~JANE

"So you fell off your board," Silvya says. "Do you fall often?"
Do I fall often? Well that depends. What kind of falling are we talking about?
"Funny," I say. "Do you always carry shots around with you?"
"No comment," she says.
"No comment, huh." I thought we weren't doing that anymore.

We haven't been walking very long. I'm not sure where we're going. It doesn't matter to me. All around us the city sounds echo, along with her high heels, crispy on the concrete.
"Aren't you cold, wearing those?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. She offers me a drink, which I accept, but what kind of person drinks Bailey's and Fireball in the same night?

"You don't do this every night, do you?"
"You're asking if I work eighty hours a week and then get wasted every night?"
"I guess when you put it that way," I laugh in concession. "But you can't get mad at me for guessing about you when you're not giving me a thing to work with."

Silvya watches her feet for a while, then stops walking. "Why guess?" she asks.
I've stopped a few paces ahead of her. She stands before me in the cold dark, looking at anything but me.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she sighs, "why, after all the mean shit I did, do you still like me?"
"I never said I liked you," I say.
"You didn't have to."
I laugh, and sigh. "Have you never been hit on before?"
"I have," she says, defensive.
"Then why's it so hard to believe that I'd want to get to know you?"

She's looking at me now. We're standing before an empty parking lot. Now it's my turn to avoid her eyes.
"Anyway," I say, "Have you been on a longboard before?"

The lot is littered with road salt. With my sneakers I kick and scrape a nice area on the asphalt to practice on. She sits on a low concrete wall and watches me. I hope she doesn't think I look stupid. I hope she's having a good time.
I extend my hand to her. She's tentative in her steps towards me. Her fingers are red, freezing, soft. Pretty, like her. In her heels, she steps up onto the board.

"That's it," I say. "Just hold on, and find your balance."
She's nervous, watching her feet, shivering. She grips my hand.
"This isn't so bad," she says.
"It's better when you can actually go somewhere on it," I say.
I feel her look at the scabs on my face.
"We're gonna move," I say. I pull her slowly by the hand.

She wobbles, her hands fly instinctively to my shoulders. I feel the weight of them there, the pressure of her fingers gripping me. We laugh together, purely out of nerves. I hold her at the elbows, and side-step to move the board. She's watching the ground. Our faces are close. She won't look at me.
"Okay, I get the gist," she chitters, "I've seen enough."

I help her down.
"It's less scary without heels."
"Goes without saying, I think."
"Was it fun, at least?"
"Insufficient data," she says. "I need to collect more."
"Ah," I say, though I don't understand. She walks past me and reclaims her seat on the wall.

"Do you know tricks?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, electric.
"Show me?" she asks. I thought she would never.
"Alright," I say, "if I show you, you have to promise something."
"Go on."
"You have to promise not to be overwhelmed," I say, "because I'm about to get thirty times cooler than I am right now."
"Oh really!" she exclaims. "Let's see it, then."
"Alright, I'm about to blow your mind, watch this."
I do a kickflip, then theatrically take a bow. She boos me.
"Come on now, be serious," she chides.

Is it the alcohol making me lightheaded, or is it her? 
"I can make it spin a full three times, if you watch close." I fail twice before getting it, but failing is worth it to hear her laugh, even at the expense of me. When she applauds me, my whole definition of success changes. I show her a few more simple ones, and for the first time ever, she cheers my name. I'd do anything to get her to do that again.
If it were warmer, I could do more. For now I settle on making her laugh.

I join her at the wall. I lean next to her with my hips. We finish the last shooter.
We don't talk at first, watching cars go by, listening for faraway sounds.
"Thanks," she says. "For this. I've had the shittiest week."
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.
"I should probably get home," she says.

"Oh." My chest feels like a deflated birthday balloon. "Yeah, me too probably."
"Would you walk me?" she asks. "It's not far."
"Of course," I say. I'm trying not to sound too eager.

I offer my hand, and help her up. She walks with her arms hugging her body, twisting her coat close. I fight the urge to put my arm around her. Her body is telling me not to touch. We walk slow, so she doesn't slip. She's chewing her lip. Thinking. When I watch her think, and pace around the diner, and touch all the postcards, I wonder. What kind of person thinks so deeply they forget their whole body, or at least ceases to care? One night I watched her sit and stare out the window for a whole hour. All at once I feel pressure to ask her questions and to remain silent.

"You have a lot of tattoos," she says.
I'm a little taken aback. Seeing as my arms are hidden, it isn't a last-ditch attempt at a conversation, it tells me she was thinking organically about my tattoos. And it's not as if she's asked me a question, she's made an observation about me which stuck with her. A flattered satisfaction flows through me at the thought of her thinking about me, the image of her with the image of me in her mind.
"Yeah," I say, "I've done a lot of them myself."

I pull my hands out of my pockets. She looks up.
I point them out, explain the circumstances of each. The good, the bad, the first, the last, the meaningful, the pure aesthetic. She listens, and looks, and doesn't interrupt me until we've arrived.

"My apartments are just down the hill," she says.
I think I get the hint. "You sure you should walk the rest by yourself?" I ask.

Then she flips her hair, looks right at me, and says, "No."
So I go with her.

***

I'd never look at Silvya and think she'd be the type of woman to keep a house like this, but at the same time, a piece of the puzzle that is Silvya falls right into place. Modern, cool-toned furniture fills the cramped space. Books occupy every square inch, every shelf, the table, every chair in the room, piled high up the sides of the walls and backs of furniture. Old mugs of tea rest on simple glass coffee table. The dining room table is cloaked in documents. The kitchen wall has three large whiteboards hung and all three are covered with notes in black and red. Magnetized photos dot the space, connections drawn between them. It immediately strikes me, but I don't process the image.

I rest my longboard against the doorframe. Silvya's instructed me to wait out here while she cleans her bathroom for me. When she emerges, she invites me to sit on the singular clear cushion on the grey couch. It's one of those couches with the long seat on the end, with squashy cushions and skinny legs. My sofa isn't nearly as nice or as new as this. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Hurriedly she clears the coffee table, and puts a kettle on. Watching her rush around the house like this is surreal, after all the time I spent wondering about her.

"Silvya," I say, "what's with the whiteboards?"
She's clearing the books from the cushion next to me, transferring them in armfuls to the stacks against the wall. She's so much smaller without her heels on.
"Oh, I haven't told you." She exhales and sits next to me, on the middle cushion. Her feet are bare, tucked and curled behind one another. My attention is fully captured. Her cheeks, the tips of her ears, her nose, still red from the cold. There's a tall lamp in the corner that casts soft light onto every surface, illuminating her from behind.
"Solving murders is the family business."

I'm aware of my mouth falling open, though it isn't a conscious decision. "For real?"
"My family are all police detectives. It's like Blue Bloods," she says.
"I haven't seen it," I say.
"Well, neither have I, but it's like that."
I shake my head. "Wait, so do you have a badge?"
"I just said I don't work for the police."
"Explain your job, then?"
"I have an IQ of 190."
"Is that good?"
"Einstein was 160."
"Jesus," I say.
"I'm good at solving crimes," she says. "But I refuse to finish the schooling. I don't need it."
"Wow," I say. "I get that. I dropped out of nursing school."
"How come?" she asks.

I don't feel equipped to be responsible for the life of another human being. "It wasn't for me," I say. "But you'd think a degree in criminology or something wouldn't hurt to have?"
"That's what everyone says. But you don't know me when I'm on a case."
She looks me in the eye. I hold her gaze, and don't say anything, in fear of ruining it. But I don't have to. The electric kettle is done boiling. I watch her stand and pass me. I pivot towards the kitchen when her back is turned.

"Would you like coffee? Tea? I have hot chocolate, too," she says.
"Are we sobering up now?" I ask.
"Warming up," she says. "But if vodka is more up your alley, we can continue that."
"Mixing doesn't sound like a good idea," I laugh. "I'll take a hot chocolate, then."

This too is surreal, watching her make me a drink. I worry that the water is going to make the drink gross, but then she adds creamer and a piece of actual chocolate wrapped in foil to melt. For herself, a cup of tea.

"So all those hours you spend at the diner, you're solving murders?"
She places my cup on the table in front of me. As she sits, I read the spines on the corner of the table diagonal to me. All of them are non-fiction, crime-related, and oddly-specific. There are dictionaries for several different languages laying around, German, Latin, Greek, Spanish, Mandarin.
"Yes," she says. "It's the only place that's always open, besides McDonald's." She curls up in a ball, tucking her feet. She rests her shoulder against the stack of books beside her.

"Can you talk about the cases you work on?" I ask.
"I try not to," she says. "But I'm not legally bound or anything like that, seeing as they won't put me on payroll, no matter how many cases I solve for them."
"Wait," I say, "you said before you worked eighty hours a week?"
"Correct."
"That's insane."
She shrugs, and sips her tea. "It's what I love," she says. "And I'm trying to prove a point."
Of course. I could've guessed stubbornness would be a motivator for her.
"What point would that be?"

She quiets down, stares into space over her mug. "It's not that important."
I refuse to believe that, but I understand if she doesn't wanna tell me. I nod, and taste my hot chocolate.
"This is good," I say, "thank you."
She smiles a little. When she smiles, it's tight-lipped, subdued, and fleeting. She puts her mug on her lips immediately, to hide it.

"I like your apartment," I say.
"It's a mess," she says.
"A good mess," I assure. "I love books, but I don't read nearly enough."
"There's a lot I haven't read, but I definitely will someday, when the case arises. People are always coming up with new ways of killing each other and covering it up."
Her face hardens. She stares into her tea.

"It must take a toll on you."
"No," she says. "I am sufficiently detached."
"I can see that," I say. I'm really facing her now. She remains curled, inaccessible, but she does look me in the scabby, ugly face again. I smile at her, because she's squinting at me, unsure if she should be annoyed with me. "It's okay," I say, "I would be too, if I did your job."
I sit back and enjoy my drink. She offers no response. 
"Are you working on a case right now?"
"I just finished one."
"How long did it take you?"
"Two weeks."
"Is that fast?"
"Depends on the case," she sips, "but yeah, it was pretty fast, considering."
"Considering what?"
She looks at me a moment, unsure. "Considering the state of the body."
"I see." I shiver. I can't imagine.

"Me solving the case doesn't matter too much. It's up to the real police," she rolls her eyes, "to take action. I put the pieces together and they do the paperwork and make the arrests."
"Who did it?"
"The husband," she says.
Yikes. I drink. I'm not feeling as tipsy anymore.
"How do you make your money, then? If you don't mind me asking."
"I have a business on the side. A blog."
"Deadass?" I put my cup down. "Can I see it?"
"You want to?"
"Of course I want to," I laugh. "Why wouldn't I?"

I watch her stand and cross the room. There's a desk by an old TV, but it doesn't look like it's been used in a long while. She unplugs her laptop and brings it to me.
She shows me a grey screen with yellow letters that read THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.
"People can email me."

She scrolls down to reveal dozens of entries, and still the webpage continues. I catch glimpses of the titles. One of them is called, 45 DIFFERENT TYPES OF CIGARETTE ASH.
"What is the science of deduction?" I ask.
"It's how I solve cases. I illustrate the entire process for the sake of the client, the police, and the world." She closes the laptop. When she turns her head, I swear the tips of her ears are pink. I wonder how often she explains this to others. She places it on the coffee table and retreats again to her defensive position.

"That is very impressive," I say. "Makes me wonder what kind of life I'm living." It's my turn to look into my cup.
"What do you do, besides work at the diner?"
"Good question," I say. "Is that vodka still on the table?"

I can feel her looking at me again. "You're avoiding the question."
It seems Silvya is slow to self-awareness, but she catches on soon enough. When she stands, I stand with her.
"Chaser?" she asks.
"What do you have?"
"Orange juice."
"That's perfect."

She pours us a shot and a glass each.
"Cheers." Each of us, down the hatch.
I don't take shots often anymore. My throat burns all the way down, into my belly. I cough, flush it with juice. Silvya looks completely composed.

"Good?" she asks, with a hint of smugness.
"Yeah I'm good," I roll my eyes. "I went to college, you know."
"How long?"
"Long enough," I sigh. "I'm never going back."
"I hear you," she says. She's prepared another shot, and extends it to me. I'm not about to pussy out in front of a pretty girl, so I take it. It hurts more the second time. The juice is a godsend.
"Alright, I'm gonna ask another personal question, if that's okay."
She looks like she wants to say something, but she keeps her lips tight. She shrugs in what I believe is approval.

"Do you like women?" I ask.
She looks at me.
"It's fine," I say.
"I know it's fine."
The clock ticks.

"I mean. I assume you like women, if you're here with me, if I'm in your home after all this." I'm choosing my words carefully. "I just want to be absolutely sure."
"I like women," she says. Her green eyes are piercing me.
"Do you like men?" I ask.
She leans with her back against the counter. I try not to look past her at the murder board. She folds her arms and chews her lips.

"Do you like men?" she asks.
"I used to think so," I say. "Not anymore."
"I'm not sure," she says. "I don't think about it."

I know this isn't true. I know she's probably like me and grew up her whole life wondering why boys never worked out, why she didn't like them as much as other girls seemed to. Probably also wondering what was wrong with her. To say she doesn't think about it is to say she really can't stop thinking about it. Silvya is hugging her arms, looking at something away from me, something in the living room. It's time to change the subject.

"I hear ya," I say. "It's really not worth thinking about. But you know what is worth thinking about?" I pull out my phone, and queue up a song.
"I have a speaker," she says. She moves back into the living room to turn it on. Before long the whole apartment is filled with music.

We sit back down on the couch together. She asks to read the lyrics. Then she shares a song with me, too. We take turns like this, listening, roasting, complementing. She reads the lyrics to every song she listens to. She says she can like any song as long as the words are beautiful, which is beautiful in itself. I learned that when she was young, her parents forced her to take classical violin, which she won awards for in school tournaments. She doesn't own a violin currently and says she doesn't miss it. 

I tell her about my brother, how we spent our summers at the pool all day while both parents worked. Neighbors houses, family members' houses. I don't tell her about Harry's drinking.
We take more shots. She asks me endless questions about my tattoos, pointing to each one, touching the raised lines on my arms. I tell her which ones are professionally done, when I got them, why I chose each artist. She listens to me closely, with heavy eyes and a tired smile. I've seen this look before, but never from Silvya.

We keep the music low. It's gotten so late.
"Do you work tomorrow?" she asks.
"Yes, but late again," I say.
She nods and doesn't say anything, like she's making a mental note. I laugh. My head is dizzy and my eyes are warm. 

"I have an idea," she says. She leaves, and when she comes back, she sits down closer to me, closer than ever, and presents to me one of the nicest-looking blunts I've ever seen.
If I wasn't in love before, I'm in love now.

She lights it up for me. Her apartment hazes up. She asks if I can do tricks. I show her cheerios, she shows me bane. Impressive, I tell her. I can taste her chapstick on the wrap. She's laughing at everything I say. I don't even know what's on the radio anymore because she's kissing me. My hands fly up to her face, she's so warm, and her breath is sugary, and her hair smells so good.

The blunt burns in the ashtray. It's just her right now.
Lips, teeth, our noses.
I want her to come out for me.