Natasha jumps as her phone starts vibrating under her knee. For a second she expects Sawyer to sound bright and bold on the phone, driving over with a hot bag of take-out and some outrageous lingerie.
Instead, Natasha answers the phone to Sawyer hiccupping and sniffling down the phone. Natasha thinks she’s trying to make words, but Natasha can’t understand.
“Sawyer, are you in any danger?” She’s rubbing her head and grimacing, but her voice sounds firm and clear on the line.
There’s silence on the line and then a small, sullen voice says, “No, I’m just upset.”
“Well then let me hang up to call a cab and I’ll phone you back and we can talk until I get to you.”
Sawyer sniffles again, “No, I’ll drive. A taxi will be like $40.”
“Only if there’s traffic, and I don’t care anyway.”
“Okay, thanks, Natasha,” Sawyer’s voice is small, she sounds like a little girl.
“Try some square breathing,” Natasha demonstrates on the phone, they go through a few cycles together. It’s only then that Natasha realizes how fast her own heart was beating, how sick she had felt.
“Wow,” Natasha says in the voice she uses for class. “You’ve done a great job of calming yourself down. Can you maintain that for me for a few minutes?”
Natasha tells the driver she'll give him an extra tip if he gets there as fast as possible. He just raises his eye brows at her in the mirror in response. Before she can think about it she adds, "My girlfriend is unwell, I need to get to her as soon as I can."
She doesn't think she's ever said those words before and she's surprised by how easily they slip off her tongue. It seems to unlock some sort of empathetic response and he swerves a little to get between two buses.
"Thanks, dude."
At first, she feels like she's got away with something, smirks to herself in the reflection of the dark mirror. But the longer she thinks about it, the more she realizes that it sounds like such a plausible story because she's not actually lying. She calls Sawyer back and tries to keep her voice soft and even. She can't keep her foot from kicking at the plastic sill of the door or her hands from picking at the "no smoking" sign slapped on the seat in front of her.
Sawyer wants to know about Natasha's day, and so she rambles on about painting the flower bed, "What color is the wood?"
"A kind of eggshell blue? No, more Grey-blue."
Sawyer sighs, "That's nice. New England blue. Multi-seasonal, grown up."
"That's what we thought! We've done it in a sort of three-sided square so people can use the whole bed even if they can't bend over very far. And people can work the same bit of the bed together, on different sides."
Sawyer hums appreciatively, "That's smart. Are you going to put a feature in the middle of the square?"
"I think just a guide to what's planted where. I think we should have a chalkboard so people can update it themselves -"
"But the rain - "
"Yeah, I'm having a think on that one. I also made new pants for class."
"What mind-bending combination of colors have you gone for?"
Natasha can hear the beginning of a smile in her voice, and she's willing to play the fool to get another one.
"Well it's actually quite subtle..."
"Natasha Kuznetsov and subtle are not two words I'd put together."
"I'll make you some pink ones for Christmas."
Sawyer huffs though her nose, and Natasha can tell she's tickled by the idea.
Natasha watches the blocks speed past her. The streets are quiet, Natasha can only see a couple of groups of students, the odd pan handler. Winter is closing in. Only a few weeks ago people were wearing shorts and sandals on the street but suddenly everyone is in a palette of maroon and navy. The cab pulls up outside Sawyer's building. Her neighbours have their lights off. The engine sounds loud on the quiet street.
"I'm outside,"
"I know. I can see you," Sawyer's voice is as sweet as when she's falling asleep on Natasha's chest.
Natasha looks up and sees a tall figure at the window of Sawyer's apartment, and the curtains twitch before the figure fades away again.
The meter is $32 and after a moment of hesitation, Natasha hands him two twenty dollar bills and opens the door of the cab.
"Thanks, I hope your girlie feels better soon."
Sawyer's front door opens a crack and a small puddle of light spills on to the steps.
"I'm your girlie now, am I?"
Even in the dim light of the communal hall, Natasha can see that Sawyer is exhausted. Her broad, strong shoulders are bowed and she's walking like a cowboy, with stiff hips and splayed feet.
Sawyer doesn't wait for a response, leads Natasha up to her apartment. She grunts with every step she takes up the stairs, heaving her legs up each one. The lights in her kitchen are bright and underneath them Natasha can fully see how wrecked Sawyer is.
Natasha stifles a little noise of shock as she takes in her dust and grease caked face. The only bits of
