Ode to the Oddities Chapter 3

Alena is home now.

           Chapter 3

It’s dead outside now.

The sky’s gone completely black�"not night-black, but that eerie, bottomless kind that feels like it could swallow the whole city in one breath. The windows reflect more of the shop than the street, and the world beyond them is nothing but a smear of dying orange streetlight and a thin layer of pollution hanging low like ghost-fog.

I lean my elbows on the counter, chin resting on my palm, eyes unfocused. The hum of the fridge starts to sound like ocean waves if I don’t pay attention, rhythmic and slow, pulling me into that floaty headspace where thoughts go quiet.

Logan’s somewhere in the back, swearing under his breath because the coffee grounds have suddenly, magically, ceased to exist. Lily clocked out an hour ago. It’s just me, the low buzz of appliances, and the soft, steady rain tapping the glass like it’s checking in on me.

For a second, I let myself sink into it.

Everything muted.

Everything calm.

The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re the only person left on Earth and honestly? Not the worst vibe.

Then�"

CLACK.

I flinch so hard my shoulder jerks.

BANG.

My soul leaves my body for a brief vacation.

I turn toward the kitchen just as Gordie emerges, looking entirely too casual for someone who’s just startled me into early retirement. He wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen far better days.

“Sink should be fixed now, Alena,” he says, peeling off a pair of rubber gloves that are coated in something thick, black, and definitely illegal in at least twelve states.

I wrinkle my nose. “Please tell me that’s chocolate frosting.”

He laughs�"one of those warm, good-natured laughs that scrunches up the corners of his eyes. “Grease. Someone’s been dumping grill fat down the drain again instead of tossing it.”

I grimace. “Right. Grease. My second guess. Totally.”

He gestures toward the gloves. “Want ’em?”

“No,” I say. “No, thank you. I’d rather lick the sidewalk.”

“Let me guess�"it’s probably Jonah?” I smirk, because of course it is. Jonah treats the grease trap like a wishing well. Toss something in and hope for the best.

Gordie huffs a low laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, probably. Man’s got a personal vendetta against proper disposal.”

Our little bubble of laughter fades, and suddenly the café feels too big and too quiet. The ceiling fan hums overhead, blades slicing the air with lazy indifference. Gordie shifts slightly, stepping into the glow of the hanging light, and the warm yellow halos around him. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms smudged from work, and there’s this gentle tiredness in his eyes�"a softness that almost makes me forget how gross the sludge was.

“Thanks, Gordie,” I say, brushing a stray hair behind my ear even though it’ll fall again in two seconds. “Seriously�"you don’t even work here, and you still fix things like the place would crumble without you.”

His smile pulls up slow�"real, warm, and just for me. Not the forced customer-service smile. Not the polite oh-that’s-nice smile. A real one.

“Always, Alena.”

My phone buzzes violently in my pocket.

Bzzz. Bzzzzzz.

Ugh. Reality calling.

I sigh and fish it out, glancing at the screen. “That’s my cue. If I don’t clock out in the next two minutes, Logan’s gonna start quoting labor laws at me like he’s Moses and they’re the Ten Commandments.”

“That’s a bummer,” Gordie says with that little crooked smile as he rubs the back of his neck. It’s ridiculous how charming that tiny gesture is. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling the smile tug at my mouth before I can hide it. “See you tomorrow, grease man.”

He actually laughs�"head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkling�"and I sling my bag over my shoulder, pushing through the door. For a second before it swings shut, I look back.

He’s still watching me.

And that same quiet smile hasn’t faded.

As I pass through the threshold of door and city, the cold hits me like a freight train, slamming into my face and slicing straight through my jacket like it’s made of wet paper. It punches the breath out of me so fast I wheeze.

“F**k, it’s cold!”

My voice fogs in the air before evaporating entirely. I cup my hands and breathe into them, rubbing my arms in quick, useless circles as if friction alone could revive whatever part of my soul just froze to death. When that fails, I yank my phone out for a distraction.

Wednesday, 9:36 P.M.

Great. Another late night in the city that never shuts up but somehow always feels dead.

The phone disappears back into my pocket as I pivot and start walking, heels clicking against the cracked sidewalk. The sky could be pretty�"velvet darkness, a faint glow around the clouds�"but the factories smear everything with gray smog. Three separate smoke stacks work overtime, pumping out enough pollution to season the air with burnt metal and whatever chemical nightmare fuels all the cheap frozen food this town apparently needs.

My heels tap a steady rhythm, and for a moment, the world lines up neatly under the beat. Predictable. Contained. Manageable.

Rent’s due in three days.

If I skip breakfast and lunch tomorrow, I can swing dinner�"maybe even splurge on a soda�"then write the rent check like I’m a functioning adult who definitely isn’t doing math with ramen packets.

But then, right as I’m convincing myself that’s a plan worth living for, something shifts.

It’s not the wind. Not the cold. This chill has teeth.

A prickle crawls up my spine, slow and deliberate, the kind of sensation that feels like someone leaning in close�"too close�"breathing down the back of my neck.

I freeze.

And then�"

Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz.

My heart rockets straight into my throat.

“Oh my f*****g God.”

I slap a hand over my chest like that’s going to calm it down, but nope�"my pulse is doing parkour.
I do not have time for this. Not tonight. Not when the air feels wrong and my rent anxiety is already chewing through my spine.

I lean against the brick wall�"cold enough to sting even through my jacket�"and hike my purse higher on my shoulder. My fingers fumble with the phone, breath fogging in front of me.

Three missed calls.
All from the same number.

Since 9:42 P.M.

I blink.

Wait… no.
No, that’s not right.

I check the top of the screen again.

9:42 P.M.

But it was 9:36 literally one minute ago. I hadn’t even walked half a block. Time doesn’t jump like that. Not unless I blacked out or got abducted by aliens or�"

A shiver ripples over me, sharp as a blade.

The street is empty.
The air is still.

And yet the hairs on the back of my neck won’t lie down.

Something happened.
Something shifted.
And I didn’t even notice it until now.

A shaky breath escapes before I even realize I’m holding it. The air feels thicker now�"heavy, like it’s trying to sink into my lungs instead of fill them. I glance around, but the street’s empty except for the faint hum of streetlights and the echo of my own pulse thudding in my ears.

Then I start walking faster.

The cold clings harder this time, latching on like invisible hands wrapping around my sides. It’s not the normal late-night chill�"it’s colder, deliberate, like something is trying to get my attention in the worst way.

The grip tightens and tightens, like some creepy vise clamp or one of those blood pressure cuffs the doctor insists “won’t hurt a bit”�"yeah, okay, liar. My breath fogs out in quick, uneven puffs as I push forward.

Then�"finally�"I see the warm light of my building glowing through the fog, soft and honey-gold against the dark. Relief crashes through me so fast my knees almost buckle.

A shaky laugh�"half-sigh, half-sob�"slips out before I can stop it.

I climb the steps slowly, carefully, determined not to faceplant like I did this morning. (Still have the bruise. Still have the humiliation.) The metal handle of the door is freezing against my palm as I pull it open.

The second I step into the access room, the phantom grip releases�"just drops away�"and warmth starts crawling back into my toes like it never left.

I punch in the keycode like it personally owes me money and shove open the door to the tiny brown lobby�"complete with sad plastic chairs and a giant mirror that exists purely to remind you how miserable you look.

I stumble toward it and get a full view of the disaster that is me: hair absolutely wrecked by the wind, pants looking like they lost a fight with a sewer drain. Cute. Real cute.

My eyeliner is smudged just enough to suggest I either cried in an alley or got into a fistfight with a raccoon. Honestly? Could go either way.

I sigh, drag my fingers through the tangled mess on my head�"my scalp protesting like I’ve committed a war crime�"and close my eyes for a second. Half to calm down. Half because I don’t want to keep looking at the woman in the mirror who definitely needs sleep, a shower, or maybe an exorcism.

A little sniff slips out before I can stop it, the kind that comes from a day that had one too many “surprises.” I square my shoulders and wander toward what I hope is the right elevator. God forbid this building label literally anything. The “2” and “5” buttons on the elevator panel are still sticky from… something. I don’t want to think too much about it.

The elevator lets out a cheerful ding�"mocking, honestly�"and the beige hallway yawns open in front of me like a hospital corridor that failed its interior design exam. My boots echo as I begin the long, long trek down what feels like the world’s most unnecessarily extended hallway.

Because of course Elyseis just had to pick the apartment at the very end. The point of no return. The place where light goes to die.

After finally reaching the end of the hall, I sigh like I’ve just completed a marathon and dig around in my bag for the apartment key. A jab, a twist, a turn�"and ta-da, I’m home.

The familiar scent of macaroni hits me instantly, warm and heavy in the air, mixed with just a hint of cigarette smoke… or maybe that’s just my pants. Honestly, it’s a mystery for the ages. I close the door behind me, let my head fall back for a second, then kick off my god-awful shoes that have been torturing my feet like medieval devices. My socks sigh against the floor as I shuffle into the kitchen.

Elyseis is standing at the counter, half-focused on a pot of what might be mac-and-cheese, though with her track record it could also be the second coming of Chernobyl. She turns, looks at me�"really looks�"and her face goes from neutral to horrified to amused in about three seconds.

“Hey, Alena�"oh s**t, you look rough!” she blurts, a grin breaking through before she can stop it.

“Yeah,” I say dryly, brushing at my pants like they might spontaneously improve, “I tripped.”

“On what? A pile of depression and manure!?” she fires back, her laugh coming out in that low, scratchy rasp that always sounds like she either just woke up or just committed a crime.

“Ha-ha, hilarious,” I mutter, lifting an eyebrow. “You sure that stuff in the pot is even edible? Because it looks like something OSHA would fine you for.”

Elyseis snorts loudly, unbothered, and tosses another fistful of shredded cheese into the pot like she’s offering a sacrifice to the gods of dairy. The kitchen light catches her hair�"bright blonde, almost white in places, with that streak of deep violet curling down the front like a rebellious comet. Her freckles stand out across her nose like constellations, and the small silver ring in her lip glints when she smirks.

Her tattoo sleeve�"flowers tangled with knives, vines twisting around blades�"seems to move with her, alive and expressive, like it’s telling a story even when she isn’t. She stirs the pot, shrugs one shoulder, and glances at me again with that mix of concern and “you’re a hot mess and I adore you” that only she can pull off.

She’s one of those people who always looks like she knows something she shouldn’t�"like the universe told her a secret and she’s just waiting for someone to beg her to spill it. Mischief lives permanently in the corner of her mouth. Honestly, I don’t know whether I should trust her, high-five her, or have her arrested.

She lets out another loud, unrestrained laugh that bounces off the cabinets, then ladles an aggressively large scoop of her science-experiment-aroni onto a plate for me. The stuff stretches like molten cheese and something that might actually be glue. She shoves the plate in my hands, proud of it like she just plated a Michelin meal.

Then she turns toward the oven clock, narrowing her eyes at it like it’s personally challenging her.

She taps her foot, arms crossed, lips pursed in that I’m waiting for my next bad decision to finish preheating kind of way.

I swear, with Elyseis, the silence before an idea is more dangerous than the idea itself.

"Did you do anything today after work?" I grumble, trudging toward the bedroom like a zombie in heels.

Our room is… well, let’s just say it’s not exactly an interior designer’s dream. Two beds on opposite sides, a couple of sad lamps, and the faint aura of we gave up halfway through decorating. But hey, nobody can stop us from embracing the aesthetic of “mild depression meets rent control.”

Elyseis, of course, is already lounging on my bed, legs kicked up, stirring chaos like it’s her day job. “Oh, you know,” she says with a smirk, “I hung out on Bimble for like an hour�"don’t judge me�"and then decided to bless the world with the culinary masterpiece currently bubbling in the kitchen.”

“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes as I toss my purse onto the nearest pile of laundry and collapse onto my mountain of back-healing pillows. (Don’t judge that either. I injured myself trying to reach a water bottle out of my backpack yesterday. Apparently, that’s a thing now. I’m falling apart at twenty-six.)

“What about you?” she mumbles from under my sheets, already wrapped up like a human burrito.

I groan into my pillow. “Same old�"Lily and Logan arguing about stupid crap, Gordie being cute and some random guy asked for my number."

 She smiled so wide wide it could crack glass. “I’m gonna have to stop you right there, Missy. Someone asked my little roomie for the digits!?” She rolls over dramatically and locks eyes with me. “Alright, bestie. Spill the tea. I need the goods.”

I sit up, still clutching my pillow like it’s the last shred of sanity I own, and tuck my hair behind my ear. “Well, I went into work this morning, and there was this kid sitting at table six�"I think. Anyway, I took his order, nothing special.”

She groans loud enough to shake the bedframe. “You’re killing me. Get to the juicy part!”

“So I come back with his food, right? Ask if he wants anything else, and he just�"out of nowhere�"asks for my number.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, heck no he did not!”

“Dead serious. And get this�"he was, like, eighteen. He even said it.”

Elyseis absolutely loses it. She’s laughing so hard she’s wheezing like a Victorian child with consumption. “Oh my GOD. Like�"sorry, my guy�"but while I was out here paying bills and developing adult back pain, you were still failing algebra and flirting with middle schoolers!”

That’s it. I completely lose it. I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe, my stomach twisting as tears sting the corners of my eyes. Elyseis rolls right off the bed with a full-bodied thunk�"like a raccoon falling out of someone’s trash bin�"and keeps cackling on the floor, kicking her feet like she’s trying to swim through the hardwood.

I’m curled up on my pillow, gasping for air, the kind of laugh that feels like it scrapes out stress that’s been stuck in your ribs for months.

For a moment�"just a sliver of it�"the crappy apartment melts away.

The cold.

The rent.

The weird fear that something followed me on the walk home.

All of it disappears under the sound of two idiots losing their minds in a dingy bedroom with peeling paint.

“Well, you’re getting attention�"that’s something, right?” Elyseis grunts as she finally claws her way upright. She rises from the floor with the grace and posture of a gremlin who has just been handed a second chance at life. Her hair is sticking up, her face is flushed from laughing, and she looks too proud of herself for someone who just faceplanted.

She snickers all the way back toward the kitchen, waving a dismissive hand like she’s the queen of bad decisions.

“Yeah, sure,” I call after her, wiping my eyes as I peel myself off the bed. “But nobody wants to get asked out by a kid fresh outta high school. Isn’t that, like, borderline illegal?”

I follow behind her, dragging my feet, and plop down at the tiny kitchen table that creaks like it’s one insult away from giving up. I grab my bowl of radioactive macaroni�"sorry, science experiment�"and swirl the spoon through the molten orange goo, praying it won’t melt through the bowl.

"Not when they’re eighteen," she fires back without missing a beat, scooping up her giant bowl and stabbing into it with the kind of rage usually reserved for exes and malfunctioning microwaves.

"Oh my god, Elyseis, he’s eighteen. Eighteen. Do you not see the issue here?" I throw my hands up, practically choking on indignation and leftover laughter.

She shrugs�"slow, dramatic, totally unbothered. "I’m just saying… if you did decide to get funky with someone that age, technically he’s legal." She says “legal” like it’s the world’s most cursed sales pitch.

I gasp like she just slapped me with a wet tortilla. "You’re horrible!" I laugh, smacking her shoulder. She cackles like a Disney villain who's just discovered tax evasion.

I force myself to take another bite of her neon-orange macaroni�"bracing for impact�"and stop mid-chew.

"...Oh, s**t. That’s actually good."

I shovel in another forkful like a woman possessed. "Like… dangerously good. Like I’m-questioning-my-life-choices good."

"I told you so!" she crows, pointing a chili-flake-dusted spoon at me in triumph.

"But it’s still bio-chemical nuclear waste," I remind her, mouth full.

She nods sagely. "Yeah, but it’s tasty nuclear waste. Which is the best kind."

She sprinkles more chili flakes with the chaotic energy of a sorcerer casting a fire spell, takes another bite, and actually moans like she’s ascending. "Mmm�"oh yeah, baby. Culinary excellence. Gordon Ramsay could never."

Then she snorts. "Honestly, I’m so glad I didn’t add cottage cheese earlier, or this entire dish would’ve triggered an evacuation notice."

She laughs through a mouthful of pasta, and I shudder�"not sure if it’s from the mental image or because she’s absolutely right.

After about fifteen minutes of half-hearted chewing and gossip, I finish off the last forkful and drop my bowl into the sink with a clatter that echoes like a tiny cry for help. I run the tap, filling it with steaming water until the whole sink looks like it’s exhaling the spirit of dinner past. My body already feels fifty percent heavier, so I grab the tea kettle and fill that too�"because if I’m going to stay mentally functional tonight, I need caffeine dressed up as comfort.

“And what about Gordie?” Elyseis pipes up from behind me, her voice carrying that singsong tone of someone about to be a menace. She’s still lounging at the table like a gremlin queen, twirling her fork for dramatic effect.

I pause mid-pour. “…What about him?”

Her grin widens as she reaches�"once again�"for the chili powder like it’s her emotional support spice. “Oh, I don’t know… hasn’t he been your work crush for, like, two years?”

I groan and lean against the counter, defeated. “Yeah. And? What about it?”

“You should just grow a pair and ask him out already.”

I spin around so fast the kettle sloshes. “I�"WHAT? No! That is not�"it’s not that simple!” My voice cracks in protest, which only makes her smirk harder. “He’s my friend, El! What if I ask him out and he rejects me? Then it’s awkward forever, and he never talks to me again, and I have to find a new coffee shop because he’s literally the only person who knows how to fix the espresso machine!”

Elyseis takes a slow bite of her pasta, chews thoughtfully, then raises one unimpressed eyebrow. “Girl. If you don’t ask him out soon, I swear I will personally break into his house and force him to ask you out.”

"You’re insane," I mutter, dropping the tea bags into the kettle like I’m punishing them for all my unresolved emotional baggage.

"That’s why we’re friends, though, isn’t it?" she shoots back, giving me one of those evil little gremlin grins�"the kind that says I cause chaos recreationally.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Tragically, yes.”

She pushes herself up from the table with the grace of someone who has decided gravity is optional tonight, and plunks her empty bowl in the sink beside mine. “Anyway, I’m crashing early. Stay up as long as you like, night owl.”

“Where are you even sleeping tonight?” I ask, lifting a brow as she shuffles toward the living room like a cryptid emerging from the shadows.

She stretches, spine popping like bubble wrap. “Feeling like a floor kinda night, babes!”

I snort. “Totally normal behavior.”

She just wiggles her fingers in an unapologetic little wave.

The kettle starts to whistle behind me�"sharp, shrill, borderline judgmental.

Like the universe itself going: yeah, she’s unhinged, and so are you.

"I guess that’s my cue," I mutter, grabbing the kettle before it starts screeching loud enough to summon the dead. The handle is warm against my palm, grounding me a little. I pour the steaming water into a mug and watch the tea leaves rise, swirl, and settle�"like a tiny storm deciding whether or not to ruin my night. The steam curls up toward my face, soft and fragrant, brushing warmth against my cheeks I didn’t realize were still cold.

I set the mug on the little table by the sofa, the ceramic clinking gently�"a quiet, homey sound that feels like an exhale I’ve been needing all day.

In through the nose.

Out through the mouth.

I breathe deep, and my shoulders finally loosen, just a fraction, like my body’s remembering it’s allowed to relax when I’m not dodging disasters or existential dread.

After a quick detour to the bedroom, I peel off the work uniform of doom and slip into my trusty pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt�"the kind that counts as emotional support clothing purely by existing. I twist my hair into a messy bun that somehow makes me look both more awake and more exhausted.

When I flop onto the sofa, the cushions sigh under me, and I wrap my hands around the mug like I’m stealing its warmth for survival. The tea is fragrant�"wildflower and raspberry drifting lightly through the room, settling into the air like a comforting promise. It’s calm. Cozy. Almost suspiciously peaceful for someone who literally face-planted into the sidewalk this morning and has been sprinting through chaos ever since.

I reach for the book I’ve been nursing for weeks, the one with the spine so bent it threatens to snap every time I open it. Tucked into the shelf beside me, it feels like a secret waiting just for me. I open to a dog-eared page, and the second my eyes skim the first line, the world outside�"sirens, neon, the hum of restless city life�"slips away.

It’s just me, my tea, and the soft pull of a story dragging me into its rhythm. The steam curls lazily around my face, carrying whispers of wildflower and raspberry, and I breathe it in like it’s the first calm air I’ve felt in hours.

For once, there’s no noise, no impatient ticking of the clock, no faint guilt about chores undone or emails ignored. Just the words, warm in my hands, and the quiet that feels like a deep, slow sigh at the end of a long, stupidly human day. Even the bruises from this morning’s sidewalk disaster seem to fade into the background, and I can almost pretend the city�"and life�"can wait.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Dale Pavolko]

“Hey Elowyn,
I gave chapter 3 a shot. I’m going to be straight with you: I bounced off it pretty hard. The prose feels really overstuffed; every moment has five or six layered descriptions and metaphors, and after a while it made the story impossible for me to sink into. Also, 4,500 words pass and basically nothing has happened yet, so the pacing lost me completely.

There are some sparks I liked (the roommate banter is fun, and the creepy time-jump/cold-grip moment had potential), but right now they’re buried under so much detail that the tension never gets room to breathe.

If you ever do a tighter revision, I’d happily give it another read. No hard feelings either way; just wanted to give you real feedback instead of a vague ‘it’s good!’”

[Your_Mysterious_Writer]

Hello Dale.
I have found this info informative in the best sense and I have started to work on a tighter version.