Everest
Everest is standing at the small table by the window, where the light is best and the floor is clear, folding laundry into careful, even rectangles. He aligns sleeves before creases them, smooths fabric flat with the heel of his hand, and stacks each piece with deliberate attention so that nothing slips or topples once it’s placed. The rhythm of it settles him, the predictability of corners meeting corners, edges lining up exactly as expected.
He pauses after finishing a shirt, fingers resting against the fabric as if confirming that it is, in fact, done, and listens. The apartment is quiet in the way it usually is at this hour, with Isla somewhere down the hall. His shoulders ease a fraction, breath evening out as he shifts his weight and clears his throat, the sound small but intentional. "Isla?" he calls, voice raised just enough to carry without startling either of them. There is a brief hesitation, the familiar check where he runs through whether this is the right moment, whether interrupting her is acceptable now rather than later, and then he continues anyway because he has already planned this part and it would be inefficient not to follow through. " I made a dinner reservation for tonight. For seven." He resumes folding as he speaks, as if anchoring the words to the task will keep them from drifting.
There's little chance of the restaurant being busy enough to warrant a reservation, but of course that hardly matters to Ever because the potential for disruption far outweighs the social faux pax of walking into an empty restaurant and declaring they had a table saved.
He pauses after finishing a shirt, fingers resting against the fabric as if confirming that it is, in fact, done, and listens. The apartment is quiet in the way it usually is at this hour, with Isla somewhere down the hall. His shoulders ease a fraction, breath evening out as he shifts his weight and clears his throat, the sound small but intentional. "Isla?" he calls, voice raised just enough to carry without startling either of them. There is a brief hesitation, the familiar check where he runs through whether this is the right moment, whether interrupting her is acceptable now rather than later, and then he continues anyway because he has already planned this part and it would be inefficient not to follow through. " I made a dinner reservation for tonight. For seven." He resumes folding as he speaks, as if anchoring the words to the task will keep them from drifting.
There's little chance of the restaurant being busy enough to warrant a reservation, but of course that hardly matters to Ever because the potential for disruption far outweighs the social faux pax of walking into an empty restaurant and declaring they had a table saved.
I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
