Pagan Pov

May 18, 2024

Three days. He hasn’t come back.

One day I expected. Two days I could shrug off. Three days twist something cold in my stomach.

I thought he was spending everything on my card, punishing me. But the app shows only one charge: fifty dollars at The Pour House around midnight. The exact amount I’d hoped to scrape back in tips. I picked up an extra shift today—my day off—to make it up. So far, ten dollars. Split with Bella, who’s prettier and doesn’t have a black eye.

Customers tip less when they have to look at the purple-brown bruise around my right eye. Some ask. Half believe the mugging story. The other half give me that knowing silence, the kind that says they’ve heard it before. I never correct them. I’ve told the prettier lie so many times it feels real: Memphis is good to me. Caring. We go on dates every Friday. Our life is sweet.

My professor even felt sorry for me. She extended my paper deadline—said it was fine to turn it in this weekend while I “heal.” It was the first thing that made me smile in days.

Bella works the register while I make drinks. Normally I’d be up front, but the boss switched us without a word. We all know why. People don’t like looking at things like this.

I keep my head down, avoiding eyes, until the next customer strolls in and pulls my gaze from the mobile order I am preparing. The man from the bus—the one who puked everywhere. He looks younger. The deep lines around his eyes have smoothed. Maybe the black eye messed up my vision. Maybe my brain too.

He moves slowly, eyes flicking over everything before settling on Bella. Her shoulders tense. She crosses her arms, smile gone, fingers tapping the counter like she’s holding herself still. I feel it too. The air thickens around him.

“Can I help you?” Bella asks, voice flat.

He stares at the menu board too long. “Coffee.” A pause, like he’s searching for the rest. “Light and sweet.”

Is this the same man who was so expressive the other day? His voice is slower, flatter. Maybe the sickness did something to him.

“And size? Hot or iced?” Bella presses, though it is not unusual that customers forget to specify these things.

He stares blankly, eyes on her. She glances back at me.

I finish the mobile order and slide it across the counter to the pick-up area. “How about a small hot coffee?”

“Yes.” He digs in his pocket, pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, and places it down. “Keep the change.”

Bella and I exchange a look. She beams, suddenly bright. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes.” His fingers curl around the cup like he’s testing its weight. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it, turns, and shuffles out with the stiff gait of a zombie.

Once he’s gone, I lean in. “That was… strange”

“Maybe he’s hungover.” Bella shrugs, eyes on the bill like it’s a gift. “Or he thought one of us was cute.”

A hundred bucks? No one hungover has cash like that. And no one, with me looking like this, would think I’m cute, and as attractive as Bella is, I don’t think it was that either. Something was wrong with him—like, he didn’t quite know how to be here.

I let the conversation drop as the blender whirs, crushing ice.

Our shift comes to a close. Bella hands me twenty from the tip jar along with some extra change, which is more generous than her usual practice of hoarding tips since she’s sleeping with Jonathan, our manager, who turns a blind eye to it. This little windfall gives me a moment to breathe. I don’t rush home immediately. For the first time in days, I feel brave enough to look for him.

Half of me wants to end it—slap him, scream, walk away. The other half aches to see him, to apologize, to hope this time it’ll be different. The same vicious cycle every fight.

I miss him.

The Pour House is quiet in the afternoon. Zachary is behind the bar—always calm, always kind. 

“Hey,” I say, stepping up. “Sorry to bother you, but have you seen Memphis? He hasn’t been home since Wednesday. This is the last place I know he went.”

Zachary frowns, thinking. “Not since that night. Bathroom was out of order, so he went out back. Never even finished his drink. That’s not like him.”

Worry tightens my chest. Memphis would’ve drained every drop he paid for.

“Thanks.” I step outside and peer into the alley. Overflowing dumpster, flies buzzing, graffiti, broken glass. The smell hits—rotting food baked in the heat. I pinch my nose and scan the ground.

There, his worn wallet. The leather one I got him for his birthday years ago.

I pick it up. Open it. License. Cards. Mine too. Cash—all untouched.

“That asshole,” I mutter. He had enough to cover rent and drinks.

No robbery. No one took it. Not even the homeless or scavengers have found it, seeing it has this much cash. Something else has happened.

I move deeper into the alley. Dark red goop clings to the corner of the building— heavy, viscous sludge with thin tendrils. Not blood, but it smells like copper and rot. In the middle, a rounded shape—split open, like a flower or an egg. The stench is worse up close.

A chill crawls under my skin. I back away fast, heart hammering.

Whatever this is, it’s not right.

I leave the alley, gulp fresh air, and head for the police station. Report him missing.

Memphis and cops never mix. He’ll be furious if this is nothing.

I walk, purse clutched tight. Halfway there, I see him across the street.

Memphis.

Same clothes—dirtier, ripped. Face shadowed with days of stubble. I’ve never seen him so unshaven.

He shuffles, eyes drifting over signs, sky, buildings. Vacant. Lost.

People give him a wide berth. I don’t blame them. He looks… unhinged.

I can only think of one thing now: drugs. He must have gotten on some. Though I only ever knew him to smoke weed.

I cross without looking—tires screech, horn blares. Insults fly. I wave an apology and run toward him.

He’s entering the park. I follow, heart pounding.

“Memphis.”

No response.

I grab his arm. He stops, turns abruptly.

His face is cast in darkness. We left on bad terms, but right now, none of that matters. He’s here. Alive.

“What happened?” I step in front of him. His gaze follows—deep, too deep. “Are you okay?”

He’s never looked at me like this. Like, he’s seeing me for the first time.

His lips part, but no words.

I narrow my eyes in concern. The movement pulls at my swollen bruise. My fingers slide from his arm to his hand. “Let’s go home. I don’t know what’s happened the last few days, but you can tell me when you’re ready.”

I entwine our fingers, tug him gently. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. Everything. I forgive you.”

The words taste bitter, but I say them anyway.

“Okay.” His voice is slow, drawn out. “Pagan.”

I squeeze his hand. The walk home is silent—the longest, calmest one we’ve ever had.

I start the shower, set out towels and clean clothes. “Here. A shower will help sober you up.”

He stares at the water pouring from the head, fascinated, like he’s never seen it before.

I close the door gently. He doesn’t move right away. Minutes pass before I hear the belt buckle, clothes hitting the floor.

I close my eyes, listening to the water. My mind drifts back to the alley—the red goop, the split shape, the smell.

Drugs. That’s all it is. He said my name. That’s Memphis on the other side of the door. Just Memphis.

Nothing else.