Blue Lights & Cinnamon Nights

The shadows of raindrops dance across the ceiling above Weston’s head. He tracks them with his eyes, watching the way they mingle with the colored spots of light coming in from the windows across the room. City lights, the red, white and blue of emergency vehicles; the glow from the dance club across the street with its vibrant neon cyan and lime sign.

 He can hear the thump of music even from here, in his apartment on the third floor. Hear the wail of sirens driving past on the streets below. Manhattan is awake and thriving, despite the cold, rainy midnight weather outside.

 Weston flinches as a crash of thunder chases the other noise abruptly. He burrows deeper beneath his blanket on the floor, but it doesn’t help. The vibration from the sound travels through the floor and the wall his back is pressed against. He can’t escape the noise.

 His chest tightens, despite willing himself to just calm down.

 Then lightning flashes, casting the room in an eerie, cold blue light that makes unfamiliar shadows creep up the walls. He jumps up from the floor, stumbling across the room as he hurries to turn the lights on.

 His breath comes in short, shallow bursts as the overhead light flickers to life, illuminating the room with warm, white light.

 Weston’s eyes dart around his room wildly as he calms himself down, rubbing his fingers together at his sides. His gaze lands on the bed to the right, its over-stuffed comforter hanging halfway to the floor on one side where he’d left it when the storm started.

 Weston had mostly given up trying to sleep there, ending up on the floor most nights. The bed is too soft. It feels like he’s sinking. Slowly being pulled down under the surface and suffocated…

 On the other hand, sleeping on the floor tonight hasn’t helped, either. Especially not with the storm going on outside. 

 His room flashes blue again and Weston tenses, preparing himself for the next clash of thunder. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as the sound washes over him. His adrenaline spikes, muscles tensing as his body goes into fight or flight mode. It takes everything in him not to go tearing out of his room and down the hall.

 The noise passes.

 Weston sighs, his shoulders slumping. He’s not sleeping again tonight, that’s for sure. He turns and grabs the hoodie from the hook by the door, pulling it over his head. Now that he’s up and moving, he feels the chill in the air from the storm. Shivering, he opens the bedroom door and steps out into the hallway.

 Something creaks in the room across the hall.

 Weston freezes, holding his breath as he listens to the stillness of the apartment.

 Rain patters outside. The air conditioner hums softly as it cycles down. Behind the door across the hall, Nolan, one of his roommates, starts to snore. Like a quiet reminder that all is well with the world, even when it isn’t with Weston.

 Weston sighs, dropping his chin to his chest for a moment. He doesn’t need either of his roommates waking up and questioning him. They’ve got their own problems. His sleep trouble doesn’t need to become one of them. They, especially Nolan, worry about him enough as it is.

 He pads quietly down the hall, stepping out into the living room. He turns on the lamp by the couch on his way through, then heads for the kitchen. His mom used to make him cinnamon toast when he wasn’t feeling good as a kid. He hasn’t had any in years, but the distraction of making it is welcome. Maybe it would help.

 The dishes rattle in the cabinets as the thunder roars outside again, only slightly more muffled in here. Weston’s back goes rigid as he waits for it to pass, his eyes flickering toward the empty living room. He eyes the lamp he’s left on in there, wondering how long it would take for the power to come back on if it went out now. There are flashlights stashed throughout the apartment for a situation like that, but still…

 Distracted by his thoughts, he knocks the toaster sideways on the counter when he turns to grab a loaf of bread. Cringing as it smacks into some dishes that have been left out, knocking a pan to the floor with a loud clatter.

 Weston holds his breath as he bends to grab the pan, ending the droning noise that comes from it spinning on the floor. He listens for the sound of footsteps, releasing a sigh of relief when they don’t come.

 He stands, setting the pan back on the counter while he rearranges the dishes and toaster — when pale yellow light suddenly floods the room. He blinks rapidly at the unexpected brightness, spinning to face the doorway.

 Noeh is standing there, her hair a mess, rubbing sleep from her eyes with one hand, the other on the light switch. “Wes? What’re you doin’ up?” She half mumbles.

 “Uh, couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs, grabbing the loaf of bread to busy his hands. He unwinds the tie on the plastic wrapping slowly, trying to buy himself time. “Sorry if I woke you. Go back to sleep. I’ll be done in here in a minute.”

 Even half-asleep, Noeh manages to see through him. She squints at Weston, her socked feet padding across the floor as she walks up to the opposite side of the counter. “Is it the storm?”

 Weston falters, pressing his lips into a firm line. He ducks his head to avoid her green eyes, placing two pieces of bread in the toaster. “Nope.”

 Noeh hums disbelievingly, watching as he grabs butter from the fridge. He begins rummaging through the spice cabinet as she says, “You’re making toast. You don’t like toast.”

 “I never said that I don’t like toast.” He defends, knocking some spices over in his search. He uses the distraction to keep from thinking about the knot in his chest, slowly growing tighter.

 “Every time we’ve ever gone out for breakfast, you always put your toast on mine or Nolan’s plate.” Noeh points out.

 “Well, that’s regular toast. There’s a difference between plain butter and cinnamon.”

 “I’ve never seen you eat toast, no matter what’s on it.” 

 “Maybe I just wanted toast, Noeh. Ever think of that?” He snaps, finally finding the cinnamon. He snatches it up, nearly slamming the cabinet door shut as he turns to face her.

 Noeh’s staring at him, her mouth pursed, her arms crossed. The way she looks at someone when she’s upset with them, but not willing to stoop to their level. She speaks in a clipped tone, “Fine. Have your toast. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

 Noeh spins on her heel to leave, obviously upset with him.

 Weston winces, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as he feels a pang of guilt. “Noeh, wait.”

 She does, halting in the doorway, her back to him.

 He sees her tense at the same time he does when cobalt light flashes across the living room again. Thunder crackles, rolling against the windows. He grips the bottle in his hand so tightly he’s afraid it might bust, but he can’t bring himself to loosen his hold on it.

 “I’m sorry.” He finally says, when he can force his voice to work again. “I just… I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

 Noeh turns to look at him with narrowed eyes, but her expression softens after a moment. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry for pushing it. I just, worry sometimes. I know it’s tough, trying to…” She trails off for a second, her green gaze traveling far away, despite her looking right at him. She shakes her head, refocusing, “I should’ve guessed the storm was bothering you. I’m sorry.”

 Weston nods slowly, moving back toward the counter. He sets the spice down at the same time the toaster goes off, startling him and his roommate.

 They both look at each other at the same time, eyes wide, jaws slack. Then, Noeh cracks a smile and begins to chuckle; and after a minute, Weston laughs, too.

 “C’mon. I’ll show you how to make the best cinnamon toast ever.” He beckons her over, grabbing for the jar of sugar on the counter. Another distraction, but this time, for both of them.

 “Sounds good to me.” Noeh moves back over to the counter.

 Weston takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he recalls the way his mother taught him how to make it. Everything else fades into the background as he hears her voice in his ears, instructing him gently. “Okay, so first, you need to have the right sugar-to-cinnamon ratio…”

 The two friends spend the next few minutes making cinnamon toast together. Weston laughs at Noeh when she shakes the cinnamon too hard and dumps a load of the brown powder on her piece of bread. Noeh grumbles as she shakes the excess onto her plate, making sure to flick some of the spice his way. Eventually, they move to the living room with two plates of toast and glasses of milk, turning on another lamp to drown out the blue light that flares behind the curtains.

 Noeh approves of the cinnamon toast, munching on hers happily. “So how come I’ve never seen you make this before? Have you been hiding this toast making talent so you can keep this all to yourself?”

   “No.” Weston shakes his head, smiling a little as he finishes his last bite. “My Ma taught me how to make it this way. She used to do this for my sisters and me when we were kids. If we didn’t feel good or were down in the dumps, she’d make this and get us a glass of milk. Said it would chase all the bad feelings away.”

 “And did it?” Noeh peers knowingly at him.

 “Yeah.” Weston breathes in deeply, letting the next crash of thunder wash over him as he sinks back into the couch. “Yeah, it did.”

 “Good.” She smiles brightly, reaching for the TV remote on the coffee table. She scooches back into her seat, turning to grab the blanket thrown across the back of the couch. “How ‘bout a movie? When I was little, my dad and I would curl up on the couch on nights like this and watch…”

 She offers him half the blanket and Weston takes it, listening to her recall stories from her childhood as she channel surfs, looking for a movie for them to watch. He lets his head fall back against the couch cushions, his eyelids becoming heavier by the minute, shuttering as he tries to keep them open.

 The sound of the storm becomes drowned out by his friend’s voice and the sound of a John Wayne movie playing on the TV until Weston lulls into sleep. Warm and comfortable, for the first time in a long time.