Page 16 of The Guru: Shadow
EMMA
PLAYLIST: BLINDFOLD - SLEEPING WOLF
When she opened the door to her apartment, she was in a state of not giving a fuck anymore. Deis had insisted on escorting her upstairs; she was too exhausted to discuss further. So she went first into the dark apartment, him behind her. As he tried to turn on the lights, she said, “No lamp,” and went for the bathroom on the right, opening the door wide so its light fell into the empty entrance and living room. The apartment was a small apartment, so typical for Manhattan, with either those endless long hallways or none at all. Hers had none, so they stood directly in the living room.
“Did you just move in?” he asked while taking in what he saw – or not saw.
“No.” She had no wish to recall what happened here, so she went to the open-plan kitchen and turned on the light. “Do you need a refreshment or are you happy now, as I am safe home?”
“This is no home.”
“It is mine. Or was. Whatever.”
It sure was no home anymore, he was right, but there was no need to have it so shoved into her face. It was a mess of ahome, like everything in her life, a beautiful reflection of her incapability.
And while she put her clutch onto the kitchen counter separating the living room from the kitchen area, he walked through the apartment and opened the door to the guest room on his left.
Seriously!
“What happened in here?” he asked her and added with a chuckle, “Murdered someone?”
“Ever heard of privacy? Or manners?” she asked him as she walked to him, pushed him out of the room, and closed the door shut behind her, maybe a bit too forceful.
How I hate people invading my personal space!
“I have, but it’s all a facade,” he said totally unconcerned.
He walked around and took in the apartment. A part of her wanted to strangle him. When he reached the books in the corner, he tilted his head to read the titles.
“I believe it’s basic human decency, so please–”
“Human decency is a concept made to control you, I don’t believe in it,” he interrupted her and picked up one of her books. It wasWuthering Heights. Brontë.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t have picked you for a hopeless romantic”
“I’m not,” she said, snatching the book out of his hand. “But I studied English literature for a year.” A horrific year, filled with people she never wanted to meet ever again.
He was way too nosy.
“You don’t look like an English lit person to me.”
“What do I look like to you?” she scuffed at him. “Serial killer? Black widow?”
He chuckled again. Kind of cheeky this time, a corner of his mouth twitching. But he did not answer.
“So why didn’t you finish?”
“Wasn’t my thing.”
“What is your thing, then?” he asked while his eyes wandered over all the other titles.
“Stop being nosy.”
“You don’t know. That’s why you’re avoiding myquestion.”
Gods, can he please stop behaving like he has it all figured out? Like I am an open book to him?
She didn’t answer. Instead, she went for the fridge, opened it, took out the pizza box from yesterday, and placed herself on the counter. Taking out a slice, she glanced over to him. Maybe it would scare him away, he surely wasn’t a leftover guy.