Maisie is roused by the bite of early morning light against her eyelids. It crawls into the room under the blackout curtains, sharp and bright. Four a.m. casting neat little scars along the edge of darkness. Well, she thinks, can’t keep it all out.
She turns her head away from the sun’s glare. Lingers in bed for a moment. Blows a stray lock of hair away from where it’s tickling her nose. Curls her toes with a mild crack. Settles back down under the covers. Perhaps if she keeps perfectly still, the day won’t catch her.
There’s an attempt to lull herself back into slumber. Shut eyes, slow breathing, and all that. However, it quickly becomes clear that sleep will not prevail. With a sigh, her eyes flutter open. Her gaze lands on a woman’s bare back. Right.
Maisie should leave. Right now, preferably. Numbly, she studies the disembodied plane of flesh for a moment. Tanned skin pulled over prominent shoulder blades. Little divots mark the distinction between vertebrae. There’s a birthmark stamped onto the hill of the hip like a splotch of fire-scorched grass. Little beauty marks scattered everywhere, stars dancing across the landscape. It slopes down at the waist, disappearing under the duvet just below the woman’s tailbone.
Was it…Tabitha? Tamiya…T. Something beginning with T. A name not at all like Calypso.
It’s a bit of a cliché at this point: Not drunk enough to forget the sex but drunk enough to forget her partner’s name. Maybe Maisie didn’t even care about her name in the first place. She rolls back over. The shards of light sting her waterlines less this time. Sighing, Maisie quietly slips out from under the covers. Cold, tile floors greet her soft soles. She fumbles through the dim, searching for her hastily discarded clothes.
T isn’t brushing up to be the tidiest person; Her room is strewn with dirty clothes and painting paraphernalia. Paintbrushes coming apart in murky water, dusty bookshelves, a tiny easel precariously balancing a lopsided canvas, which is far too big for the thing. There’s a cardboard box where the bedside table should be, filled with large bottles of glaring acrylic and a few fan brushes. Several unpaired shoes and solo socks carpet the floor, muffling Maisie’s timid tiptoeing. The irregular press of icy tile between the chaos burns.
Eventually, Maisie locates what she’s looking for: a green dress and a black thong framed by a sad pile of umbrellas at the foot of the bed. And when she eases the elastic over her thighs she doesn’t think of Calypso. Smooth hands trailing up Maisie’s legs and a sharp mind. Future aeronautical engineer. Fizzled out in the first year. It was a crash-landing. Calypso, who can’t come back. No. The name doesn’t even cross her mind. Instead, it sits in the pit of her belly like a large, smooth stone.
At the apartment threshold, Maisie’s shiny black heels and matching purse are suddenly dull. She checks the bag over: phone (dead), housekeys, credit card (declined), twelve dollars (coins), and a vape (podless). Promising. Maisie wobbles her way out the door, closing it as quietly as possible behind her.
She barely makes the early train. The older MTR models are oppressive, grey walls and white light reminiscent of an overcast day. Thankfully, the train isn’t too crowded for a Sunday, and neither is Sheung Wan by the time she makes it up the A2 exit staircase.
Her two-bedroom apartment is only five blocks and an elevator ride away, but it feels like forever with the way her feet ache. Blisters for miles. The smell of fresh baking and steamed buns is her only solace in the city of sound. Even at five a.m., people are already speaking with all of their teeth.
As soon as she enters the apartment, Maisie’s whole body deflates. She staggers down the hallway into her bedroom and collapses on the bed. Charging all that dead baggage should probably be her priority, but everything suddenly feels heavy. Like the air itself is growing denser with every tense inhale.
So, Maisie doesn’t reach for her phone charger. She doesn’t even try to find her spare vape. And she doesn’t worry about the empty room just a few steps further down the hallway. It used to be Calypso’s. Calypso, electric, nymph with honey-coloured hair and deep brown eyes. Five foot seven. Minus twelve. The softest, gentlest palm over a cheek, and kisses pressed someplace you can hide. One day she went to bed and didn’t wake up.
That was always the most important part. Closing your eyes.