Eight years. Eight years since the break up, the fight in the bar, the heavy glasses smashing on the floor, the fine Whiskey splashing up her legs, pinpricks of blood forming on her calves. Eight years.
Eve wouldn’t have thought Villanelle even had her number anymore. But of course she did. Or at least she could get it if she really wanted to. She shouldn’t really have been surprised; her own phone was still programmed with her ex-girlfriend’s ringtone. Her body still remembered it, too. As soon as the first notes played through the darkness of the apartment, Eve’s pulse doubled, the blood pounding so hard in her ears she could barely hear the song anymore.
She almost didn’t believe it, tried to pull her scattered thoughts together to convince herself it was a dream. She did dream about Villanelle, after all. Even now. Even after eight years. But she hadn’t been sleeping, not even close. It was hard to sleep; it’d been hard to sleep for the past eight years.
Her fingers fumbled at the bedside table, finally grasping the phone. The caller ID read “Make Good Decisions, Don’t Pick Up”. She’d forgotten that she’d changed Villanelle’s name after they broke up. It was good advice. Make good decisions was always good advice. She generally followed it these days, she was doing well; that’s what her therapist said at least.
But Villanelle had never been conducive to good decisions.
The rings were running out. Eve pulled herself up in bed, sucked in her breath and answered it, “What do you want?”
The light laugh on the other end of the line was far, far too familiar. Even now. Eight years later. Eve’s head spun.
“What? I don’t even get a hello?” When Eve didn’t respond, Villanelle continued, “How are you?”
“You don’t care. What do you want, Villanelle?”
“Of course I care!” Eve could practically see the pouty lip and big eyes.
“You never cared. You needed me. And then you didn’t. I assume you need something now.”
There was that laugh again. “How about some sex?”
The pounding in Eve’s ears was back; if Villanelle said something else she didn’t hear it. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Villanelle.”
“Fuck. Yes, exactly.”
“Because you may have hated me with every fiber of your being - perhaps you still do - but the sex was always good, my dear. You can’t deny that.” Villanelle was right. She knew it. They both knew it.
“Mmm...I’m in a mood. Does it matter?”
Eve wanted to say that it mattered. She wanted to say something. She wanted to “make good decisions”.
But she didn’t. Not really.
“No. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
“Good. I’ll text you an address.”
The line went dead and Eve’s entire body suddenly felt very, very cold.