cold cement in forgotten town

broken man to broken sign.

Samuel Miller

She stirred the soup with a wooden spoon, watching as the pieces of chicken rose above the small carrots. Soon, it would be time for her to head to the Herondale manor. She dreaded seeing Mr. Herondale and greeting Ms. Chen. It was difficult enough accepting an apology. It was even worse returning to her job as a housekeeper. She might as well be called a maid.

"Clarissa?"

She blinked, breaking out of her reverie. Turning the stove off, she held the pot gingerly and dumped its contents into a plastic container. It would serve as lunch for her grandmother.

"Coming, ma."

x

"Where were you yesterday?" Charlotte asked curiously, her hands playing with the gloves she was trying to crochet.

It was no use lying. Her grandmother saw right through her. Clary threw a granola bar into her backpack. "Sebastian's."

Charlotte was quiet for a long moment. She licked her lips. "I thought I talked to you abou-"

"I know," Clary cut off, unable to remove the bitterness in her voice. "I needed to see him." She slipped on her shoes, trying to avoid eye contact with the old woman. "You wouldn't understand."

The last thing she heard Charlotte say before she escaped their apartment was, "You're killing him. He's just a boy."

x

She took a cab to the manor.

And even the cost of that emptied her pockets.

x

The first person she caught a glimpse of when arriving was Ms. Chen. She was rummaging through her purse near the front door. She glanced up momentarily and met Clary's gaze. Her lips stretched into a brilliant smile. "Clary!" She reached her arms out for an embrace and it took Clary a few seconds to return the gesture.

"We were so worried. Did something happen?" Her dark eyes were wide and imploring. "I hope everything's alright."

Clary tried for a nod. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. I was just sick. I'm sorry I didn't give you a notice."

Ms. Chen shook her head knowingly. "It's okay. Next time, just give us call. We can always accommodate to your schedule." She brought her wrist to her face and cursed quietly. Her watch was glimmering. Clary wondered how much it was worth.

Sending her an apologetic expression, Ms. Chen hurried to her vehicle, keys dangling behind her.

x

To Clary's surprise, the manor wasn't as disorderly as she thought. Her days of absence didn't affect the state of the floors and furniture. She was glad. She dropped her bag in the living room and immediately set off to work. The earlier she finished, the earlier she'd be able to leave.

She knew Mr. Herondale was home. Yet she kept it in the back of her head, willing her steps and movements to be quiet.

Any interaction with him she feared.

x

She sang softly under her breath and mopped the kitchen tiles. The room smelled like lemon soap and bleach. All she had left was dusting the tables. She rolled down the ends of her pants and sauntered carefully over the wet surface and into the hallway.

It was there that she noticed Mr. Herondale, buttoning a white dress shirt on. She observed him a little longer. He still hadn't detected her presence. He had probably just awoken from sleep, his hair unruly and gathering down his ears. He was barefoot and he was trudging toward her heedlessly, his orbs glued downwards on the cloth of his shirt.

"Good morning." Clary took the initiative to speak first. His face whipped up to meet hers.

"Clary." He uttered quietly. Then his arms fell to his side. She couldn't read his emotions. "Good morning."

She left to the closet for the cleaning wipes before any type of conversation could commence.

x

She loved dancing as a kid. She was a child born for the spotlight. When she was three, her father taught her how to play the piano. She hated it. She hated how one hand had to play different notes than the other. But then she got used to it. She went from playing Mozart's melody to Fur Elise. And soon, her father saved up enough money to purchase a violin. It was used, but she adored it like it was made for her. The bow was her voice and the strings were her friends.

Her father took her to dancing classes. She quit ballet for jazz and contemporary styles. She was the smallest of all the youth, probably the clumsiest too. On the first day after class, she ran to her father crying. She managed to blubber out in frustration, "I can't do it! Everybody laughs at me."

Her father smiled and wiped her tears. He held her body in his arms and replied, "No. Remember piano?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"Dancing is like playing the piano. Baby steps." He flicked her nose gently and she giggled.

x

Clary took a swig of her water and tied the laces of her sneakers. She was hungry. She hadn't eaten any breakfast and it was already afternoon. She'd have to buy something on the way home.

Glancing backwards to make sure everything was tidy and in place, she unlocked the back door and was relieved to feel a cool breeze roll through her body. "Clary, wait!"

She knit her eyebrows and halted on the cement of the Herondale driveway. He stood before her, wearing a crisp suit. It made him appear professional, like he meant all business. His hair was combed, the tawny locks brushed to the side of his head. "I wanted to talk."

She nodded. "Okay."

He peered at her underneath long eyelashes. "I didn't want to ruin anything." His fingers were tapping rapidly against his legs. "When I called you, I meant what I said."

"I know. Thank you, Mr. Herondale."

He cringed slightly, a barely noticeable action. "It's Jace. It's always been Jace."

Her mouth twitched warily. "Okay." She didn't realize the tightness in her chest. "Jace."

He grinned, full and bright. With his chipped front tooth, he looked like a kid again. A happy one.

Clary released a breath and started forward. "I'll see you tomorrow."

x

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