"Did you get the job?" he asks, then he waits for over 3 minutes before I find the courage to reveal the truth to him.
"No. They wanted a stripper, not a cook or a cleaner." It's Paul's turn to be silent. Then, I notice he is struggling not to laugh.
I halt in front of the hospital. It's not far from the spot where I had to attend the interview.Maybe I should visit that place tonight too. No.
I need to let go of all the memories of him.
I have circled through the stages of grief. I'm moving on, Mike. I have moved on, Mano Cuisine.
"Come home, Emily. I am sure we will get you a job soon."
It's hard to believe that the same Paul I never got along with is saying these words to me.
When he sayshome, my heart doesn't race in the same manner as it had with Mike. With Mike, home was peaceful; with Paul, home—home is numbing, depressing. Paul abuses a lot of drugs. He spends his money on pot and condoms.
He loves sex, and, well, over the months, we began to have a lot of it.
Our appetites are similar when it comes to sex. I can never get enough of it, and I have never reached the point of the celestial awakening I felt with Mike.
Paul and I aren't in love; we are simply two desperate souls eager to cure the unspoken misery within.
When I get home from the hospital, I slip my heels off, hop past the cat by the door, and then I make my way into the one-room apartment. The paint is peeling off the walls, and the roof is leaking. Compared to the building I had once lived in,Paul's new place is like a place used by serial killers to hide their victims.
He has newspapers covering the holes on the wall, and large stones are pushed to corners of the walls to block the invasion of rats in his home. I hear the rattling of the iron bucket behind the walls. I walk toward it, pushing away a polythene bag that serves asa covering to the entrance from the back since the door lost its hinges.
Paul is burning some papers in the bucket when I see him. Fumes rise, and I feel fear grip me at the sight. I am hyperventilating, out of breath, my chest constricts. I feel like clawing at the horror, to carve it out my skin.
"Oh, shit. I didn't know you would be home early. I am so sorry, Emily." He grabs me and drops me onto his shoulder. I bounce as he walks. Paul is a strong man. I understand why the club employed him as a guard.
He looks lean but he has the power of three men. When he sets me on the thin foam, I already have my breathing under control.
Since the fire, I haven't been able to get rid of the panic attacks.
"How are you going to get a job in a kitchen ever again if you fucking keep this up, Smith." He is disappointed. Paul hates it when I retrogress with my healing. He hates it when I get all emotional over some small fire.
I can't help it. Or maybe I can, and I just don't want to.
I want my life to be simple again. I want to go back to the days of the Mano Cuisine as much as possible.
"I am sorry." I breathe.
Oh, I am such a fucking weakling. I hope I don't cry now.
Paul sighs and drops to the bed beside me. "We were never friends from the start. Hell. I couldn't stand you because of that shitty act you kept putting up. I know this is not the real you, Emily. I can't like you like this." He begins to rub my arms, offering comfort.
It's not warm, but it's nice. He has large, rough palms. Much better than Mike's less scary palms.
"I try. To. Be. Better." I murmur, shifting closer to him, desperate to feel warmth.
"You smoked today?"
Shit, he can smell it on my breath.
"Hmmm," I say, unable to admit it to him or me.
"Did you feel better after that?"
"Hmmm."