Striking Crimson

The numbers of the clock were a striking crimson, like that lipstick Georgia liked to wear for going out. Peter blinked a few times, wishing for the stinging in his eyes to subside. It was another uncomfortable reminder of his unexplainable hatred for the color. Or, maybe, it could be explained—perhaps by his dislike for the behavior that had now become routine. The 3 on the clock was inescapable, and though he prayed that tonight would be different, he knew it wouldn’t be. He even knew subconsciously, evident in his premature awakening, before he held his breath to listen. In the silence, he ran his hand over the other half of the bed. It was admittedly disappointing, but by no means surprising, to find it empty. Georgia’s spot was still warm, as if her presence lingered there. Upon sitting up and looking over into the darkness, dimly lit only by that cursed scarlet glow, he could have traced where her body had laid by the creases in the sheets.

Peter’s sigh pierced the silence as he ran his hand through his hair. For a moment, it crossed his mind that tonight may be the night that he finally takes action, finally makes everything different. Or at least back to how it was before all this started. Peter was at least sufficiently self-aware, and realized that he’d never work up the courage. He realized that it would undoubtedly be fruitless to continue entertaining these impossible fantasies, and instead got up to peer through the curtain and out onto the balcony as he always did. It was hard for even Peter to tell whether he did it hoping for a familiar sight or anything but. Hopes aside, though, it was just the same. Georgia, beautiful as ever, leaning with her arms draped over the ledge of the balcony. The breeze was gently blowing her hair around her face, but she didn’t seem to mind, bathing in moonlight as she gazed out past the dunes and onto the ocean, with the lull of its calming waves and sparkling reflection of the stars.

Despite the circumstances, Peter couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Even if the situation wasn’t perfect, she was, and she was all he ever needed, even in that moment.

Peter moved his hand from the curtain, allowing it to sway slightly as it fell back into place. He crossed the room, entering the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He was sure not to lock it—he never did, he hated locks. Maybe because of Georgia’s habit of locking the balcony doors at night, or maybe she locked them because she knew how he felt, or maybe it was completely irrelevant and he was overthinking again. She hated when he did that.

In his absence, Georgia found the strength to return to bed every night. After some time, Peter would join her, and in the morning neither of them would mention it.

Peter closed his eyes. The sound of the leaky faucet aggravated him, but he was strangely thankful for it, too. Just like everything else, it had become part of The Routine. He felt some odd connection to it, as if they were going through this together. The leaky faucet was reliable, predictable, unchanging; quite comforting for a man desperate for stability.

After some time had passed without any sign of Georgia’s return, Peter felt a panic begin to swell in his stomach. His throat burned, but he didn’t want to interrupt the wonderfully rhythmic dripping of the faucet, and he wouldn’t dare leave the bathroom. No, the worst possible thing he could do would be to interrupt The Routine.

Another part of him—a more curious, adventurous fragment of his personality—wondered. What would it be like to break out of The Routine? He imagined how good it would feel to no longer be a slave to The Routine. For the first time, he admitted to himself how heavily it weighed on him—not just every night, but into the daylight hours as well. Before, Peter felt powerless, but maybe Georgia’s unusual lack of compliance with The Routine was a sign.

Peter listened to the leaky faucet for a while longer, savoring the moments before he’d dive headfirst into his greatest fear: the unknown. He wasn’t even sure how to prepare himself for this moment, he had no idea what to expect. It would be the first time he’d ever confronted Georgia, and her reaction could be anything. A lack of control represented danger, and yet—Peter reminded himself—being the one to initiate the conversation was a valuable asset in terms of retaining control.

Feeling satisfied with his thorough logic, Peter slipped out of the bathroom, glancing back at the leaky faucet once more, as if for luck, which he was undeniably in need of.

Peter pulled on the door handle, but it didn’t budge. Georgia spun and, seeing Peter, widened her eyes in slight shock. Neither of them had expected The Routine to be defied, and suddenly everything had become unsure.

Hesitantly, Georgia unlocked the door. Peter considered making some lighthearted comment about how odd it was that the door locked from the outside, but the grave expression on Georgia’s face changed his mind.

“Georgia,” Peter said, concentrating on keeping his voice unwavering, “I think it’s time we talk about this.”

“About what?” Georgia asked, with the airy voice she always used when attempting to appear more innocent than she really was.

Peter leaned up at the railing and looked out. A beautiful scene, really. The sea, the stars, the moon, and Georgia herself. If only they didn’t have to be so serious, so dismal. But after this was all over, it could go back to how it was before, and everything would be lovely and dreamlike again.

Peter put his hand on Georgia’s back. He moved close to her, but she remained rigid like an unbending board.

“All this…I don’t know what to call it,” Peter said. “The Routine we’ve developed.”

Georgia, of course, knew exactly what he meant. Her hands fidgeted on the balcony, and with a sinking feeling, Peter realized the glint of light he hoped to see was impossible—she wasn’t wearing her ring.

“I just can’t bear to stay there next to you all night,” she admitted.

Peter felt his hand slide off her back, almost automatically, and he interlocked his fingers over the railing instead. He stayed silent, hoping she would understand that it was his way of inviting her to continue speaking.

She delivered on his request after a brief pause. “You know, I think I’ve been realizing that this isn’t right.”

“‘This’?” Peter repeated, desperate to understand.

“Us,” Georgia clarified. “I’m not saying I never loved you. I’m not saying I did, either. I…I don’t really know anymore. I just know that something needs to change.”

Peter gulped, unsure of how to respond. “Is there…something I should’ve done differently?”

Georgia shook her head. “It’s just…we’re not compatible.”

For a few more hours, they spoke out on the balcony. And in the morning, Peter repeated the story to the police officers that arrived at the home. A nice, beachfront cottage with beautiful rooms, where nothing bad should ever happen. But Georgia had disappeared. The officers agreed with Peter’s guess—she must’ve run away. It wasn’t hard to see why. She’d admitted to losing the spark with Peter, and now she’d run off, possibly even with another man.

That night, Peter awoke as usual. The sheets beside him were uncreased and cold, and he didn’t need to look out on the balcony. But, almost habitually, he found himself in the bathroom yet again. The familiar dripping of the faucet made him smile, and he didn’t seem to mind the striking crimson color of the pool forming on the tiles, leaking out from the cabinets under the sink.