I overslept. In the morning I had to pull the curtains to shun myself from the sunlight. The bright wail of the morning light only made me languorous. The seeping dusk made me feel more alive.

I hadn’t replied to emails. My inbox was brimming with caps lock headers prompting deadlines and clients demanding if I’m still in the project. I sighed, leaned my head against the desk and replied with some sympathy-inducing excuse about a family emergency. Then I crept back to bed, pulled the covers and groaned.

I swear, there was a time when I woke to a shuffling in the window. When I opened my eyes I saw Sin with her head pressing against my pillow, as though she had lowered herself gently to watch me sleep while trying not to grace herself too much on the side of the bed, fearing it would wake me up. I grinned while whispering a tender ‘hey’ to her ear before extending an arm around her neck. She complied, however, as she nudged forward and pressed herself further. I propped myself up, enclosed my fingers on her cheek and pressed my forehead against hers. Then I heard her whisper.

“For the wages of sin is death.”

I was rattled by a sudden blare of power chords and the boisterous shudder of a mobile phone. The small screen from my bedside table lit up. I swear I wouldn’t set up alarms. They were aggravating tremors during a pleasant slumber. I haven’t even bothered to check if I still have a phone since I was mugged.

I had a message from an unsaved sender: You spend so much time sleeping, the night is young.

It was 10pm.

I had to take a bus to a local spot. The travel time is roughly an hour. There I could walk or skate a few more blocks. Then you could hear the scraping of wheels and decks against the concrete among the rumble of passing cargo trucks and commuter vehicles. They were like the sound of a church choir informing you that you’re on track.

There were several teens, barely ones my age. I could strike up a conversation with them if I want to, although I suck at recalling names. Several times they hail an amiable greeting and I would return it with a nod or a grin, then try keeping the conversation to a minimum. It’s not that I see them as kids. I could still pass for a college student despite my age. It’s just that I suck in exerting effort to maintain a straight attendance to any social gathering. I’m conserving them from a tremendous amount of disappointment by not being a friend.

I dropped my board, to me it’s like dropping to my knees with a rifle in hand. Stepping on the board is like aiming it. And before me, the others swarmed, oblivious and aimed at their own tricks. These skaters only had an empty park. Makeshift ramps and pipes could be anything.  

I pulled a mobile phone from my pocket. Not yet, I thought, not knowing if she’s somewhere comfortably adjacent to where I stood wouldn’t help with me grinding around on my own.

There’s no new message. She must have been mocking me with the first one.

“Fuck you.” I typed.

The phone beeped before I could slip it in my pocket. “Five o’clock.”

My eyes perused the benches of the greens behind me. A solitary figure sat crouched on one of them, hood pulled up.

Sin was staring into the skyline, fingers twined under her chin. When I approached her, she spoke. “Have you ever heard that ‘curiosity killed the cat’ isn’t really the full phrase?”

I sat down and shook my head.

She went on, “It’s actually ‘curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back’.”

“What’s your point?” I asked querulously.

She grinned. “If I killed you, you’d be smiling.”

I gave a slight chuckle. She extended a hand towards me without turning her head. “Got some sticks?”

I drew a pack and a lighter out of my pocket. She tapped loose a cigarette and lit. The gratification in inhaling the smoke reflected in her face. I wondered if she still had the pleasure of tasting a slice of cake or a sip of freshly brewed coffee.

“Nicotine,” I said, “You know nicotine’s what makes cigarettes addictive. Does that still work for you?”

Sin shook her head. “The addiction’s more psychological. I could tell myself I want a cigarette, fabricate a memory of the pleasure of smoking it. I haven’t had one since I was turned, and I certainly have no idea about what it’s like to crave for a smoke. I could stop when I want to knowing I’m not truly addicted. But still, there’s something fascinating about a certain blunt tool for self-destruction.”

There is something dismal and thought-provoking about hearing her instinctively reflecting, like observing someone with Alzheimer’s. To her memories were nothing but scenes perceived from a film projector. Viewed but not felt. The emotions were harbored from a separate source, from the remainder of her own humanity inching away slowly.

“I started smoking in college,” I said, “I quit for a while, so I don't know exactly how addiction should feel like. When I had a corporate job I had to excuse myself to smoke whenever I made a mistake. I don’t know if I’m intentionally making mistakes to smoke or I’m venting out my disappointment by smoking. I also tried pot before. It’s like losing grip of reality then waking up with a girl in bed with you. Anyway,” I paused, then sought a response from the nonchalant expression on her face, “the girl didn’t get pregnant. She just dumped me unexpectedly. Told me I was too vacant.”

I keep seeing that expression on her face since we spoke, distant and wrathful yet immersed in wistfulness. Still, she looked hot, like she’s sculpted in porcelain. She wasn’t that pretty before. It must have been due to being pale and having her eyes look like she’s been in chronic insomnia for weeks. It made them appear quite larger than they used to be. Even her lips seemed flushed and fuller.

“Do you miss it,” I asked, “being an artist?”

She smiled, stomped her cigarette out and stood, then slipped her hands in her pockets.

“Would you like to see what I’ve been doing lately?” she asked.