Chapter 3 #2
Thankfully, Denny suddenly remembered about the half mixed batter in the bowl and abandoned the dishwasher to go back to it. Her eyes travelled up Eris’ crossed arms to linger briefly on the sports bra and the ugly bruises beneath it.
“I’ll get you a bit of everything, you pick what you want, yeah?”
Coffee. Eris wanted coffee. Maybe after a couple of cups she’d feel less disoriented. It was unlikely it was a concussion. She’d had one before: the symptoms didn’t add up.
Her gaze roamed around the kitchen in search of a coffee machine, only finding an air-frier. There was, however, a jug-like metal thing on the induction hob that looked promising.
Denny glanced behind herself to check what Eris was staring at.
“You want coffee? It’ll be right up!” She dropped the wooden spoon into the bowl, licked a smudge of batter off the back of a finger, and rushed to a cupboard infested by sticky notes to fetch a tiny cup and its saucer.
Eris frowned at them.
“You don’t like it? Oh, it’s too small? Yep, gotcha!” The unreasonably small cup was replaced by a proper mug, a beautiful pumpkin-shaped one that Eris would’ve bagged, if she’d been in a café. “Correct me if I get it wrong, yeah? I’m trying. Your face is… very communicative.”
It wasn’t the first time Eris was hearing that. She’d often been reprimanded, ever since she was little, that she needed to learn to control her face, but she had never mastered that art, nor did she understand the sense in it. It wasn’t her problem if people got offended by honesty.
“Forgive me for asking, but… are you mute?”
Eris hissed out a laugh through her teeth and shook her head.
“Thought so. Can I ask why you won’t talk to me?”
Eris gave a half-arsed shrug. She didn’t have an answer to that.
It happened, from time to time; she could happily go for days without hearing the sound of her own voice (and even more happily without hearing the sound of anyone’s voice).
This time it just felt more… permanent, like a switch stuck on off.
“Okay, no worries. We can wing it until you feel like talking.”
Eris arched an eyebrow. You’re talking enough for the both of us and then some.
Denny bit her lip. “I yap too much, don’t I?
Eris’ brow rose further up. The pink rising in Denny’s cheeks highlighted the constellation of freckles sprinkled across them. This girl’s face card was unreal.
“Not a fan of chatter, huh?”
You reckon?
Denny smiled as she filled the pumpkin-shaped mug with fresh coffee.
“Sugar? Milk?”
Eris just brought the mug to her lips and took a long sip.
“Black. Gotcha.” Denny took the batter to the hob. “We could use our phones to communicate,” she said, taking a large frying pan out of a cabinet. “What’d you say? I speak, you type.” She turned back. Eris didn’t deign to respond. “Or not. Hey, it’s fine. We’ll manage somehow.”
Eris couldn’t stop staring at her.
At the core, she was more attracted to personalities than looks, but in the past ten years she hadn’t kept anyone long enough to get attached. Denny was one of those people whose effortless beauty made it hard to remember to look further.
She had high, sharp cheekbones and a honey complexion that brought out the unusual colour of her eyes, slender hands that worked deftly, almost nervously. It was safe to say she was the most genuinely attractive woman Eris had ever seen, and she spent quite a lot of time admiring beautiful women.
Within minutes, a stack of golden pancakes materialised on the table, along with more food than Eris typically saw in a week.
Her breakfast usually consisted of whatever she managed to swipe off a Tesco shelf and sneak away with.
On lucky days, a bagel or a sandwich. Until not long ago, lunch had been included in her contract, allowing her to pocket something extra for dinner, too.
Now she had dire times ahead of herself.
Chewing on the first bite of pancakes, she had to slow down to take in the nuances of the flavour.
Butter, cinnamon, and something zesty she couldn’t identify.
The sweetness of the maple syrup mixed with the slight sourness of the jam.
It all tasted foreign to her, as someone who didn’t know what a home-cooked meal was.
Had Denny said she’d made the jam herself?
The girl had a staggering amount of food on her plate: pancakes, fruit chunks, toast, almonds, cottage cheese, beans… Looking at her lithe frame, Eris would’ve bet she was the kind of girl who counted calories to watch her figure.
“So, what’s your name?”
Eris had a hard time disconnecting her attention from her taste buds to tune back into reality.
Her name.
Denny wanted to know her name.
Fair, given all the trouble she’d gone through for Eris. The thing was: Eris never gave her real name to strangers. Never gave herself to strangers. But Denny was nothing like the people she was used to dealing with. In fact, she was probably the most harmless person she had met.
It was just a name, after all. Denny would forget about her in a matter of days.
Oh, what the hell.
She reached across the table to take Denny’s hand and turned her palm up to spell on it with the tip of her thumb.
Denny’s features crumpled in concentration. “Ebis? Oh, Eris? Like the goddess of strife?”
The goddess of what?