Coping Mechanisms

Who: Ash and some woman who's name might start with E
When: 7am ish
Where: the apartment above the shop

The sun was coming up, but Ash hadn't slept yet. He sat in the low-slung chair positioned haphazardly a few feet away from the foot of his bed. Not taking his eyes off of the slow-breathing figure tangled in the sheets on it, he took a drink out of the beer bottle between his fingers. It had gotten warm a long time ago. In a fuzzy kind of way, he tried to remember her name, and came up empty handed. E-something, maybe. Emily? Ember? Or maybe he was only thinking E because of Eury. It was possible. He'd spent a good chunk of the night thinking about her. From what he could remember of it.

But it was time for her to go. She'd had a few hours, that was more than enough hospitality in his book for a lay that came so easy and had been so dirty. He could feel her bad karma -- not an over-abundance, but more than enough -- in the air almost. Like a faintly greasy kind of quality to every breath. He was going to have one hell of a hangover, he didn't need anything else to add in to the sick feeling. Ash lifted a foot and kicked the end of the bed, just enough to jostle her.

The brunette snorted awake, blinking around and sitting up slowly. With that 'oh there's my headache' wince. He just watched her, noting now, outside of the heat of lonely and depressed passion, that her breasts sagged and it looked like she had a c-section scar. Not that he was any prize work of art himself, but the light of the morning after was harsh, and he couldn't help but think about how much better she would look as someone else.

"Time for you to go," he said flatly, not bothering with any bullshit good mornings. Women like this knew the score. Or they should, they'd done it enough times. This one, the possible E, scowled at him. He may as well have been telepathic, he could almost hear the 'asshole' that crossed through her mind.

Her features composed into a defiantly haughty sort of mask, and she gathered up her too-tight button down shirt from off of the floor and pulled it on, climbing out of his bed and heading not for the door or her jeans, but for the kitchen. Ash sat still, in the chair with his pants comfortably undone, looking at the spot she'd been in and listening to her search for something edible in the kitchen. He knew already she wouldn't find anything. Some old Cheerios, maybe.

Eury was gone. She'd called to let him know, and promised to keep in touch, and that she would be back. She just needed to get out for a while, she said. Just have some time. He couldn't fault her that, he really couldn't. How many times had he just turned his back on a place? He wouldn't be surprised if he didn't ever hear from her again. Disappointed, but not surprised. He knew how it was, losing yourself to the road and it's cleansing promise. He'd said he would miss her, and he'd keep an eye on her shop. But it had been enough to inspire a night of drinking, and this one-nighter who thought her ass was still tight enough to break the rules. Who'd foolishly wanted a night to forget about everything that had been happening. And in the sweaty, grunting midst of it, he'd closed his eyes and seen curved tattooed -- well ... more artfully tattooed than this woman's tribal tramp stamp that was about twenty years too young for her -- flesh. Tattoos and wild, impossibly long dreds, and a sweet goodness that maybe he could absorb. Even if he couldn't, it would've been beautiful to be close to for a while, see it shine out of her up close.

But instead he'd ended up with ... this.

"God, don't you have anything in here?" she demanded to know from her spot bent over in front of the cabinets, sounding far too strident to his ears this early. Ash closed his eyes, took the last warm sip of beer, and set the bottle to rest on his leg again. He thought of their talk about love and let his head fall back.

"Time for you to go," he repeated.

She cursed him up and down as she left, but he didn't even bat an eyelash. Ash sat there for a long time in the rushing silence of his apartment, watching his own thoughts float by and wondering if redemption really existed, or if it was all downhill from whatever point he'd peaked at. Because he seemed to be picking up speed, and he was afraid that he knew what was at the bottom of the hill.