The next morning… (WoD)

Sunlight shines insistently through the gap between the closed bedroom drapes as Sasha sets her carrybag on the chipped and well-worn dresser. It was well past dawn, the birds beginning their morning ritual of flying in overenthusiastic circles and singing loud enough to wake the dead. While she was normally a fan of birdsong their cheerful chirping would make falling to sleep difficult, and she was unused to late nights spent dancing in smoky bars with men she barely knew. Yes, barely knew except that the unusual man in question was well-traveled. According to her darling brother Hawk, very well-traveled.

This thought brings a slight flush to her fair skin as she tugs her blouse over her head and tosses it into the hamper next to the door. It had been an… exhilarating… night. The gathering at the park had been fun; seeing extended family that she saw but rarely always brought a smile to her face, and the chance to get out and stretch her legs was a welcome opportunity to socialize with old friends and acquaintances. Used to long hours working with the wounded and ill and spending her remaining time raising a toddler, Sasha looked forward to her time free of career and child. Last night gave her one of those blessed chances to talk to adults(to clarify, adults who weren’t suffering some sort of ailment or injury) and when she’d spotted April’s red head and heard her friend’s strident voice over the crowd as she settled an argument in traditional April fashion; that is, yelling at the top of her lungs and then decking her opponent, she’d felt her heart lift a little. The fiery redhead was her best friend, for as long as the the girls could remember. They saw each other rarely now, and they were thrilled to have a chance to talk face to face, rather than by radio or letter.

She’d been less than thrilled at April’s plans for the evening. She sits on the edge of the bed and pulls first one slim leg out of her jeans and then the other, remembering the look of indignation on her friend’s face when she’d told her that she still wasn’t romantically involved with anyone. Sasha snorts in disgust. As if anyone would brave a bullet. She had no intention of a repeat performance of her previous indiscretion, and she’d been telling April this for three years. Apparently, last night her friend had finally decided to do something about it. Once the gathering at the park had begun to thin, Sasha had been dragged along to one bar after another until, at about three in the morning, they’d stumbled into a smoky blues bar that sported a real treasure; a working jukebox.

And who should be sitting there, nursing a glass of water(as if the glasses a little down the bar from him weren’t his) but Mr. Jeff Sinclair, a recent addition to the city and a man with whom she was already, but briefly, acquainted. She feels a slow blush fill her cheeks as she finishes undressing and tugs a towel off the rack behind the door. She hadn’t intended to talk to him as long as she had. She certainly didn’t plan on dancing with him. He frightened her a little, with his scars and exotic facial tattoos, but it wasn’t just his appearance that affected her. He was well-spoken, charming, and a decent dancer(at least once he’d sobered up a little) and he made her laugh. None of these things were in the least bit scary or dangerous, by themselves.

No, he scared her because he was too smooth, certain words and phrases coming too easily to his lips for her to be entirely comfortable in his presence, as strangely magnetic as it was, and she could plainly see his frustration with her distance and reserve. He wasn’t used to women who held themselves aloof. She sighs as she wraps the towel around herself and walks to the shower, her slender feet whispering on the bare hardwood floor. How could she make him understand how hard it was to keep yourself distant and alone when all you want to do is lose yourself in someone else, feel as though you’re a vital part of them, wrapped up in a passion so strong it feels like a wildfire. Like those old tales of the Phoenix. Burning to ashes and then rising up again. She feels her cheeks heat again and she scrubs one hand across her face in annoyance. Oh, grow up, girl!

Cold water strikes her flesh as she turns the spigot on, raising goose pimples on her arms and legs. She shivers and attempts to shower quickly, keeping her mind clear of last night as best she can. Once out of the freezing downpour, she rubs herself vigorously with the towel to warm her chilled flesh and pulls on a worn terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the bathroom hook. A smiles drifts across her lips as she snuggles into the robe. Nothing like a warm bathrobe after a cold shower. And nothing like a cold shower to get your head on straight. Looking into the mirror she wrinkles her nose at her reflection and turns away to pour water to brush her teeth. It was silly to be so flustered about Mr. Sinclair, she thinks as she rinses her mouth. Not as if she’s never been with a man. Or ever danced before. So very silly, really. She spits gracelessly into the basin and wipes her mouth with an embarrassed hand. Oh my, she thinks, that was ladylike, Sasha Albrecht. You’re such a catch. She wrinkles her nose at herself in the mirror again, adding crossed eyes and an out-stuck tongue. Yep. A real lady, this one.

She giggles as she hangs up her damp towel and wanders back to her bedroom. As much as the overhead fan tries it is unable to remove the sense of closeness and humidity of a warm summer sunrise from her room, and she thanks whatever powers that be that she had the presence of mind to take a shower to cool down. Slipping into a loose cotton nightgown she slides into bed and curls up on her side, closes her eyes. Her efforts to avoid remembering the smell of cigarette smoke, the gritty tone of a blues sax and the possessive feel of a man’s body pressed close to hers fail miserably. She drifts into last night as she drifts into sleep, the birds’ songs unheard, a small smile on her lips and tears drying on her cheeks.