashes. They're about as un-noteworthy as my eyebrows which are sparse to put nicely. A brow pencil would be helpful but I'm far too lazy to apply it every day. I suppose my whole appearance is rather underwhelming, from my pale complexion, my lame hair and eyes, to the dimple in my chin. My acne seems more prominent today for some reason. I squint at the breakout along my mouth and up my jawline, blaming the stressful assignments and papers I've been avoiding. But I know it's not merely stress. More like a gross mixture of constant anxiety, a sugary diet, and alarmingly imbalanced hormones. Ew.

I plop onto the couch, watching the cat hair climb the air with my movement. It slowly falls back down onto the '70s blue carpet and make-do coffee table that consists of two vintage fruit crates pushed together and hot-glued at the corners. Martha, that little Pinterest addict, found thousands of ways to save space and look rich without actually having space or money. With me moving in, I'm sure it was no help to those things she seemed to want to hide.

Guilt eats at my conscience for all of the changes she's had to make to squeeze me into her life.

"Glad you made it home," Martha says behind me, ruffling my hair as she passes. We both know what she means by that.

Instead of responding, I choose to cast my blank stare across the room and out the little window that overlooks a smaller apartment building across the street. Cold fatigue pulls down at my limbs and eyelids. Unfinished homework piles on top of me and I suddenly wish I had Alzheimer's and the college would kick me out and I could just live in an old folk's home where it feels I belong.

"Dinner's ready."

A skillet of something hot and steamy is set on the table and that's my cue to stop staring and start being grateful for all that Martha does for me.

"Looks fantastic, Martha. Thank you so much for cooking for me," I say as I sit down at the table, scooting in an inch.

"You're always welcome, you know," Martha gives a sigh. "I only need a simple thank you. You're family, you don't have to act like you don't live here and don't deserve a meal."

I bite my lip. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just meant-"

"I know what you meant, don't apologize for being grateful," her tone clips and I feel worse for some reason.