VICES
Current mood:  blank

Devon really only needed to be at the Dead Rabbit at 9:30 pm, and she liked to arrive late anyways. She was an enigma to anyone who walked past her and knew her. She wasn’t merely a loose stranger in a crowd of insignificant things to those who passed her in a busy city; rather she was an entity that demanded to be noticed. Devon doesn't want the attention - she never did. Nevertheless, it comes hand in hand with her essence - a combination of qualities that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight.

The twenty-one year old roamed the pavements of Manhattan almost aimlessly. There was a cigarette balanced between her long fingers in her right hand, which met her mouth about every five seconds. The smoke warmed her lungs in contrast to the sharp, cold air of that night. Snow fell on her black, wool coat almost just as aimlessly and stood out like they were on edge - the snowflakes themselves. Devon’s eyes darted and observed all that was around her, as they usually did. Their beautiful movements were emphasised by the nature of their bright color. They darted because the cold around her made her nervous. Well, maybe it wasn’t the cold. 

Looking at her she would seem careless, unobservant, maybe even trying to purposefully avoid her world. Yet, she was constantly observing this world before her - it surrounded her, swallowing and engulfing her. Although she does all of this weirdly with an effort to avoid it, that much was true.

While her mind was bending and turning, chewing at itself and dying, she reached for another cigarette, but was met with a sad emptiness. She knew she could not keep walking these streets filled with innocent people and go without screaming at one if she didn’t have a digestible vice - a drug, something for her body to gnaw at that wasn’t her thoughts. 

A block away was a liquor store that felt like home, so she didn’t scream or run in the road, but rather just picked up the pace. She took off her black, faux leather gloves. Not that she couldn’t afford leather - she definitely could - she just didn’t believe in killing. She would say, “Kill yourself in the many ways we do every day, go ahead its your death - just not them. They don’t get to hold the gun.” 

The man behind the counter, Roxy, chuckled when he saw her figure come through the doorway. She smiled, paid for her favorite Marlboro 100’s, a black coffee, red nail polish, and a mini bottle of Fireball just in case Grayson cancelled on the Dead Rabbit. She touched up her nails while talking to Roxy, mostly listening, and then left - quick to put a cigarette back into their allotted position right as she went out the door.

She was fixed and whole again with smoke filling her lung cavity. She reached to grab her phone out of a pocket and saw a text from Grayson that he was already at the Dead Rabbit. “Sh*t,” she saw it was already 9:48. Devon didn’t stress as, again, she was always late and she was pretty close to the bar.

She let him know she was five minutes away, and she was. During the duration of Devon’s walk to her destination, those five minutes melted into forever. This conceptualized longevity ensued from a dwelling on certain factors. These factors include; Grayson is married, Grayson is also a father, Grayson still works with her Dad, Grayson wants to sleep with her, and Grayson already has. 

Devon and Grayson have a past, a long one, and in short he slept with Devon when she was fifteen. He works with her dad, so he was over at the house a lot. He would show up for poker night at the Duval household, drink whiskey with the men, his wife on his lap, and eye Devon from across the room. Her house was big, but he would still always seem to try to spot where she was.

It was mutual though, he’s attractive and Devon liked to be desired. The details of the actual incidents don’t need to be chronicled, but eventually every summer - when she came back from boarding school - became their tradition. How no one found out was astonishing, it was concerning, and it was alarming. She was only fifteen and she fell in love with a man more than three-times her age. 

Eventually, Devon left her cyclical summers of transgression and went to college in New York, started working for an accounting firm and was successful - in her business endeavors that is. She was a broken girl who was constantly trying to repair her damage. It wasn’t all about Grayson, but he never helped. Her childhood is an incessant melody of self-insured destruction and unacknowledgement. She ran from so much in her life, and it was disappointing to admit that it was Grayson she chose to follow.

She forgot how deeply wrong the situation was when she saw him standing just outside the bar with a cigarette in hand.

“Oh god, I've rubbed off on you,” was the first thing she said as she approached him.

“It’s my Manhattan sin. Lucy doesn’t like it, but you know how much I do,” he said while he opened the door for the both of them. “Plus, I like privacy with my vices.”

Devon almost smirked while she contemplated, “Great, yes, please bring up your wife right now. I dare you.” Although, as they continued small talk, she dwelled in the back of her head on his last sentence. It said so much, too much. I mean, he was smoking in front of her - so she knew that she was a vice to him and that he thought she was, too.  

They sat down at the bar and discussed with each other, about each other, like old friends. They were a few drinks in, it felt like, but way into the night. They stank like old, rich whiskey and everyone who observed them thought it was sweet to see a daughter and her father engaging each other with such rapture. One onlooker even called their father after. 

Grayson commented, “Sounds pretentious.” Devon tried to remember what she just said that precluded this, but couldn’t remember. She stopped because, quite frankly, she only knew what he said was beyond hypocrisy and also, because his phone lit up. Though he was quick to grab it away before it could interrupt their conversation, Devon saw the name. She saw who texted Grayson and she saw it was Scarlett. You see, Scarlett is his daughter - who is barely younger than Devon mind you. This split second of harmless light shred a dark, deep pit in her stomach.

“Can I get another round please?” Devon said to stop herself from falling down a rabbit hole. Though, the drink only helped her to realise she already hit the bottom - hard, like a dead rabbit.

Devon started to feel as if it maybe wasn’t a few drinks, or maybe she didn’t eat enough that day. Words started to fall out of her mouth without concentration. It was late and hazily she went into a cab with Grayson, back to his apartment. Her eyes felt like weights that she was pulling to keep open. She suddenly realised at the foot of his door she forgot she left the bar. More importantly, Devon realised he was by far more composed than she. 

It all seemed to blur - in all her dwelling before, she never considered or decided if she wanted to sleep with him. Her past, in that moment, laying on his bed, caught up with her. She caved and part of her crumbled. Though only her cigarettes seemed to be the cornerstone of her meals that day, she sobered very quickly. But, it was too late. What was done was done.