The Failing Hours

Nope, he shouldn’t be.

My right brow rises, and I dip my chin in a nod. Smile to myself, running the brush along my mug.

“My roommate Oz is the pervert, not me.” He sighs warily. The air between us is riddled with a prickle of tense energy. “I’m sorry.”

My head dips again, but I peek up at him under my long lashes.

“I am Violet. That was fucking rude.”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” The last thing I want to do is sit here and talk about my virgin status—or lack thereof.

Zeke

“That looks like a bumblebee.” Her words are wrapped in a delighted laugh.

I glance down at my ceramic mug, the one I’ve slapped a big I on (for Iowa), along with some crudely painted yellow and black stripes.

She’s right. It’s starting to look like a giant fucking bumblebee, and not even a skillfully painted one.

“Shut up, Violet!”

“I’m sorry! It’s so cute though! I can’t wait to see what it looks like once it’s fired and shiny from the kiln.”

“What the hell is a kiln?” And what does she mean, once it’s fired?

“A kiln bakes the paint onto the ceramic. Then it will be nice and shiny when it’s done.” She continues stroking light purple onto her cup, delicately drawn on flowers and polka dots. It’s pretty fucking adorable, way sweeter than my shitty Iowa mug.

“You mean I have to wait to see what it looks like finished?”

She looks up, surprised, brush paused in the air. “Is that what you’re all worked up about? You’re excited to see it and don’t want to wait?”

“Well yeah! I want to see it!” Duh.

“Zeke Daniels, I can’t believe it! You’re excited about your mug?”

“Fuck yeah!”

We both laugh and it feels good, way fucking better than being pissed off, which takes considerably more effort.

“Hey.” I give her hand a little poke with the tip of my paintbrush, leaving a little blob of yellow on her wrist. “I just realized something.”

Those big hazel eyes gaze at me, long black lashes fluttering, the angelic blonde hair shining. Man she’s beautiful, glossy lips parting, causing me to shift restlessly in my seat.

Jesus. No.

I shake my head. Shake it again.

Clear my throat. “Do you realize you haven’t stuttered since we’ve been here?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” I smear black paint on my mug. “Why do you think that is?”

Violet’s mouth opens, then closes, like a cute little fish gasping for air. “I don’t know? I-I…” Her pert nose wrinkles. “Shoot!”

“Dammit,” I groan. “I’m really sorry I mentioned it.”

“N-No, it’s okay. How long have we been here, an hour and a half? That’s a long time for me.” She looks proud. Beaming.

“Must be because you’re comfortable around me, huh?” I wink—actually fucking wink—teasing. “I don’t make you nervous anymore.”

“Actually, yes i-it probably means you don’t make me nervous anymore.” Her pink lips are still glossy and bent into a bashful smile.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But no one feels comfortable with me.”

“I do.”

“Why?” I stare at her like she’s bat-shit crazy. She must be.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…mostly I think it’s your size.”

“Uh, how would I take that the wrong way?”

“I-I just figured you prefer to come off as intimidating. I was intimidated at first, but now I just find it comforting.”

“Uh, the next words out of your mouth better not be like a giant teddy bear.”

“Those are not my next words. I didn’t say snuggly, I said comforting.”

I lean forward in my chair. It creaks. “You don’t think I’m snuggly?”

Her forehead creases. “Have you ever snuggled in a cozy blanket?”

I snort. “Of course not.”

“Have you ever snuggled a cute little furry animal?”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “No.”

“Have you ever snuggled someone watching a movie, or when they were upset?”

“Uh, big fat no.”

“I rest my case.” She grins, satisfied. “Comforting, not snuggly—though for the record, you’re missing out.

“Whatever. I could be both if I wanted to be.” Deciding my mug is finished, I push it into the center of the table and shift around the small stack of containers and supplies impeding my view of hers. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s see it. Let’s see your masterpiece.”

“I’m still working on it,” she whispers.

I get the feeling she isn’t talking about her mug.

Violet finishes her project; it turns out a whole hell of a lot better than mine. Hers is neatly designed and intricately detailed, light lavender with little flowers painted all around a dark purple monogram of her initials, the letters curling and intertwining. Mine on the other hand?

Looks like a steaming pile of dog shit.

I won’t get into specifics, but a three-year-old could have done a better job.

I scowl at the damn thing.

“We never got anything to eat. You hungry?”

Violet bobs her head up and down. “I could go for something to eat, yeah.”