31. DMITRI

31

DMITRI

I'm back in Vancouver after being away for two games. It's past midnight when I come home, but I still stop in front of my second bedroom, wondering if Kavi is there, sleeping on the other side.

She was supposed to move in while I was gone, but part of me doesn't believe she's there.

My palm hovers above her doorknob, then I bring it down again.

Her light is off.

There's nothing we need to say to each other.

Hey. I'm checking to see if you're really here. That I haven't imagined you.

I go to bed.

In the morning, I toss on sweatpants before I head towards the kitchen.

All the lights are off.

Before I can switch them on, I notice the glare of something sharp. It's the only thing illuminated in the apartment since my windows have blackout curtains and they haven't been pulled up yet. I pad closer.

A dark shape comes into focus. The sheen of pink hair.

My heart constricts. She's here. She came.

Kavi.

And she's working on a computer screen in the dark, sitting on a kitchen bar stool, unaware I'm approaching behind to watch.

She's editing photos. Not slowly, but with military precision. Whatever program she's using has a whole sidebar of tools she's switching between, faster than I can follow.

It's like watching a painter in warp speed apply brush strokes where you doubt the direction they're going, but then feel like a complete idiot once they finish because it ends up being brilliant.

She's not just good. It's gone way beyond that.

In five minutes, ten photos transform. Kavi crops and adjusts color fearlessly.

And the photos themselves…

She's going too fast. It's a birthday party, but fuck if it's not more than that. People. Celebration. Opening up. Rawness.

And I thought her drawings in high school were fucking impressive.

I rub a spot over my chest, frowning. Inside me grows a strange desire to print her work out. Frame it. Put it up. I'm leaning in closer when I see it.

A photo comes up of an old man covering his face. His cheeks are too red. Somehow I hear the hiccuping in my ears. The smell of acrid liquor. The photo is so viscerally taken that it tosses me into a memory I'm not ready for.

My dad. He won't meet my eyes. I didn't play well that night, so he drank.

"Fuck."

Too late I realize, I muttered the word out loud.

Kavi shrieks, falling off the bar stool.

I'm fast, but not fast enough to save her completely. Her leg bonks something, but I catch and cradle her head.

She punches me.