Kinda Complicated

Sketches & Solitude

Weeks pass. Mikey finds new coffee shops to sketch in, ones without memories of leather jackets and that half-smile. He buries himself in his dissertation, starts three different art projects, abandons two. Sometimes he takes the long way home just to walk past the bar where Ash might be. He never goes in, yet hopes to find Ash stumbling drunk out of it one day.It never happens. Instead, Mikey spots Ash everywhere else. At the laundromat, slouched in a blue plastic chair with a Sudoku book and a bag of discount detergent. Outside the campus library, watching a mutt bark at the revolving doors. Once, inexplicably, straddling an electric scooter in the alley by the 7-Eleven, tearing open a sleeve of Hostess Donettes with cigarette-hardened fingers.

Each time, Mikey walks by without a word. Once or twice, Ash glances up, but never with an expectation to be greeted, more like he’s tuning in on a frequency only they share—a soft ping on the sonar, acknowledged, then moving on. Mikey tells himself he prefers it this way. He lets the distance fill with imagined conversations, all the things Ash might say if he ever tried, all the retorts Mikey will never again get to deliver.

He paints. Or tries to. The studio is a closet-sized room with one window, the glass warped so that late-afternoon sun splinters into kaleidoscopic stripes across the drop cloths. He daubs pigment onto paper, then scrapes it away, dissatisfied, a process equal parts creation and erasure. Sometimes, he paints abstract interiors: the outlines of a bodega at night, a row of mismatched chairs, the soft bloom of fluorescence under the tongue of a vending machine. He does not paint people. Or if they appear, they're only shadows, outlines, the residual warmth left on a plastic seat after someone’s left.

The nights are harder. Mikey’s roommate has started dating someone new, and they spend most evenings at her girlfriend’s place. Mikey has the apartment to himself, the silence broken only by the thrum of the fridge and the intermittent parade of trains running the express track above their building. Sometimes he reads, but mostly he finds himself refreshing social feeds in a compulsive, joyless rhythm. He pretends he is checking world news or group assignments, but really he is looking for fragments of Ash: a tagged photo, an offhand meme, a comment left on someone else's status. He is rewarded once, at two in the morning: a blurry picture from a bowling alley, Ash with a group of people Mikey doesn't recognize, head c****d, beer midair, an aura equal parts detachment and provocation. Mikey stares at it until the shapes of the other faces blur out and only Ash remains, fuzzed with motion, untouchable and still impossibly present.

Sometimes he dreams of the balcony, but the city is different in each: upside-down, or submerged, or stitched together from the floors of every dead mall he'd ever researched. Mikey wakes up wanting to text Ash, just to see if the other person is awake too, but he never does. He is learning the art of absence. He is not sure if it suits him.

The next time Mikey sees Ash, he is in the cold fluorescent aisle of the off-campus grocery—a late-night run for ramen and instant coffee. Ash is standing by the freezers, staring at rows of plastic-wrapped pizza with the gravity of someone about to make an irreversible choice. The store is almost empty. Mikey considers detouring, then walks down the aisle anyway, the cart rattling in front of him. He stops a few feet away, pretends to scan the Lean Cuisines.

Ash glances over and holds the look for a second, not quite a greeting, not quite a dare. He looks like he hasn’t slept or maybe just woke up for the first time in his life. His hair is a mess, his cheeks sharp with winter.

''Hey,'' Mikey says, voice waterlogged but calm.

''Hey.'' Ash’s hand hovers over a frozen burrito, then lets it fall. ''Late dinner?''

''It’s academia,'' Mikey says. ''Everything is late.''

There is a tension in the space between them—not just the chill from the freezer air, but something like a third party, humming between the syllables. For a moment, neither says anything else. Mikey feels the ache of possibility, the way he wants to reroute all his currents, but he’s not sure if there’s even a map for what comes next. He pretends to examine the nutritional info on a block of tofu, then sets it down, a gesture of surrender.

Ash breaks first, a hoarse laugh, old battery acid and something almost warm. ''How’s the paper? Still resurrecting the shopping mall?''

Mikey shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again—a broken semaphore. ''Made it to the footnotes. My advisor says I can finally graduate into muttering at pigeons in a bus terminal.''

Ash cracks a smile, then leans in, elbows braced on the edge of the freezer case. ''Probably a market for that. You could open a stand. People love a side of existential horror with their train fare.''

Mikey’s laugh is short and weirdly involuntary. In the towering, unmanned silence of the store, it sounds like furniture scraping across tile. He stares past Ash at a family-sized lasagna and wonders which of them is more pathetic: the guy hiding in academia or the guy haunting the late-night Kroger like a sentient bad omen.

Ash doesn’t move away. He seems content to let the moment stretch, see if it can outlast their nerves. He finally says, ''You ever get to the part where the dead mall comes back to life? Or do they just rot?''

Mikey studies Ash’s face for sarcasm. Finds almost none. Scans himself for it, too, and comes up counterbalanced—tired but mostly honest. ''I thought the metaphor was supposed to be hope,'' he admits. ''But all I found was black mold and those weird security robots .'' He contemplates saying more, admitting the weeks of rot and restlessness, but leaves it at that, the true confessional held back for another night, or maybe for never.

Ash’s mouth flattens, a smile or maybe just a line he draws between them. ''I dated a girl who worked security at a strip mall once. She said the only thing worth saving from the retail apocalypse is the coin-operated horse outside the dollar store.'' He’s looking at Mikey now, not the burritos or the frostbitten pizzas. ''You buy it for a quarter, you own ten seconds of happiness. No refunds, no warranty, but it’s yours.''

Mikey snorts, a sound bright and unguarded. ''I’d have thought you’d steal the horse. Or at least repaint it, so everyone thinks it’s haunted.''

Ash nods, faux solemn. ''Tempting, but I’m not sure if I’m authorized for joyrides these days.''

The air between them knits together, then falls slack, and for a moment neither seems sure who is pacing the other. Mikey feels the urge to say something, anything, to shatter the glassy interim. Instead, he gestures at Ash's cart, where two Red Bulls and a single bruised banana keep each other company.

''Health kick?'' Mikey asks.

Ash blinks at his own basket as if surprised to see it there. ''You know me. Trying to live forever, one potassium bomb at a time.'' He picks up the banana, weighs it in his hand, as if assessing its will to survive the night. ''Also, the vending machine at work's been out of order for a week. Not everyone in this world is as prepared as you, Professor.''

Mikey shrugs. He’s wearing the same jacket as the night on the balcony, but it hangs looser now, having lost some of its ballast. Maybe he has too. He waits for Ash to say more, but Ash is quiet for a count, eyes flickering along the beige floor tiles like he’s reading the cracks for a script. On impulse, Mikey blurts, ''You disappeared.'' It comes out harsher than he means, and instantly his ears go hot. ''I mean. I guess I did too.''

Ash’s shoulders twitch, a small wince disguised as a shrug. ''I’m not great at… follow-through.'' He says it like someone reciting his own arrest record for a court-appointed therapist.

Mikey’s laugh is gentler this time. ''You don’t say.'' He clutches the shopping basket tighter, aware that if he doesn’t move, he might turn and bolt. ''You could have texted.''

''I thought about it,'' Ash says. ''Then I convinced myself you’d blocked me. Or that you were dating the guy who microwaves fish in the grad lounge.''

Mikey snorts. ''He’s married. To chaos, mainly.'' The words fizzle out, replaced by a brackish, uncertain quiet. Mikey wonders: If he waits long enough, will Ash come up with a reason they’re both here, or will this be another slow fade?

As if sensing the thought, Ash palms the banana, drums his fingers across the peel. ''Listen,'' he says, low—almost embarrassed by the loft of the word in this fluorescent cathedral. ''I screwed up. Didn’t want to make it worse by showing up hungry for—'' He cuts himself off, then tries again, aim steadier but volume lower. ''I’m not good at ‘absence.’ Or presence, apparently.'' The words are blunt and unfinished, but Mikey can see they cost him something to say.

Mikey wants to answer—God, he wants to assemble a comeback fast enough, smart enough to prove he hasn’t just been carved out and left hollow—but he’s out of rehearsed jokes. All that’s left is the strange clarity of hunger, and the memory of a hand, warm and dry, refusing to recoil from his own.

''You didn’t make it worse,'' Mikey says. ''It just… sucked. For a while.'' He shrugs, then tries to explain in smaller words: ''I think I wanted you to chase me. But it turns out I’m hard to catch.''

He clears his throat, then gestures vaguely at the shelves. ''You want to get out of here? There’s a bench outside. Or we could go steal the robot and ride it down the escalator.'' He smiles as he says it, gets a smile in return, and the air warms a degree.

They don’t buy anything; at the register, Mikey leaves the ramen and coffee, Ash the banana, a mutual pact to abandon unfit metaphors for the night. Outside, the wind has an edge but not enough to keep either from lingering. There is a bench near the doors, painted municipal green, slick with condensation and the scent of all-night neon. They sit, not touching, but with knees almost aligned.

The city at this hour is a machine running on last fumes, the freight trains groaning past and delivery trucks coughing into the dark. Mikey’s hands go restless on his knees—he tries folding them, then clenching, then just giving up and letting them splay across the metallic armrest. He can’t remember the last time he sat in silence with another person and didn’t want to crawl right out of his skin.

Ash cracks his knuckles, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting to be hauled in for questioning at any moment. For all his effortless chaos, he looks now like a kid in the principal’s office—waiting for the verdict, but pretending he doesn’t care if he’s expelled forever.

Mikey finds a question drifting up that he never intended, one of those interior thoughts you think you’ll never say out loud: ''Do you ever feel like you’re just… orbiting people? Never letting yourself land?''

He expects Ash to laugh or deflect, but instead there’s a long, honest pause. ''Yeah,'' Ash says eventually. ''But the worst part is, I used to think I liked it. Being peripheral meant no one could crash into you, so you couldn’t get broken. But lately…'' The sentence peters out, not with a crash but like static losing its charge.

Mikey tucks his chin, half-smiling at the concrete. ''Yeah. Turns out, satellites are lonely as hell.''

For a breath, neither of them looks at the other, but the gravity is different now—not the shivering distance of lost signals, but the dense weight of two objects bending toward an event horizon. Mikey’s foot jitters, heel knocking quietly against the bench, and he forces himself to stop. ''So, what now?'' he asks. ''You want to go haunt the all-night laundromat again? Or is that too cliché?''

Ash’s grin is almost sheepish, a shape Mikey’s never seen on him before. ''I’m okay with cliché. But I’m out of quarters.''

''I’ll spot you,'' Mikey says, and the words are so easy they don’t even sound like a risk.

Ash stands, then waits, just long enough that Mikey can catch up beside him. They cross the parking lot in silence, headlights ghosting their shadows ahead. Mikey’s hands find his pockets, and for once, he’s not trying to hide. He’s just walking, pace dialed to Ash’s, neither leading nor lagging.

The laundromat is empty but for the hum of plastic plants basking in the fluorescent sun. The same old woman is there, slumped in dreams on the orange bench, her head bobbing with the hypnotic rhythm of the dryers. Ash nods to her, reverent, as if they’re from the same tribe. Mikey drops a pair of quarters into the lone vending machine, returns with two candy bars—one peanut, one coconut. He holds out the coconut, wordlessly, and Ash takes it with a look of wary gratitude.

''This feels like a TV show,'' Mikey says, unwrapping the candy bar and holding it uneaten, as if waiting for the correct cue. ''Like, you’re the brooding bad influence, and I’m the nerd who inexplicably gets a plot line.'' He grins at the floor. ''They’d cancel us after one season. Not enough car chases.''

Ash leans backward on the molded bench, tilting his face to the cold fluorescence. ''I dunno. I think you’d get a spinoff. Walking around, fixing people’s lives. Drawing floor plans for the emotionally bankrupt.'' He rolls the candy bar between his palms. ''I’d watch that.''

Mikey hums, pleased, and tries a bite. The coconut is crumbly and dry and exactly as disappointing as he’d predicted, but he eats it anyway. Ash finishes his in two chews and wipes his hands on his jeans, then glances over.

''Remember that night on the balcony?'' His tone is gentle enough to make Mikey look up. He nods, not trusting his voice.

Ash continues, tentatively. ''I used to think about it every time it rained. Like the storm was going to rerun that whole night on a loop, just to punish me.''

Mikey forces a smile, but the sadness isn't for show. ''You could have texted,'' he offers, voice dry.

''I know,'' Ash says, and rakes both hands through his hair. Then, quieter: ''I kept telling myself I'd mess it up. Or that you'd see me coming and lock your door.'' He kicks at a stray plastic cap on the linoleum. ''I don't—my record with people is a swamp. I didn't want to pull you in with me.''

''Yeah,'' Mikey says, and for a second he’s there again: the doughnut blanket, Ash’s wrist under his thumb, the cold making everything feel sharper and closer than real. He’s not sure if it was the best night of his life or just the one with the most gravity. Maybe both.

Ash drums his fingers on the bench, the oldest nervous habit in the book. ''Did you—'' he starts, then stalls out, choosing his words with the same care he used in the freezer aisle. ''Did you mean it? When you said you didn’t want to leave?'' It comes out small, almost skeptical, as if he’s spent weeks trying to convince himself otherwise.

Mikey wants to tell him yes. He wants to say it and mean it and have it land without ricochet, but everything in him is built for detour. He clears his throat, then tries again: ''Yeah. I meant it.'' The confession is so thin it barely survives the acoustic glare of the laundromat. But it’s there—a real thing.

Ash fixes him with a look of equal parts disbelief and hunger. For once, the humor drops away, replaced by a quiet that’s almost reverent. He nods, the motion taut and brief, as if any more would risk everything spilling out. He picks at the edge of the bench, scrapes up a fleck of ancient gum, and flicks it into the trash with more care than it deserves.

''You want to start over?'' Ash says. It’s not a come-on, not a line—it’s the way someone might ask for a glass of water after a long walk in the desert. ''I could… I don’t know. Not run this time.''

Mikey looks at the racks of dryers tumbling over other people’s lives in endless, forgiving cycles. It seems forgivable, somehow. Even the plastic plants look like they're rooting for them, immortal and dusty as they are. He bites down on the last shred of coconut, lets the sugar dissolve. ''Yeah,'' he says, holding Ash’s gaze as long as he can stand it. ''I’d like that.'' They sit there, not talking, not needing to, the sound of the world on spin. Ash slouches farther on the bench, arms splayed, like he’s worn out from the relief of simple honesty. Mikey follows the path of a lone sock tumble-drying behind the glass—orange, then blue, then orange again—and lets himself hope that cycles are what you make them.

When the dryers stop, it’s almost dawn. The old woman is gone. Mikey stands, stretches out his stiff knees, and feels a weird, welcome soreness, like he’s spent the night running laps instead of just sitting beside Ash.

Ash follows him outside, lighting a cigarette.

''You should probably get back home, get some sleep…'' He says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke. Mikey shrugs, pulling his coat tighter, but the cold is mostly gone. ''I will,'' he says. ''Or I’ll end up at the twenty-four-hour IHOP, writing my defense statement in syrup on a kid’s menu.''

Ash grins, the first real, no-armor smile of the night. ''If you ever get tenure, put in a word for me at the pawn shop. I want the midnight shift. Better stories.''

They walk side by side, not speaking, two blocks, then three. At the corner, the city hunches down and the horizon bleaches pink, the world tilting toward a new day. Mikey wonders if there’s a word for the feeling of almost missing someone while you’re still with them. He wants to ask, but the impulse gets caught somewhere in his throat and is left there, half-formed, like so many nights before.

At Mikey’s turnoff, they pause. Not the awkward kind, but something anticipatory, a space opening for all the things neither has said yet.

Ash flicks his cigarette into the street, toeing it until the ember gutters out. He rakes his hand through his terrible hair, meets Mikey’s gaze with a steadiness that surprises them both. ''See you?'' he offers, unsure if it’s a promise or a question.

''Yeah,'' Mikey says, and it lands so easily it almost feels fake—except that it isn’t, not here, not with the city and the sunrise and the ridiculous neon signs buzzing overhead. ''Yeah, you will.''

He wants to say more. He almost does—the words gather, then scatter. Instead, he just grins, wild and a little uneven, and it feels better than the last hundred mornings combined. He turns, walking backwards for a few steps so he can see Ash standing at the empty intersection, outlined by the sickly pink of gathering day.