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The mug of steaming chamomile tea is warming her aching fingers, and Carol steps out onto her balcony with a content sigh. Allowing the weight of her day to ease from her shoulders, she leans slightly over the balustrade to watch the quiet street, only an occasional car or a cyclist passing by. A woman is pushing a stroller, talking hastily on the phone. Small heaps of brightly colored leafs are scattered all over the sidewalk, and the crisp air is yet another sign that fall has finally come.
A smokey, unpleasant scent hits her nostrils and Carol turns, smirking to herself as she watches Daryl. Elbows resting on the balustrade of his half of the balcony, cigarette pursed between his lips, an all too familiar sour expression on his face.
Thought you quit, she muses, not surprised that he doesn't even flinch at her presence. Unlike her, he must have noticed when she stepped outside, the wooden floorboards moaning under each step.
Shit day, he grunts, not turning to look at her. He's staring ahead blankly, and she wonders if he can see the neighbors across the street from this angle.
Sorry, she offers, setting her mug down on the small table. A few droplets of tea spill over and immediately soak into the cooking magazine she'd read this morning and abandoned on the table when she headed into work. Her mouth waters at the glossy image of a pistachio and chocolate pie.
She has long since stopped rolling her eyes at the sorry sight of Daryl’s half of the balcony. It's plain and empty with the exception of a worn chair and a table usually covered in an overflowing ashtray and a few long emptied beer bottles. Her own is a whole new world, overflowing with flower pots, the comfortable rattan chair loaded with brightly colored and patterned cushions, flowers and plants hanging from the ceiling and balustrade, a string of fairy lights up on the wall and candles on the table usually casting a warm glow during cold winter and lazy summer nights.
All that separates their two worlds is a small wall, no higher than her hip. The milky glass blend that should have offered them some privacy has been broken since the day she moved in. Originally, Ed had tried to replace it with a few planks drilled to it, but she'd torn them down the day she finally kicked his sorry ass out of the front door. Only two weeks after Sophia was born.
That was a year ago, and she can't even quite remember when she and Daryl have become... friends? It started slowly, Daryl stepping out for a smoke while she was reading a book or rocking Sophia on her lap. Offering nothing but a brisk nod of his head (although he always tossed his cigarette away when the baby was around). Small talk was not his strong suit – she realized that quickly after a few failed attempts at chatting about the weather or any other safe topic that came to mind.
But somehow, over time, their awkward and uncomfortable attempts at making conversation turned into something warm and comfortable, and she finds herself more often than not eager to get home from work and spend a few hours in Daryl’s company after Sophia has gone to sleep. They don't talk much, but it's nice knowing he is there, flicking through a motorcycle magazine or staring at his phone.
Ed showed up today, Carol sighs, taking a small sip of her tea.
That catches Daryl's attention and he looks up. His hair just keeps on growing, sadly hiding his eyes, but he flicks some strands away. It's a distracting sight. No way.
Carol nods, feeling frustrated. Tried to get in, but I slammed the door in his face. But he didn't leave, just kept shouting. I nearly called the cops.
Even though her and Daryl did not start talking until after Ed was gone, Carol knows that he was a witness to the catastrophe of her marriage. The walls of the apartments are paper thin, and it's not rare that she is treated to the sound of Daryl barking at his brother over the phone, or the bass of his music. And Daryl most certainly heard more than enough of what Ed threw at her day after day, both verbally and physically.
Son of a bitch, he mutters, smashing his cigarette into the ash tray on his camping table. There's genuine anger in his eyes. He does that again, you call me.
A soft laughter bubbles up from her throat at that, as sweet as his suggestion is. I don't have your number, Daryl, she reminds him, once more a little confused about what they really are. Friends have each others number. Friends don't live right next to one another and yet have never set foot in the other's apartment. And friends most certainly don't get as distracted by rolled up sleeves and loose strands of hair as she does.
Or by the way he blushes slightly at her words, looking down at what she assumes are his boots.
Oh, right. Something about the way his shoulders sag speaks of defeat, and Carol decides that it might be time to just throw all her inhibitions to the wind and take a step forward. Her life has changed so rapidly since she broke up with Ed, since she became a mother. It's like while the last ten years of her life happened in torturous slow motion, everything is now in fast forward.
Grabbing a pen from the table which she'd brought out earlier to solve the crossword puzzle in the back of the magazine, Carols scribbles down her number on a glossy corner, tearing it off with excitement and fear of rejection well balanced in her blood. Before she can question herself, she steps up to the small wall separating them and holds out the paper.
Daryl takes it with a dumbfounded expression, not even looking down at it. For a brief second, his fingers ghost over her palm, and the calloused touch has goosebumps rising up her arms. What's that? he asks, swallowing deftly.
My number. Carol tries to make sense of the tension that has taken hold of him, and fear begins to crawl its way underneath her skin that she might have taken one step too far. In case of emergency, she adds quickly, hoping her light and teasing tone can steer this situation away from the sheer awkwardness that is threatening to expand between them.
She looks down at her flowers instead, trails a hand over a soft, pink petal. Ya wanna come?
Daryl blurts out the words so quickly she hardly catches them, and when she meets his gaze he is scratching his chin nervously. Sorry?
Just thinkin'... he begins again, taking a small step forward. There's only a foot of space between them now, the stupid wall pressing into her thighs, but Carol's eyes are fixed on Daryl. Maybe ya wanna come over and... I don't know. Have coffee?
She can feel her eyebrows disappearing under the strands of her hair that are beginning to grow out, her eyes widening. I thought you'd never ask, she says then before she can stop herself. Briefly, she wonders if this is the wrong time to tease him, but now she can't take the words back anyway. And the flustered expression she receives in response is more than worth it. Wasn't sure if you're really so shy or just genuinely not interested.
Somehow, the space between them seems to have decreased, and she can feel his breath on her cheeks now, warm and damp in the crisp fall breeze. It's starting to grow dark, and the streetlights come alive with a nervous flicker. A dim, yellow light that casts shadows on his cheekbones and jaw, that sparkles in his blue eyes. I'm interested, he breathes, and when his eyes flicker down to her lips she feels like her stomach is alive with a thousand sparkling nerve endings.
Good. Her voice is just above a whisper, and she leans just a touch forward, brazing her hands on the wall between them to steady herself. Me, too.
The tip of his nose nudges hers, a fleeting touch that buckles her knees. It's been so long since she felt like this, her heart fluttering in her chest and her palms feeling clammy. She can still smell the cigarette on Daryl's breath but it doesn't matter right now. Not when his own hands come to rest on top of hers – warm and calloused. Instinctively, she leans forward to breach the remaining distance between them.
His lips are even warmer than his hands, surprisingly soft where they press against hers. A small sigh escapes her because this feels so right, so good. She'd forgotten how nice it could feel. The sound is barely audible, but Daryl can feel it, his fingers twitching against her hands.
The kiss is gentler than she expected considering the tension she'd felt between them. But it's a welcome surprise when he begins to kiss her back, just a sweet pressure of his lips against her own that leads to a slow and easy rhythm. It feels almost familiar, yet at the same time the thrill of a first tingles in her veins.
Parting the kiss isn't something she's very eager to do, but she does pull away with a heavy exhale after a moment. Opening her eyes, she feels the pink flushing her cheeks when Daryl looks right back at her. His lips are still parted, nearly drawing her back into a second kiss.
I- ehm, he murmurs, his voice hoarser than before. That-
Coffee tomorrow? she asks, quickly putting him out of his misery. He exhales in relief, one side of his mouth curling up into a half-smile that only makes her blush harder. Their hands are still touching, and she gently turns her own upwards until their fingers entwine easily.
Daryl nods, his throat bopping as he swallows. This time, he's the one to lean in and claim her lips in a kiss, and it sends small sparks of electricity down her spine.
She can't remember the last time she felt this light.