The dim glow of a distant streetlamp cast a ghostly halo over the car, parked in the furthest corner of the gravel lot. Inside, Zurich lay sprawled across the backseat, his breathing deep and steady until a cacophony of drunken laughter stirred him. He fluttered his eyes open to the spectacle of a group of women holding onto one another, whooping at the night sky as they stumbled past. Peering through the foggy window, he watched the flickering streetlights intermittently illuminate the rows of silent vehicles.
His gaze shifted to the dashboard. The clock displayed 1:45 a.m. in glaring, accusatory digits. A surge of adrenaline dispelled the alcoholic haze as the weight of his tardiness struck him. He tried to move but was immediately reminded of his recent detour. The half-dressed woman with smudged mascara and wavy hair lay tangled across the seat, her face soft in slumber. On the floor mat, a used condom lay forgotten—a silent witness to the evening's excess.
"Hey," Zurich nudged her, his voice a coarse whisper. "Triss. Time to go."
Triss blinked into the dimness, groggily acknowledging the end of their brief escapade. With a yawn, she scrambled to gather her clothes, piecing together her presentability with the skill of someone accustomed to swift departures. Her movements were practiced, though her makeup remained smeared and her hair refused to be tamed, settling into a wild, tangled mess.
With one last look at Zurich, she managed a crooked smile. "It was nice to meet you, Zurich. Call me, yeah?" A genuine glint of interest in her eyes both interested and repelled Zurich. Then she stepped out into the cool air, her farewell echoing in the cramped space.
Zurich clumsily climbed into the driver's seat, fumbling with the keys and nearly dropping them twice before the engine roared to life. His tired eyes struggled to focus on the road. He was clearly inebriated, a fact that became all too apparent when a police cruiser passed by in the opposite direction, causing him to squint and grip the wheel until his knuckles turned white.
With a heavy sigh, he turned onto Christy’s street. The familiar sight of the apartments drudging up memories. Christy still lived at his old stomping grounds, Oakmont Apartments, just a few doors down from where she grew up in building C, Zurich in building E. Finding a place to park, he jerked the car into a stop and staggered toward the darkened front door. The key rebelled in his hand, refusing to align with the lock. When the door finally swung open, it revealed Christy’s startled, furious face.
"It's 2 AM, Jay," she hissed, her voice a sharp, angry whisper. "And you're drunk."
"I'd… I'd really like to sleep now," he drunkenly mumbled, leaning unsteadily against the frame.
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"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice straining with worry. "You said eleven or twelve."
Zurich's eyes could hardly meet hers as he offered a half-hearted apology. "Had some… things to do." His gaze drifted down to the negligee she was wearing. Reflexively, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting dull kisses along her neck. "You're looking... really good."
Despite her rage, Christy leaned into the touch, the long-starved need for affection briefly outweighing her irritation.
She turned to face him, their lips meeting in a desperate kiss that pushed them back against the kitchen counter. "Not here," she whispered, halting him. "The kids."
They tumbled onto the bedroom mattress, the air thick with heat and desperation. Zurich groped deliriously for a condom in his pocket, but his hand emerged with only an empty, torn wrapper—the ghost of Triss still clinging to his fingers.
The light from the hallway caught the foil. Christy’s eyes fixed on it, and the slap that followed left a stinging, white-hot imprint on his face.
"What the hell, Jay?" Christy bellowed, her voice piercing the room. "Are you serious? Day one? You’re disgusting!" She pounded his chest, each hit sharper than the last. “I’m done! I’m not going through this again!” Her resolve hardened with every swing.
The light flicked on in Jace’s room. In the distance, the baby began a thin, plaintive wail.
"Get out! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!" Christy screamed. She seized a glass from the nightstand and flung it. It sailed past his ear, shattering against the doorframe and raining splinters down like her broken trust.
“Stupid cunt,” Zurich spat, the words escaping without hesitation.
"What's wrong, Mom? Are you okay?" Jace asked, concerned.
"Get back in your room!" Christy barked back.
Zurich stood frozen for a moment, the innocent inquiry from Jace that held him in place, echoing a haunting familiarity. Jace’s question froze him.
What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay?
The same words. The same looking hallway. The same sound of breaking glass. For a sickening second, Zurich wasn’t in Christy’s apartment; he was nine years old again, watching his own mother fall apart.
Jace ran to his side, looking up with eyes that begged for a reassurance Zurich didn't possess. He reached down and patted the boy’s head, that familiar, leaden numbness wrapping tight around his ribs.
“Bye, kid. I gotta go now.”
Zurich stumbled out. Christy slammed the door behind him with a force that echoed like a gunshot. He staggered back to the parking lot, the fog of the alcohol mixing with the shock of the memory. He figured, like always, he could smooth it over later. He always did.
But as he maneuvered away from the scene, a subtle jingle reminded him of the keys he still held—the keys to Christy's car. With thoughts dulled by alcohol and movements on autopilot, he climbed inside. Without a glance back, he drove off into the night.
