Sara wasn’t really reading her book. Her hands were getting clammy from holding the waxy cover, but she refused to put it down and admit defeat. After all, she had left her phone at Monica’s house, and so this battered copy of Stephen King’s The Stand was all that was standing between her and staring at the dull black marble of the floor.
It was raining hard when she left Somerville, and Monica had lent her a pair of knee socks that nearly matched the wool skirt and turtleneck, that Monica had pulled from her goodwill bag, and though she looked a bit more November than July, she felt clammy and cozy, occasionally catching a whiff of Monica’s lemon body spray coming out from the cloud of wet wool. She could have worn yesterday’s clothes- The lab coat hid a multitude of sins and she spent all day in a dark radiology lab anyway-it had felt good to make a production out of her need, to give Monica a domestic test. Her own jeans and tee were stuffed in a bag in her backpack, though she had carefully left a stray bangle in the bathroom, so that a future visit would be arranged.
When Zak got home, he would wonder about the new duds, and she would say that she had gotten them from a clothing swap at Monica’s house, and his eyes would get dreamy for a minute, as he thought of her samurai huntress costume from the last Con, with her carefully crafted foil wings, and twin katana swords, and her sweet spun sugar pink pixie cut that grazed that soft, friendly chin.
The purple skulls winked up at her as she walked across Charles street, and though the were getting just a bit more uncomfortable as the water penetrated, she bit her lip and smiled a bit. Her little huntress had been caught, and this spiritual sizzle zipping up and down her spine would get her through at least another week of living with Zak.