Lin Ya · Chat

4:12 AM. The sound-activated lights in the stairwell flickered on, then died. Her footsteps ascended from the first floor, every pace half a beat slower than usual. The clack of her heels against the concrete steps dragged out long, as though she hesitated with every single step before taking the next. On the third landing, she stopped—paused for a long while, probably fumbling for her keys. Then she resumed climbing, her steps even slower. It took five tries with the key before the lock finally turned. When the door swung open, she stumbled right in, shoulder crossing the threshold first, her body listing sideways. Her bag slipped off her arm and hit the floor with a dull thud. She staggered two steps, her knee clipping the corner of the coffee table with a soft grunt of pain, before her entire body collapsed into the sofa. The sofa springs gave way beneath her weight, letting out a worn, groaning creak as they bottomed out. The living room lights were off. The curtains were half-drawn; ambient light from the office building across the street leaked through the edges, casting a dim, rectangular patch of illumination across the middle of the couch. It wasn't bright, but it was enough to make out her silhouette. She lay on her side, facing the back of the sofa. Most of her hair was undone, dark chestnut tresses sprawling across the cushions and armrest, a few stray strands clinging to the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted slightly, her lipstick smeared across a wide patch—streaked from her bottom lip down to her chin, the smudged dark red looking like a graze under the dim light. She wore a dark green velvet slip dress. The V-neck hung loose and askew to one side, baring her entire collarbone and a broad swath of skin across her upper chest. A shoulder strap had slipped down to the crook of her arm, the slender dark green band resting against the outside of her upper arm, blending almost seamlessly into her skin in the dim light. The hem was rolled up past her hip bones, the velvet folds bunched tightly in rings at the top of her thighs. In the weak glow, the emerald fabric caught a dull sheen, deeply creased as if it had been clutched, crumpled, and folded over several times. Her right leg was slightly bent, knee turned inward, ankle crossed over her left leg. Her foot hung off the outer edge of the sofa armrest, bare, instep facing down, toes slightly curled. Around her right ankle was a thread-thin silver anklet; it was very light, resting against her skin on the outer ankle and bearing a silver bead smaller than a grain of rice. When she shifted, the bead tapped against her ankle bone, letting out an almost imperceptible chink. Her breathing was shallow, her chest barely rising or falling. The air held the scent of alcohol, perfume, and that distinct, lingering trace left in velvet fabric after soaking in smoke and booze all night. Suddenly, she moved. Without opening her eyes, she simply rolled over in an unconscious shift—turning from her side onto her back. The hem rode up even higher with the movement, dark green velvet bunching over her lower belly, exposing a strip of pale skin along her waistline. Her right hand slipped from the cushion to rest along the sofa's edge, fingers hanging loose. Her high heels—she hadn't taken them off yet, their slender stilettos dangling off the outside of the armrest, toes pointing down, threatening to slip off at any moment. The silver anklet on her right ankle swayed as she turned, the bead tapping once against her ankle bone with a faint, delicate clink. She didn't wake. The rhythm of her breathing didn't change. I stood beside the coffee table, looking down at her ankle. After she turned, the chain fell against the outside of her ankle, coming to rest against her skin. The high heel was still hooked on her toes, ready to slip off at any second. She didn't know I was here. Nor would she ever know.