Context: The morning after Club Ember: Launch Party


In the harsh light of the rising sun, West surveyed the small guest house on Ankh's estate that he'd taken Emily to the night before. In the darkness broken only by arms or legs silvery in the moonlight and swatches of airborne clothing, it had seemed OK.

Now, it looked like... what it was. A couple of rooms he had thrown what he hadn't put in his backpack; clothes, several miniature re-enactments of battles, books, and a few chess sets. He'd left the door open when Emily had left for IHOP, and just now was the cool air beginning to circulate. The heavy smell of sex and sweat was slowly replaced by the tang of cut grass and sickly sweet gasoline exhaust. The droning motors of the grounds crew were creeping closer.

A hand ran through his hair and he rubbed the back of his head, then cheek, feeling the soft grit of stubble. There was no shame felt in having brought her back to a home he'd once shared with Ankh -- or, close to the home. It was that sense of OK-ness that he considered, turning it this way and that like a monkey's fist.

He'd cared, and loved. They'd both been ready for it to end, though; and maybe now she was OK with who and what she was, and maybe he was OK with Baltimore. They'd been there when they needed the other.

And the page turns, and it's a blank sheet.

So West stood there in his boxers and waved to the Guy With the Weed-Whacker and wondered about Emily; about new pages, about being... OK.

I need to get an apartment.


[banner]west[/banner]

I'm running out of time
I'm out of step and closing down
And never sleep for wanting hours
The empty hours of greed
And uselessly always the need
To feel again the real belief
Of something more than mockery
If only I could fill my heart with love

- 'Closedown', the Cure