It wasn’t that it hadn’t occurred to him to apologize, or make praise to her kindness, but more so that his entire self being was a little in the dirty ditches at the moment. Scabs on the inside of his mouth stopping an interjection that would cause nothing but whiplash. Shuffling in front of him, making weave work out of her gown’s ribbons, stance rocking back between irritation and exhaustion meant he wasn’t in any position to rail against. So instead he sat, sank into the pockets of his own anatomy without luxuriating, listen with intensiveness despite the clear sludge that was making a mockery of his physicality. Making sure Ava’s lure was purely once of a vocal nature, adverting when necessary to pick out pieces of the room, solidly placed among the dark, bowing in personal congress at the mention of family. Singe lines burnt off with a metaphysical lighter finally allowed for an admittance of his solicitation. With the Crowder surname dwindling down to extinction he had played off the causality of death as a product of his life, his upbringing, the miserably evocative world around them, never accepting. Just drowning in a loss created by an abscess now ruptured, desperate to be filled by anything substantial.He now knew why he was on Ava’s doorstep; it had just taken a rotation around the core of molten defeat to get there.
Plucking of the bottle correlated with a scuff of heel and a murmuring of a final passing edict. An exit as lead as Boyd had ever seen from Ava, even without a fist-full of barrel stock. As if sections of his midriff had been connected to the proprietress Boyd finally fell into the backing of the couch as she passed, invisible lines pulling in reverse gear as the groan of derelict steps ached in protest. A whisper on his lips, entirely involuntary, hovered in a damp density before him.
“-goodnight Ava…” Whether she heard it or not Boyd was satisfied that it had managed to free itself from wherever it had been incarcerated within. A small voice of gratitude among the lewdness he was sure he was excreting in every inflection, twitch and smear of basic English. Honing of clearer ears he tuned into each step that was ascended behind him, gauge her movements as the togetherness of the house sounded back her position by way of creaks and songs of split wood grain. Tapping out on a wind both human and natural until he heard the stillness that he was expecting. Ava had returned to bed and he was now an element her home, however temporary.
Shuffling under the weight of filthy clothing layers coated in clean offered bedding Boyd pried back in degrees. Piling aside the blankets so he could reach at the buttons of his jacket, caked and stained as they were, so the cuts of tailored cloth could be removed. A cloud of dried mud flaking off in crisps littering the furniture. Residual filth coursing through his bloodstream and collecting in his organs now smearing themselves across another person’s belonging. Guilt surging up along with a carcinogenic blend of bourbon-bile he managed to lift himself from the couch with a limp posture, the confidence of his step miles away. Hand acting as stiff bristles the majority of the mess was brushed away onto the floor, then subsequently collected into as formed a pile as he could manage with the contours of his boot. Fuck—His Boots… All the while he had been attempting to clean the couch of his presence his boots had been tracking in the outside hollers, sullying Ava’s upkeep, bringing in the blight of impurity for which he manifested at every step.
Folding up the virgin sheets Boyd left them as crisp as he could in his current indisposed condition. A collection of snow on the bottom step of the stairs for Ava to find in the morning, saved from himself, his boots and his tainted state.
Boots that were now residing out on the porch, as far, far away from a now catatonic corpse crumpled up on the dirtied loveseat as possible.
Warmth of still, golden, ultraviolet rays caressed delicate peach folds through dusty, thin laced draperies and progressively coaxed pacified consciousness to life. Reeling in deep breath, long limb sprawled to vacant place beside, counter forearm splayed over wrinkling crinion. “Mm no,” whispered utterance escaped parted pouts. Ava was not yet ready to take on the new day. She dreaded the impending dismay awaiting her presence in the parlor below. Whether the outlaw’s immanency remained in homestead was unbeknownst to her, but if he had departed at his own discretion she wouldn’t have been heartbroken in the slightest. However, southern belle would go about modus operandi under presumption Boyd hadn’t left. Decisions were to be made in relation to his fate, but she held onto patience and suspected she wouldn’t corral notions of judgment until azures assessed his condition this morning.
Oceanic hues revealed and nictitated to focus on the gaping bathroom door feet forward. So close, yet so far away. Frame arched fluidly beneath waking arms and hooks slunk lazily to grasp woven cotton hems, warding off wrinkled linen layers. Chilled by transition in temperature, digits swept and curled around biceps, thawing out stiffening muscle while she inched to bedside. Ava took note of the alarm clock; it was nine am, late for routine considering she was always up by eight o’ clock in preparation for work. Bare feet sought refuge in hirsute scuffs from cool, wooden panels and curiously poised maenad rose to feet. Arms outstretched to vaulted ceiling overhead until subtle pops of vertebrae crackled throughout the room. It was time for her to put her ass in gear.
Autopilot seized graceful vessel, reverberating forth parched, ligneous whines trailing fainéant, locomoted shuffles. Lavabo reached, faucets sounded and night’s apparel fell to feet. Aqueous solution tenderly cascaded flesh, wallowing precisely over every centimeter of divinely sculpted curvatures. Sentiments of uncleanliness revolved steel grated duct and evanesced into pitch abyss. Het fog of invigorating renewal levitated to envelope the swan while she lathered and rinsed saturated, honey flaxen locks until hydrated chaste. Pen kept shower brief, fifteen minutes at most, before retreating to procure a towel.
Encircling cheap polyester canvas over wings, she emerged in front antique chiffonier. Sifting through various drawers, she pieced together a casual outfit amalgamated by a pair of Levi jeans and a light, ashen over the shoulder v-neck tee. Dressed, she glanced to the Jack Daniels glassware perched upon her night stand and shook her head in solace. While she hadn’t been as intoxicated as her counterpart the previous night, Ava drank a considerable amount throughout the day while homemaking to quell her troubled mind. Once this bottle was gone, she pledged to abstain from bringing liquor home best she could. As for the Southern Comfort that remained within private bar, she would pass that off to Raylan or perhaps cousin Johnny once the hospital finally released him from intensive care. Lord knew that after surviving a close ranged shotgun blast, he would need it more than she did.
Lips teetered unlit cigarette, lighter flaring flame to tinder during stair decline. Smoky miasma filled worn lungs, diverting through pursed tiers on exit. Leather clad footfalls gave away lower level entry upon approaching the overnight freeloader’s whereabouts. Light tip forward, single hand braced timber casing and neck craned forward to peek into the parlor. “You’re alive,” she jested, ceruleans zeroing in on the hung-over male laying miserably on her couch. It wasn’t long before she took notice of bemired track residue not only on her rugs, but smeared along rustic upholstery as well. “Y’know, I spent the latter part of yesterday cleanin’ house?” Weight repelled from wall with swift propulsion. “Hope you planned on pickin’ up after yourself before you left.” Teeth gently tugged and released lower pout and she made way through the foyer into the kitchen.
What a sight to see.
Despite disapproving of all that’d emerged night beforehand, corners of lips couldn’t help twitching slightly in amusement. She would’ve been lying if she claimed no relation to the state of chagrin and ignominy Boyd was likely experiencing. It wasn’t long ago she’d mysteriously woken up in Winona’s house due to her own iniquitous indulgences. Shaking head in remembrance, heaping scoops of coffee grounds compounded onto already preset filter paper. “I ever tell you the story ‘bout the night I was so drunk, Raylan had t’put me in cuffs and drag my sorry ass out of a bar ‘gainst my will?” Voice called to him, cigarette struggling to maintain balance between lips. Returning measures to Folgers tub, cover was tightly secured and container set aside. Culled cigarette sat casually between fore and middle finger as the blonde flicked power switch. The hissing water temperature struggling to rise in outdated percolator was cue to leave it be. Shifting on wooden heels, back relaxed against countertop’s edge.
“Wasn’t even that long ago it happened.”
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