Sitting upright was difficult when an entire leg was missing. Mannique managed it, bravely, though she had been worn and upset. Amare had come home late for the third night in a row, which now meant that it warranted explanation. When he stepped into his white mini-mansion, he threw his keys on the marble counter top without any theatrics.
"Honey, I'm home."
Yet she was not impressed.
He walked past the enormous counter-island to open the fridge and dig through it, remembering that there was food he had intended to cook, prepped on a plate. The steak with seasoning sat, mostly indignant, upon a white plate. He tugged it off the shelf and set it on the counter. His wrist flicked to turn on the gas-lit stove.
"No, there isn't anyone else." He told her unchanging face as she watched him draw out a pan and place it on the stove. He was trying not to look over his shoulder at her, "I've just been having fun. You remember what fun is, don't you?"
The whole wide world remembered it, most of the time. He peeled out of his jacket and tossed it on a kitchen-nook chair. He was shirtless beneath, his skin yawning to the undisturbed night inside his home. His. Skin. The heat of it was uniquely warm, but it was his disturbed tattoo that stayed noticeable. A rectangle of the howling wolf image was missing and... it meant a lot that a werewolf had scars. Werewolves weren't supposed to scar, but their were piece marks against the skin of his back. It was like a abacus creating some final tally.
The pan hissed when he placed the seasoned steak on it, "Well, I won't be late next time. I guess. Seriously?" He looked at Mannique over his shoulder, "What you need to do is get a life of your own so that every little thing I do isn't that big of a deal. I swear to fucking Christ," He looked back at the pan and flipped his steak. There was a moment, brief as it was, that he could admire the brown-to black delicious crisping of the steak's flesh. The scent of chives hit the air.
"I'm not saying you're a loser! I didn't say that. I just said, for fuck's sake, that you needed some of your own hobbies so you wouldn't be so focused on me. I'm not TV." And despite what she, or even Saila thought, he wasn't even Google.
The steak slid onto a fresh plate. He threw a new pinch of salt onto it before grabbing it. One of his hands managed the plate, the other a fork and serrated knife. Together, he carried the items to the dining area and sat at his place where his company was waiting.
There was Bob. Billy. Bowen? He was seated to the right, but he was the least enjoyable. The rigor mortise that started yesterday had left him looking inflated and fake, but beyond all of that he smelled terribly. Jack and Sally had expired long ago, their faces drawn in and skeletal, but they tended to make for good conversation. The two of them, after all, had traveled the world and knew what it meant to squat over a hole in a public bathroom. How bold. Amare sat at the head of the table, eyeing Mannique as he stabbed his steak with a fork. She could be stubborn, and that was the part of her that drove him crazy.
"You could join us for dinner?" He cut a piece of his steak free, looking beyond Jack, Sally and Bowen. Mannique was at the half counter, still facing the direction he had been when cooking the steak. She couldn't be moved from her position, her painted-on eyes stared into the void, just to get his ire.
"Please? Oh, for fuck's sake." He leaned back, chewing the meat like it was gum and then swallowing. He tossed his hands up, "What do you want me to do, beg?"
Mannique said nothing. It was the cold shoulder treatment.
"Well? You can't expect me to be rude to our guests?" Somewhere, the smell of their decomposition kept the air heavy. The moment waited, heavy on the outcome of what she would do.
Slowly, she rose and came to join them, settling into one of the guest seats at the table next to Bob. Amare shifted uncomfortably, then resumed eating his steak. The sound of his knife and fork was the only symphony of noise in the home which watched, and waited, for what happened next.
"Honey, I'm home."
Yet she was not impressed.
He walked past the enormous counter-island to open the fridge and dig through it, remembering that there was food he had intended to cook, prepped on a plate. The steak with seasoning sat, mostly indignant, upon a white plate. He tugged it off the shelf and set it on the counter. His wrist flicked to turn on the gas-lit stove.
"No, there isn't anyone else." He told her unchanging face as she watched him draw out a pan and place it on the stove. He was trying not to look over his shoulder at her, "I've just been having fun. You remember what fun is, don't you?"
The whole wide world remembered it, most of the time. He peeled out of his jacket and tossed it on a kitchen-nook chair. He was shirtless beneath, his skin yawning to the undisturbed night inside his home. His. Skin. The heat of it was uniquely warm, but it was his disturbed tattoo that stayed noticeable. A rectangle of the howling wolf image was missing and... it meant a lot that a werewolf had scars. Werewolves weren't supposed to scar, but their were piece marks against the skin of his back. It was like a abacus creating some final tally.
The pan hissed when he placed the seasoned steak on it, "Well, I won't be late next time. I guess. Seriously?" He looked at Mannique over his shoulder, "What you need to do is get a life of your own so that every little thing I do isn't that big of a deal. I swear to fucking Christ," He looked back at the pan and flipped his steak. There was a moment, brief as it was, that he could admire the brown-to black delicious crisping of the steak's flesh. The scent of chives hit the air.
"I'm not saying you're a loser! I didn't say that. I just said, for fuck's sake, that you needed some of your own hobbies so you wouldn't be so focused on me. I'm not TV." And despite what she, or even Saila thought, he wasn't even Google.
The steak slid onto a fresh plate. He threw a new pinch of salt onto it before grabbing it. One of his hands managed the plate, the other a fork and serrated knife. Together, he carried the items to the dining area and sat at his place where his company was waiting.
There was Bob. Billy. Bowen? He was seated to the right, but he was the least enjoyable. The rigor mortise that started yesterday had left him looking inflated and fake, but beyond all of that he smelled terribly. Jack and Sally had expired long ago, their faces drawn in and skeletal, but they tended to make for good conversation. The two of them, after all, had traveled the world and knew what it meant to squat over a hole in a public bathroom. How bold. Amare sat at the head of the table, eyeing Mannique as he stabbed his steak with a fork. She could be stubborn, and that was the part of her that drove him crazy.
"You could join us for dinner?" He cut a piece of his steak free, looking beyond Jack, Sally and Bowen. Mannique was at the half counter, still facing the direction he had been when cooking the steak. She couldn't be moved from her position, her painted-on eyes stared into the void, just to get his ire.
"Please? Oh, for fuck's sake." He leaned back, chewing the meat like it was gum and then swallowing. He tossed his hands up, "What do you want me to do, beg?"
Mannique said nothing. It was the cold shoulder treatment.
"Well? You can't expect me to be rude to our guests?" Somewhere, the smell of their decomposition kept the air heavy. The moment waited, heavy on the outcome of what she would do.
Slowly, she rose and came to join them, settling into one of the guest seats at the table next to Bob. Amare shifted uncomfortably, then resumed eating his steak. The sound of his knife and fork was the only symphony of noise in the home which watched, and waited, for what happened next.