skinny || h.s. au [Rewrite Now Up!]

fifty

Jax promised himself not to do this. But after picking up change off the sidewalk for the past two hours, he finally has enough for a call at the rusty old pay phone at the end of the block.

The thing is littered in graffiti. Everything  from hearts and initials, to a giant gang sign taking up an entire side in weathered grey lines.

Like it's been there for more winters and blazing summers than even the rusty benches by the bus station.

Who even still uses pay phones? Why doesn't the city tear them out? They're a waste of space.

At least that's what Jax thinks. Even as he's slipping the quarters into the slot. It's late. And it's cold. And he hasn't stopped thinking about Charlotte.

He holds the torn white card in his hands. He would have taped it back together but he didn't have any and buying some would've been a waste.

Everything's a waste. Everything, everything, everything.

But still. Something about it seems wrong. He shouldn't have torn it in half. He shouldn't have yelled at the girl who gave it to him. He shouldn't have walked away instead of going with her.

Jax holds the dirty phone near his ear as it starts to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

He thinks again for the millionth time that this is a mistake. But it's late. And it's cold. And he hasn't stopped thinking about Charlotte.

"Hello?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. He thought hearing her voice would change something in him, but it doesn't. It's reverie doesn't make his heart beat faster. It doesn't help him see a light at the end of 'the recovery tunnel.'

And her voice is sort of dull, actually.

But that makes sense. Because so is the rest of the world these days when he's not high as a kite.

"Who is this?"

"Jax." He says. "From the ally."

Now it's her turn to be quiet for a moment. And Jax can hear the static of the old phone in his hand. And the cars driving by outside the phone booth.

The longer she is silent, the heavier the phone feels in his hand. Tick tock, tick tock. Until he thinks about muttering an apology for calling so late and hanging up.

But then she speaks.

"I-I... Sorry I just didn't expect for you to call. I'm so glad you did. I'm not working tonight but did you change your mind? I wasn't sure if you would. I didn't even know if you noticed that I dropped my card on purpose."

She sort of rambles. And it sort of annoys him.

He had her all built up in his head. Imagination mixed with the aid of drugs that have become his lifeline. Somewhere in the past few hours--or maybe even days, he's not sure anymore--he dreamt of her. And she did marvelous things to his body that he hasn't felt in what feels like forever. She whispered into his skin. She set fire to his veins. She breathed euphoria into his mouth.

She was a goddess. She was his Heroin. But she was not actually Charlotte. Not the girl on the phone with him now.

That image still sticks in his head, though. And he thinks about hanging up. Again.