#gatboss

It still smells like her—the suit jacket, right in the crease of his elbow. Like her perfume, smells keenly of amber and warm spice. There’s something else there too though, as he brings his nose to it, something so uniquely her. Something he’s yet to smell on anyone else and he doesn’t want to. He feels a little pathetic here in front of the mirror, sniffing at his arm. The bags under his eyes grow with every passing day. Can’t sleep in that bed anymore, not without her. 

Everything has felt alien from the second she disappeared, though he’d refused to admit it at first. In a frustrating fit of delusion, he tried to carry on like Xiomara would simply walk through the door when she was ready. Like she’d left on vacation, searching for some time away. From Stilwater, from him. It only lasted about a week before he broke down in her cousin’s arms, his best friend, and lamented about how the love of his life was gone.

And he had never called her that— the love of his life —not while she was here. Xiomara never quite liked verbal shows of their affection, even after all these years. Johnny supposes he regrets that, now. Thinks he should have fought it so that she’d have known. So that he’d have the comfort of knowing that she knew. 

Clearing his throat, he runs the tap. Cups his hand under the stream of water and splashes it onto his face. The water from the freezing pipes gives him the shock he needs. It almost hurts. There’s a knock at the door. 

“Hey,” Frank. Unmistakably Frank. “Mecca and I are heading to the church now. If you wanna—uhm—if you wanna tag along you’ve got like, five minutes.”

“Yeah,”

“So, just let us know if—”

“Already said yeah. I’m coming.”

Her mother doesn’t look at him. Lisandra’s never been his biggest fan but Johnny thought that, maybe in their shared time of mourning that, well, things would be different. They never are. He sits between her father and Frank at the frontmost pew. The church is enormous—nothing like the small, withering little catholic church they’d buried her grandmother in. Johnny doubts Xiomara had ever even set foot in this one. He looks at her mother sidelong and thinks they should have had the funeral there. Craning his head back just so, he catches sight of her sister, sniffling into her sleeve, hunched over and staring ahead. Poor fucking Vanessa. Johnny grits his teeth, feels more annoyed than anything. This is all wrong—not at all like how Xiomara would have wanted it. There’s a sudden restlessness deep in his bones now as he watches her mother stand to speak. He isn’t listening, only reaches into his pocket and clutches the index card that he scrawled God knows what on, on the ride here. He’d been in a sort of half-dazed state, not really here, not really there and he’s regretting it now. 

Lisandra’s speech is long, teary. Her voice warbles and threatens to break into a sob over and over. Johnny almost feels sort of bad for rolling his eyes here and there. And then she looks to him. Gestures a hand out and smiles. Soft and convincing enough but he knows it’s just for show. Frank pats him on the back. He stands, clears his throat and reaches for the index card. He can’t read anything on it—feels a sudden chill down his spine, blood running cold. Looking out at the pews, emptier than they ought to be for a funeral but then again, Xiomara was never popular, everyone is watching expectantly. His eyes flit to Vanessa who stares ahead right past him. He focuses on her. 

As he begins to speak, Johnny swears he sees Xiomara at the back of the church.

The letter is, inexplicably, on his dining room table— their dining room table, it used to be—when he returns from the funeral. Sun higher in the sky now, it seems to make no difference on the bleak grayness that the snow and cold have set in on Stilwater. He hasn’t seen color for years, it seems. 

Johnny reaches for the letter tentatively, like it’ll bite. The envelope is gray, with a shiny embossed Ultor across the center of it. He sets it back down, pulls his glasses from his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. Tears threaten to fall, now. He bites the inside of his cheek, reaches for the letter again. The envelope is made of a thick sort of paper, difficult for him to tear through without a little bit of effort—no doubt in his mind that it’s expensive. 

A singular card is inside, really an advertisement. 

Ultor welcomes you !

He scoffs a little. 

We at Ultor would be delighted for you to join us at a seminar introducing our brand new Severance initiative. Never again will you have to slog through a shift worrying about the misfortunes of your everyday life. 

At the bottom, the address is in a bright teal against the flat gray of the card. No other information on the front or the back. Johnny digs his nail into the corner of the card, wears it out with the repeated back and forth movement. His phone buzzes in his pocket.