The colors of each square on the quilt were like a bed of flowers underneath the crown of golden hair lying across it. She stepped into the room, watching the slumped figure on her bed for a minute, the tousled blond hair, one hand hanging off the side.
"Hey dickhead," her voice broke the stillness. "where's my stuff?"
There was no answer.
"Guess where I went last night," she offered.
She walked across the small room to the bed to stand over the still figure. Slowly a sly smile spread across her round, freckled face. "I went to the New Life Clinic."
The motionless form stirred, and a muffled groan sounded through the rumpled covers. His head turned slowly, trying to avoid the sunlight streaming in the window. brown eyes, muted to dusty hue, looked up through strings of tangled yellow hair. The woman in front of him twirled a long curly wisp around her finger, waiting for his brain to engage.
She knelt down, steadying herself with one hand as the bed shifted. Pulling his hair from his face and up out of the way, she reached into the front pocket of his faded jeans, and he responded instinctively. Grabbing her wrist, he yanked her hand from his pants and twisted her arm backwards, eliciting a squeal.
"Ow! Gerroff me! Lemme go." She tugged on her own wrist to extricate herself. "Jus' gettin' your wallet out, you fuckhead. God."
"You can't have it," he fought weakly as she ransacked his pockets.
"Yeah, I can. Your stupid wallet is paying for a new skirt and top."
"You're high."
"Gimme a break. Jesus," she grumbled. "I wanna go down to that flea market...be like a good time, y'know?"
He rolled onto his back and tried to focus on her, but his head ached and he swallowed hard, sitting up gingerly. The bandanna she had tied around her head wasn't doing a very good job at holding back her very long and unruly blonde curls. Reaching one hand up, she tucked a stray lock behind her ear. Tugging her wrinkled tank top back into place, she bounced off the bed.
As she opened the bathroom door, her voice rose above the sound of splashing water. "And then some dinner. Hungry. Anyway, I think we should go. It's like a real, I dunno...date. Never had a real date."
"And why don't you think the skirt I got you the other day is going to cut it?" he asked as she reappeared in the doorway, twisting her hair up and fixing it back down with the bandanna.
"Hmm. Why?" Her nose crinkled and she stuck her tongue out at him. "Oh yeah. Didn't I like give you a blow job after? Was that not enough t'pay for a shirt too?"
The bed creaked and groaned as he swung his feet over the edge and sat up, slowly. "Is there anything left from last night?"
"I ate the rest'a that casserole for lunch today if that's what you mean. Sorry, Johnny baby, I didn't know you wanted some."
He didn't say anything.
"Don't make that face. I'll cook you a new one," she offered, but he quickly shook his head.
"Don't, you'll burn everything to the ground again. That's what happened the last time." He turned back toward the wall and settled in the still cool sheets.
"Wow. Rude. All I did was catch one lil' towel on fire." She leaned over the bed and peered at him quizzically before sitting down next to him, pulling on his hair. "What the hell did you even take last night that's got you lookin' like a week-old corpse?"
"M'okay," he argued as her cold hands lifted his eyelids up. Her breath smelled bad enough that it even managed to cut through the cigarette and pot smoke clinging to his senses. Grimacing, he slapped her hands away. "Don't touch me, please."
"Y'know, you're kind of a baby when you're hung over."
He barely moved an inch at her words.
"S'okay. I'll put somethin' in your stomach at the flea market. You want anything?"
His quiet voice sounded far more exasperated and worn than usual. "I'm okay, Julianna."
"Are you? I don't really think so."
The room was completely silent for a moment. "Just a while longer, baby. I promise," he sighed heavily.
There were times, like now, that it was difficult to pretend. Maybe the lack of food had begun to effect his brain function, which was certainly poor at the best of times, but her question rang through his ears and echoed loudly off the walls as if she had been a loudspeaker. Are you okay? The pain he was in was beyond expression, so absolute, physical and mental, and it never abated. The drugs barely masked it anymore. The music couldn't drown it out.
"C'mon, I'm takin' you to the flea market with me whether you wanna come or not. We're gettin' you somethin' good to eat and you're gon' buy me a shirt. Maybe two shirts."
She was his own special little halo to contrast the torture of having to endure being flesh and blood. Even as demanding and obnoxious as she was at times, he couldn't really deny the girl what she wanted when she gave him the sad puppy-dog eyes. Even if he didn't have the money to spend, as he rarely did, it was the least he could do. She was gracious letting him stay in her home rent free.
"You look like shit." The words had caught him as he was changing clothes, and he stared incredulously over at her as she watched his profile through half-lidded eyes. The morning sunlight was gentle on her skin.
"What'd you expect? Prince Charming?"
"Whatever." She waved her hand to dismiss the remark. "Hurry it up, frog prince. I wanna shop."