Built to Last

The drip of the coffee pot was a loud and boisterous thing in Evelyn’s apartment. The sound shot bullets into her walls, and she stared endlessly as the drywall gave way. It was too early for her to be awake, that she knew. But like most nights, she couldn’t sleep. Something about the pale-gray sheets and the thick duvet kept her up. That, and the fact that sleep came in sweeps of memories she’d rather forget. So, in a desperate act to preserve herself, she found herself where she was now—sitting on her couch, blanket over her lap, book in hand. 

The clock on the far wall read 4:48 in the morning, and the sunless sky outside of her window was an echo that kept her up. She had work in two hours, the coffee pot would finish in less than a few minutes. If she went to bed now, she could wake up to a cup of coffee easily reheated and maybe enough rest to say she slept. 

Evelyn sighed and stuck her bookmark in between the pages. She probably wouldn’t finish it. She didn’t finish a lot of the books she started. 

She rolled her neck and sighed heavily. It wouldn’t matter, she knew—if she slept or not. Evelyn was always tired, always weighed down, always weary. She was getting older, much older than her body would show. Sleeping became less of a necessity when every day was promised.

That was the kicker. 

Evelyn Colten couldn’t age. At least she couldn’t age anymore . At some point around her twenty-sixth birthday, her body started over-correcting itself. It took her a little while to notice, but eventually, she did. Her skin never seemed to blemish, never seemed to sag where it was supposed to. Her hair never swayed in shade, always remaining the same dark, brunette hue it had been since she was young. She never got sick, either. She thought she had gotten lucky with that one—she should have known better. 

The coffee pot hummed softly. It was done, and she hadn’t moved. Evelyn watched over her shoulder as the last few drops of coffee landed in the pot, ripples moving across the surface, bullet holes. She sighed again and closed her eyes. When she thought about it—all of it—she couldn’t find the realism in it. It always felt like some fantasy, like some lie she made up. Saying it out loud was even worse. How were you supposed to say that and sound sane? But after the years had droned on, leaving her behind, she knew it was true. She had boxes shoved in her guest bedroom that had dates on them that shouldn’t be possible but were. She had memories and heartbreak that sat in her bone marrow, history coursing through her blood. She was getting really old, but she couldn’t rest. 

The dim light of her kitchen fell across her face. For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the light above her stove. 

How long will I have to keep this up? She asked herself. The answer hadn’t ever changed, but sometimes she wished that when she asked, she would feel a jolt in her chest, an itch under her rib cage that told her that maybe it had. Her body stayed silent. 

She never knew if she lived in a cruel world. She knew it wasn’t a merciful one, but she didn’t know if mercilessness was the same as cruelty. Her apartment floors only creaked when she walked across them. The flowers she bought herself every week stayed in their vase, dying when it was their time to. The pictures and paintings she hung on the walls never reached out to her. Her clothes always fit. Her jewelry always shined. The world was consistent, true. But sometimes, all those consistencies amounted to empty breaths, shaking hands, and a pulse beneath her wrist that screamed. Her body was always screaming in one way or another. She was screaming then. With her lips sealed, her throat relaxed, and her head leaning against the back of her couch, Evelyn was screaming. 

It felt cruel. 

The clock on the wall droned on, silent ticks that Evelyn heard in her mind. Time kept moving, time was consistent. Time was cruel. 

——

“You know, if you’re not gonna sleep at night or read the books I give you, you could at least watch the shows I recommend.” 

Evelyn chuckled dryly at her coworker, Amelia. Amelia was much younger than she was, in body and in age. She was still in college, working hard for a bachelor’s degree in humanities. Amelia wanted to work for Stark Industries as a PR manager, but for the time being, she was left as a part-timer for their little flower shop. 

“I don’t watch TV, you know that.” Amelia scoffed and handed over a bundle of dandelions for the bouquet that Evelyn had been tasked with.

“But you have one,” she argued. “And I know you have one. I’ve seen it.” 

“And it stays off ninety percent of the time.” Amelia rolled her eyes, but she lacked the fervor of someone who actually cared. Amelia liked to banter and joke, rarely ever meaning what she said. 

“What do you have against television, grandma?” Evelyn laughed heartily, arranging the baby’s breath with the dandelions. 

“Nothing,” she said, a grin on her lips. “I just prefer to read.” 

Amelia leaned on the work counter, her green apron dirty with soil and water. Evelyn’s wasn’t much better, but she had done more to keep it off the clothes she wore underneath. Amelia’s light blue shirt was speckled with small bits of soil and dirt, and her jeans, too. Amelia had potential in the gardening field, her bouquets were always delicately beautiful. She liked to say they were horrid compared to what Evelyn could whip up in mere seconds, but Evelyn knew it was her attempt at being modest. If humanities didn’t work out, Evelyn was going to urge her into botany. 

“You say that, but have you read any of the books I’ve recommended?” 

Sheepishly, Evelyn grinned. She shook her head before quickly following up, “In my defense, you don’t recommend books that I like.” 

Amelia feigned offense, dropping her hand over her heart. “It’s romance! Everyone loves romance.”

“Clearly not,” Evelyn laughed. At the same time, she pulled a rectangle of brown paper around the flowers and tied a piece of decorative rope around the middle. It was a smaller bouquet: yellow dandelions, baby’s breath, and a few blue Forget-Me-Nots. An older gentleman placed the same order every second Thursday of every month, the same three flowers on the same brown paper. That was the kind of romance Evelyn liked. 

“Okay, fine,” Amelia relented. “What type of books do you like then? And don’t say something stupid like Harry Potter or some shitty little James Patterson book.” 

Evelyn scoffed incredulously, an amused grin on her lips. “What do you have against James Patterson? Or even Harry Potter for that matter?”

“Harry Potter is incredibly overrated and a cop-out,” she said as a matter of fact. “And James Patterson has written every book to have ever existed, if you said one of his books I would assume you’ve never actually read anything.” 

“I can’t argue with you there.” 

“Exactly, you can’t. So, fess up. What’s your vice?” Evelyn shook her head, her shoulders relenting their stresses. She liked Amelia. She was young and full of life, excitement, and wonder—all the things that once chased Evelyn down alleyways and schoolyards. And Amelia liked to call her. A lot. The number of times Amelia specifically reached out to Evelyn just to talk about the most mundane things she could possibly think of graciously outweighed the number of times she didn’t. Amelia even offered to stay up with Evelyn some nights, to drop by and play board games—“grandmother things,” she called them. It was nice, and Evelyn suspected that Amelia was turning into her best friend. 

“I don’t know,” Evelyn hummed. “Anything that’s not romance, I guess.” 

“Ohh,” Amelia grinned. “You’ve got something against love, eh? What? Did some poor lover boy break your heart?” 

Evelyn laughed, but the joke wasn’t all that funny. She shrugged the question off and took the bouquet to the front, placing it in water until the gentleman came to pick them up. Amelia wasn’t far off. Some lover boy did break her heart. But that’s how it always ended for her. 

She loved two men more than she was supposed to, and she paid for that atrocity every day that she walked the earth and they didn’t. Every body that she pulled into her bed over the years, every pair of lips that kissed her skin and told her they loved her, lied. Or perhaps they didn’t lie, but rather didn’t love her the way they did, the way she wanted to be loved. 

“How about this,” she spoke to Amelia, tapping on the computer to let the system know that the order was ready for pick up. “I’ll try my hardest to finish your latest recommendation, and if I end up liking it, I’ll try another.” 

“I can handle that,” Amelia agreed. She didn’t show it, but Evelyn knew Amelia genuinely appreciated the gesture. Amelia took her recommendations very seriously. 

“What’s your plans for this weekend?” Amelia changed the subject. 

“Same thing I did last weekend.” Amelia quirked a brow, rolling her wrist.

“And that was?” 

“Jack shit.”

“Evelyn,” Amelia said her name solidly, an underlying disappointment curdling her voice. Evelyn just shrugged. She didn’t have very many friends in New York, and at some point through the years, the partying and the crowds and the energy became lackluster. She didn’t find the point in going out and pretending to have fun when she didn’t. Even the casual drinking got boring after the first few glasses. The dullness of the world poisoned her enjoyment. She was perfectly content to sit in her apartment with her fake plants and read books she didn’t like and stare at her kitchen light, waiting for it to explode. 

“You need to spice up your life a little bit!” Evelyn rolled her eyes playfully, having heard that same advice a thousand times over. 

“We could go out,” Amelia offered. “I have some studying to do, but say Saturday night we could go out? Hit the town, get you out of your dingy apartment?” 

“Hey now,” Evelyn interjected. “Leave my apartment out of this, she’s beautiful the way she is.” Amelia scowled and crossed her arms. 

“And that’s what I’m talking about. You’ve given your apartment pronouns. What’s next? Your microwave?” 

“My microwave is broken.” Amelia’s scowl deepened, her foot beginning to tap on the linoleum floor. Evelyn stood back on her heels, pushing herself away from the counter with a sigh. 

“I’m just not up to it, ‘Melia. Another time, for sure.” Amelia kept her scowl for a moment before sighing and giving up. She dropped her arms and shook her head.

“Alright, but if you give me that shit excuse next week I’m dragging you out by your toes.” Evelyn raised her hand in a mock salute. She knew damn well she wasn’t going out next week either, but she figured she would just lie and say she wasn’t feeling well. She had gotten very good at lying over the years. 

Eventually, the older man picked up his flowers. He was dressed up in what was nowadays considered a vintage suit, the laces on his dress shoes matching the fabric of his coat. He came in with an easy smile, the folds of his skin stretching into place as he did. Every line on his wrinkled skin seemed to fit better on his face when he smiled, like he had spent his entire life smiling. Evelyn burned with a fit of jealousy that she choked behind a sickenly sweet veil of customer service. Bile rose in her throat as the gentleman told her that his wife was waiting at home for him; they were going on a date. He paid in cash and tucked a few dollars into the tip jar, leaving with a hustle in his step. Evelyn watched him push the door open, smiling down at the bouquet. 

“I don’t wanna get old if I can’t get old with someone who loves me like that,” Amelia said off-handed, without thought or mercy. She didn’t know the way her words ached inside of Evelyn’s chest, how every syllable burned the section of her brain that screamed for rest. Amelia had no idea of the torrent that whipped inside Evelyn, and she never would. 

“Yeah,” she said after a pause. Her voice sounded much farther away from her, lost and distant, buried in a graveyard somewhere in Brooklyn. 

“Me, too.” 

——

The walk back to her apartment later on that evening had been uneventful, much to her gratification. Evelyn’s stomach churned with the words the elder man had spoken, unable to digest the sincerity, the age . 

She thought about him all the way home. She thought about his suit, the elbow patches, and perfectly fitted shoulder pads. She thought about his shoes, a lovely deep brown, recently polished. She thought about the ring that sat on his finger, scratched and dull, still gold. She thought about his wisps of gray hair, the stretch of his skin, and the way his eyes shined with youth in the afternoon sun. Evelyn didn’t want to cry. If she cried every time she saw an elderly couple or just an elder in general, she’d never stop crying. She just couldn’t help the way she wanted . 

No, she didn’t know if the world was cruel, but it wasn’t kind. 

When she finally made it to her apartment door, she rested her head on the wood. She didn’t move to open it just yet, knowing that nothing of interest lay beyond it. She shuddered in a deep breath, wracking her lungs with the dust of the old hallway she lived in. She was a florist, dedicated and dutiful to things that lived, yet she had such a hard time doing the same. She huffed out a laugh that wasn’t funny and shoved her key into the lock, pushing open the door and closing it behind her. She thought twice about locking it, hoping maybe some lunatic would be brave enough to try her. She wasn’t one for violence, but sometimes the tiredness—the consistency—turned to anger, and anger never lasted long in her body until it turned into unbridled rage. 

Please, Universe, test my patience tonight. 

Her apartment hadn’t changed at all from the time she left it to the time she returned to it. Her half-drunk cup of coffee still sat on the side table by the couch, her book still closed. She took in a deep breath as she stood before it all, underwhelmed. It took her less time than she cared to admit to throw off her shoes and bag, drag her feet into the kitchen, and pour a generous glass of wine. Sure, she didn’t drink to get drunk anymore, but she liked to pretend. 

She took her place back on the couch, the left side beginning to dip where she sat. Everything was silent again. 

“Apartment, you’re beginning to fail me,” she said aloud. The apartment didn’t speak back, but again, she pretended. That’s how Evelyn spent most of her days if she were honest. Amelia asked what she had done the weekend before, and while nothing wasn’t the wrong answer, it wasn’t the only answer. 

Evelyn liked to pretend, and she spent an awful lot of time doing it, too. She pretended that the days moved faster than they actually did, that her wine burned her throat more than it was ever going to. She pretended that her job wasn’t just another dead end she’d have to quit when it got older, and she didn’t. She pretended that her home was filled with warm bodies instead of the corpses that haunted her while she slept. Evelyn pretended it was 1946 and that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes hadn’t upped and died. 

She grimaced.  

Their names were bile on her tongue. Even after years of listening to the public rejoice in their fallen heroes, their names still swayed her. They made her sick—thinking of their names, breathing them out into the void. Their names brought an indignant rot to her body, like she was decomposing from the inside out. Her grave was an apartment, a tomb without a name. 

Evelyn bit back a scowl and pushed the glass to her lips. The Malbec slid down her throat. It didn’t burn, it didn’t shift the way she looked at the world, not like it used to. That was the truth of things, she supposed. She liked to pretend, but she wasn’t very good at it. She’d open her eyes, and she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel what she wanted. She couldn’t pull the phantoms out of their closets and whisk them back into bodily form. She couldn’t force the sun to beat down on her skin or actually allow herself to rot when she rotted in bed. She couldn’t pretend like she used to.

Evelyn felt heavy, but again, that wasn’t new. The rage turned into fatigue all over again, and she couldn’t find it in herself to hate that she couldn’t make reality what she wanted it to be. She shook her head and stood, leaving the remnants of her wine on the table, with the promise to put her dishes away tomorrow. She locked the front door, walked past the bedroom of secrets, and took a much-needed shower, letting the water wash away the parts of herself that she hadn’t left behind. 

Tomorrow would come, and she would do it all over again. She would wake up earlier than she wanted and sit until it was time for her to go and she would go to work. And then she would go home, finish the cup of wine she’d eventually put in the fridge, maybe eat, walk past her secrets, and then take a shower and do it all over again. Then Saturday would come around, and she would work for about an hour, and then she would come home and do nothing. Nothing and pretend. 

She was a florist, a really good florist. But, no, she wasn’t good at living—even less so at dying.