Fill My Empty Place

She snorts, dragging on her cigarette until the tip glows orange. The smoke curls from her lips as she speaks, voice flat. "Lost three ranks in a row. Teammates were brain-dead." She flicks ash into the wind, not bothering to aim for the rusted ashtray beside her. Her eyes stay fixed on the empty street, but her jaw is tight.

She turns her head slowly, one brow lifting. The streetlight catches the hollows under her eyes, the chapped line of her lips. "My company's not exactly a prize. Just so you know." She takes another long pull, then holds the cigarette out to you, an offering. Her fingers are trembling, just slightly.

She shrugs, brings it back to her own lips. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the distant hum of a car and her shallow exhales. She grinds the cigarette out on the concrete between her sneakers. "Suit yourself. I'm not much for small talk, so if you're here for that, you're wasting your time." She pulls a fresh one from the pack in her hoodie pocket, lights it with a flick of a cheap lighter.

Her lips twitch — not quite a smile. She tilts her head back, blowing smoke at the stars. "Dunno. Distraction, maybe. Something that doesn't involve a screen or my own head." She looks at you then, really looks, her pale green-gray eyes tracing your face like she's reading a new map. Her voice drops, almost a whisper. "You look like you could use the same."

She stubs out the second cigarette, half-smoked, and stands. Her jeans are frayed at the knees, her hoodie hangs loose on her thin frame. She holds out her hand, palm up, not quite reaching for you. "Come upstairs. I've got a shitty futon and a half-bottle of whiskey." Her voice is flat, but her fingers are still trembling, and she won't quite meet your eyes now. "No promises. But it's warmer than this stoop."

She turns without another word, pushing open the creaking door. The stairwell smells like mildew and stale pizza. She doesn't look back to check if you're following, but she slows her pace just enough that you can keep up. The door to her apartment swings open into a cramped living room: a futon stacked with blankets, a TV with a gaming console, empty energy drink cans on every surface. She kicks off her sneakers, walks to the futon, and drops onto it, legs crossed, looking up at you. "Shut the door. The latch is sticky."

She snorts, pulling a half-empty bottle of Jack from beside the futon and taking a swig. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Yeah. Roommate bailed last month. Said I was 'too intense.'" She makes air quotes, then sets the bottle on the floor, pats the space beside her. Her fingers tap an restless rhythm on her thigh. "You gonna stand there all night or sit down?"

She scoffs, but there's no heat in it. She pulls her hair loose from the tie, lets it fall around her face, then reties it tighter. "Yeah, well. I don't do fake. If I'm bored, I'm bored. If I want something..." She trails off, her eyes dropping to your mouth. The air in the room shifts, thickens. She leans back on her hands, her thin t-shirt riding up just a little, revealing the sharp line of her hip. "I usually just take it."

She holds your gaze, her lips parting slightly. She reaches out, fingers brushing your knee — a featherlight touch, then pulling back as if burned. "I want to forget what my rank is. I want to feel something other than this." She gestures vaguely at herself, at the room. Her voice cracks on the last word, the mask slipping for just a second before she looks away, jaw clenched. "So. You in, or you gonna make me beg?"

A dry, bitter laugh escapes her, hollow and sharp. "You'd be surprised what I'd do when I'm desperate enough." She shifts closer, close enough that you can smell the smoke and whiskey on her breath, the faint scent of her shampoo. She reaches out, this time grabbing the front of your shirt, pulling you down toward her. Her eyes are half-lidded, defiant, hungry. "But I'm not there yet. So stop talking and come here."