Chapter Text
For the first time in over twelve months, Carol doesn’t wake up with utter dread.
Sure, it’s past nine in the morning and her bedroom still looks bare save for a few essentials including her very bed. Still, there’s something exhilarating in the mere sight of empty walls and large windows, covered only by sheers. Her surroundings now are a huge blank space, and it is up to her what to do with it.
She’s still surprised at her colossal drive to explore things, given that the notion of starting anew used to terrify her. Yet here she is now, actually looking forward to rebuilding. Her life, and pretty much everything it entails.
Admittedly, part of her is also comforted by the fact that this is not entirely a strange land. She stands up and walks toward the window, and sighs in relief at the view outside. There’s an air of familiarity, even though she is aware that plenty has changed. And no matter how excited she is for everything, she still needs something recognizable to hold onto.
“Good morning, indeed,” she mutters to herself, her tone noticeably less deadpan than what she is accustomed to, before leaving the bedroom.
To say that the apartment living room is a mess would be an understatement, but Carol finds the sight inspiring. Unopened boxes are scattered on the floor and there’s still a lot of work to do to make the place presentable, but for once the thought doesn’t distress her. Quite the opposite, in fact, with her mind conjuring images of what she envisions her ideal living room to look like. At least the couch and coffee table are already placed exactly where she wants them to be, so she can start from there. It’ll be long and difficult, but she knows it’ll be worth the result.
She then heads to the kitchen, though she knows there’s barely anything she can find there. She doesn’t even bother checking the counters and island, and instead goes straight to the fridge. Inside there’s nothing but a carton of eggs and oat milk—chilled but still sealed. Her stomach grumbles almost in an instant, telling her that she needs something more fulfilling than what she has right now.
And with that, she makes her way back to her bedroom and heads straight to the ensuite bathroom to brush her teeth and get a bit of water on her face. A routine that seems mundane to most, but to Carol it’s a huge part of starting fresh, in every sense of the term. Of turning the page, and planning what she wants written on it.
Williamsburg has always been busy, that much Carol knows. Fifteen years ago, she would scoff every time she found herself in the area, or anywhere in Brooklyn for that matter—simply for the fact that there were too many humans to her liking (the ridiculousness of that notion from someone who willingly lived in New York City was not lost on her, however). She wouldn’t go out of her way to avoid the area altogether, but she also wouldn’t stop herself from complaining every time she was around.
Today, she actually smiles as she sees the crowd of people moving about. People going on morning strolls, some with companions—humans and otherwise—and others with families. The weather is nice enough for people to spend time outdoors, the sun and the accompanying mild fall air giving just the right amount of warmth. Nothing is overwhelming, much to Carol’s own surprise. In fact, she relishes the liveliness of it all.
It must have been more than fifteen minutes since she left her apartment, but her legs haven’t complained anyway. She observes every turn and corner, examining which ones are recognizable and which ones are newer. To her, a lot of it is familiar enough to be comforting, but at the same time also poses exciting novelty. There are restaurants, coffee shops, and stores she recognizes, as well as unfamiliar signages, and she’s quite fascinated by how well they blend together.
Her stomach keeps grumbling, and she knows she needs to make a decision soon on where to get breakfast. As much as she would like to try something new, she knows from experience that it can be rather risky to do so while famished. Instead, she takes a look around, mentally taking notes on which places she recognizes.
She finally stops upon spotting a sign that says Cafe Mogador, and she smiles at the sight of an eatery with brick walls and white doors, thinking about all the times she used to spend there back in the day. She still considers herself not overly adventurous when it comes to food, but the place is one of the only ones she’s willing to make an exception for.
She chuckles at the thought of what brought her there in the first place all those years ago, before shaking her head as she crosses the road.
Once inside, she is greeted by the smell of various spices, which admittedly she can’t name one by one, but it still tingles her taste buds anyway. The place isn’t too crowded at the moment, though she guesses that it’ll soon change in about an hour or so. There’s an empty table by the window, which she promptly claims. As she takes a seat, she studies her surroundings; the interior hasn’t changed much, and the table arrangement is still almost exactly how she remembers it. She normally prefers sitting in the outdoor area out back, but today she feels like watching the busy streets.
A young man, appearing to be in his twenties, approaches Carol’s table with a small notebook and a pen along with a menu. He wears a nameplate on the left side of his shirt, with the name Yassine written on it. “Morning,” he greets her. “Can I get you anything?”
Carol nods as she takes the menu card, only briefly scanning it before her eyes find the item she wants. “Hi,” she replies. “Uh, Moroccan eggs, with extra merguez. And orange juice, please.”
Yassine quickly scribbles down Carol’s orders and nods in acknowledgement. “Coming right up,” he says before leaving the table.
It’s something that she used to order all the time, and from the moment she stepped inside she has been thinking about how much she missed it. There’s no Moroccan restaurant in Albuquerque, and while she has visited New York quite a few times since moving out of the city she was never able to bring herself to come here. It’s one of those things she can’t quite put into words, yet that was the case for the longest time. Today, however, feels different.
She stares through the window, still observing all that’s happening outside. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as Brooklyn is concerned, but she finds it exciting nonetheless. Maybe the first time the adjective comes to mind for her when it comes to something that looks rather unremarkable to others.
The door opens, prompting the bright Sunday sunlight to fill the room and grab Carol’s attention. She looks up, and her eyes catch the figure of a dark-haired woman entering the restaurant. Something about the woman makes Carol’s gaze stay with her, and as she closes the door and approaches the counter Carol can feel her heart skipping a beat.
The stride. The grace in her every movement. The eyes that, even from afar, look like they carry the whole world’s wonders.
“Zosia?” Carol immediately calls out, and regret begins to creep in as soon as the word leaves her mouth.
Zosia turns her head at the sound of her name being called, and her eyes widen at the source of the voice. Carol’s breath hitches as their eyes meet, and her mind immediately goes blank.
“Carol,” Zosia responds, her voice as calm as Carol remembers it to be even with surprise. “I—I had no idea,” she says as she leaves the counter and approaches Carol’s table.
Carol now stares up at the towering figure, and all her attention drifts toward a pair of dark eyes that she hasn’t seen in so long. They’re still as decipherable as ever, and currently they’re imbued with a mixture of confusion and shock. She can sense that Zosia is aware that she’s reading her expression, and Carol’s heart starts to beat faster when Zosia moves to take a seat across the table.
“You’re here,” Zosia says with a small smile.
Carol swallows hard, her surprise having only increased with Zosia actually sitting in front of her. As it was back then, it is impossible to tear her eyes away from the brunette woman—there’s a great deal about her that makes it so. The lust for life, brought about by her ever-present smile. The way her eyes convey so much in every shifting second.
The lines on Zosia’s face are a testament to the amount of years that have passed since the last time they met, but Carol would always recognize her anywhere. Her hair, now with a very small amount of gray strands and shorter than it was the last time they saw each other, is tousled and framing her face nicely. She’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, an attire so simple yet only enhancing her best features even more—something that Carol doesn’t find surprising.
So much of her is exactly how Carol remembers her to be.
“Yeah,” she finally replies with a chuckle—a nervous one, which she’s sure Zosia picks up. “I am. Here, back again.”
“Are you…visiting?” Zosia asks. “For work?”
It’s a simple question, one that Carol did expect when the conversation started. It’s still not an easy one, however, as straightforward as the honest answer might sound. The answer may be brief, but it’ll inevitably lead to an array of other subjects that Carol doesn’t know if she is ready to discuss. Especially with Zosia of all people.
Still, she knows better than to be coy with someone that she remembers as having the uncanny ability to read her like an open book.
“No,” Carol shakes her head. “I just moved here, actually.”
Zosia raises an eyebrow, and Carol tries her best to put on a smile. At least to calm herself somewhat, if not to kill the tension altogether. To Zosia’s credit, she doesn’t comment on that—though Carol just knows that she’s observing every shift and gesture carefully.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Zosia's smile grows wider, and Carol can tell it’s genuine. At least moreso than her own. “Finally got tired of the desert, huh?”
The light teasing, another thing that Carol always associates with her. She remembers many a banter, and how easy it was to fall into one of those back then. Yet today it somehow feels like an ambush, even though she knows far be it from Zosia to do such a thing. Carol silently curses herself for letting her nerves and the overall uneasy atmosphere put irrational thoughts in her head.
Carol lets out another nervous chuckle. “It’s—well, my wife died last year,” she blurts out, surprising herself at how easy the words are coming out. “A lot has happened since, and none of it particularly good, so I decided that I needed a fresh start. If that even makes sense, considering…uh, I’ve been here before, obviously. I know it probably doesn’t.”
It hits Carol that, as always, Zosia’s mere presence somehow always makes it easier for her to talk, even about things that she wouldn’t dare utter to anyone else. As she pauses, she takes the time to observe Zosia’s reaction.
No judgement. Just willingness to listen, no matter how much Carol struggles with her words at times.
Exactly how Carol remembers her to be.
“Carol,” Zosia finally responds, her tone softening. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t know.”
She has heard that said by quite a few people over the past twelve months, and most of it she easily dismissed as hollow, but not this time. Not with Zosia.
A woman who Carol knows always means what she says, and only says what she means.
Thoughts start running in Carol’s mind about how Zosia was unaware about her marriage. Her own doing, for the most part, but she also knows she had her reasons for it. Part of her expects Zosia, of all people, to understand, though she dares not to make sure.
“Thank you. It means a lot,” Carol says, and she means it. Zosia deserves sincerity, more than most people she knows.
It takes her a moment to realize that she’s been fidgeting with her hands under the table, so brings her right hand on top of the table instead while placing her left one on her knee. Zosia, in contrast, has both forearms placed on the table, her left hand wrapped around her right wrist. A gesture Carol knows all too well.
Calming. Reassuring without intruding. Holding space when necessary.
All incredibly familiar.
“So, what about you?” Carol quickly asks, partly in an attempt to ease the strain that she has sensed from the momentary silence. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here now,” Zosia answers without hesitation. “Since last year, actually. I moved back to the States three years ago, in San Francisco. But now here I am. Again.”
Carol tries to process what she has just heard. There are a lot of layers here, and Carol knows there’s still so much hidden beneath the surface. Still, she doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to press for more now.
“Wow,” Carol doesn’t bother to hide her astonishment. “Three years, huh? I had no idea,” she remarks, and it is only after the words have left her mouth that she notices the hint of unwarranted snark. “I mean—a lot has happened, I’m sure. Still, what are the odds?”
Zosia’s lips form a gentle smile. “I know. It’s…intriguing, really,” she says, and Carol notices her brief pause in search of the right word.
Carol can’t disagree with that. Everything that has happened since Zosia walked through the door is intriguing, and Carol is still figuring out how to deal with it.
Hints of nostalgia were exactly what she had in mind when she decided on New York. Things that she had known from her time here back then, and thus she could prepare herself for while adjusting to new routines.
Zosia, however, was not one of those.
“What do you do here?” Carol questions Zosia again, unable to stop letting her curiosity get the best of her.
“I run my own design consulting services now,” Zosia replies, still with a smile—along with a hint of pride this time. “It’s nothing big, but I enjoy it.”
“Of course you do,” Carol remarks. “I can see it.”
It takes her a good few seconds to realize how presumptuous it might’ve sounded, but part of her also knows that Zosia shouldn’t be too surprised. It’s hardly the worst thing she has ever heard coming out of Carol’s mouth.
At least Zosia huffs a laugh in response, though she doesn’t say anything. Carol has no idea if that’s worse or better.
Carol’s eyes remain fixated on Zosia’s face, trying to observe what has changed and what has remained. The lines that carry thirteen years’ worth of twists and turns, ones that Carol wasn’t a part of. There are vague hints of weariness in those dark eyes, though they are still buried deep beneath the passion and sense of wonder that Carol has never forgotten, even after all this time.
She knows Zosia is scanning her too; the intensity of Zosia’s gaze tells her as much. It’s always evident when she does so, Carol thinks, especially with how the dark of her eyes seem to deepen, especially the almost pitch-black left one with the distorted pupil—another thing that Carol can never get out of her head, as peculiar as it sounds.
“So, Carol,” Zosia finally breaks the silence, “what—?”
Before she can finish her sentence, Yassine appears with Carol’s orders—a plate of Moroccan eggs with extra merguez and a side of za’atar pita, along with a glass of fresh orange juice. He gently puts everything on Carol’s side of the table, before giving her a polite smile. “Enjoy,” he says as he walks away toward the counter before Carol can thank him.
Carol looks at the dish awkwardly, and then at Zosia, who gives her a knowing smile. Carol’s heart skips another beat, knowing that Zosia has seen this exact scene before. Many times.
Carol begins to open her mouth, about to get back to where Zosia left off, but the sound of Zosia’s name being called from the counter stops her from saying anything. Zosia immediately stands up and walks there to grab a cup of freshly-made coffee. As she thanks the barista, Carol cannot help but think about how she has seen this scene before as well, over and over back in the day.
In a strange way, there is comfort exuded by the whole thing, but part of it makes Carol feel queasy at the same time. Almost as if this shouldn’t even be happening at all, for some reason. It doesn’t escape her how illogical that sounds.
And yet, barely anything about her life has ever been logical. Including and especially the parts Zosia played a role in.
Zosia returns to the table, coffee in hand, and takes her seat. Carol’s food is still untouched, and everything that she wanted to say a few minutes ago has suddenly left her.
“Well, I need to head back. But since we’re both in town now,” she says, and Carol tenses in anticipation of where she is going with this, “might be a good idea to be in touch? I live in Fort Greene. Can you give me your phone?”
No hesitation. Everything is direct, without any hint of impertinence.
Something that Carol knows Zosia always does, and that Carol can’t resist. She knows that Zosia knows, too.
As if hypnotized, Carol pulls out her phone from her jeans pocket and unlocks it before handing it to Zosia. Rather quickly, Zosia types something on Carol’s phone before handing it back. Carol sees a new contact number, simply labelled with Zosia’s first and last names, and stares at the screen for a couple of seconds.
“Thanks,” she tells Zosia with a smile. “I’ll ca—we’ll be in touch, then. My apartment is nearby, actually. Like, less than a mile from here.”
Zosia raises an eyebrow in surprise, and Carol can feel herself blushing. “You, living in Williamsburg? That’s impressive,” she replies, and Carol can detect slight jest in her voice. “I guess a lot really has changed, huh?”
Carol chuckles, surprising herself at how ubiquitous the banter feels this time, far from the impression of ambush that she felt only minutes ago. This time, it hardly feels like something that she hasn’t encountered in over a decade. Still, she isn’t sure if this is how it’s supposed to feel.
“Yeah,” she concurs. “Sure has.”
Zosia gives Carol yet another smile, one that almost feels playful yet still contains tenderness. Carol is astounded at how it still makes her heart throb.
“Right, I’m leaving now,” Zosia stands up, and Carol can’t help but eye her every movement. “Give me a call, okay? And maybe you better dig in now,” she gestures at the dish on the table. “You never did like your food cold.”
With that, she turns away and walks toward the door. Carol’s eyes are not leaving her, not until she completely disappears from view.
Carol tears off a piece of za’atar pita and dips it in the tomato-based sauce drenching the eggs, and she spends a few seconds staring at it before putting it in her mouth. The food hasn’t gone cold, much to her relief, but she is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the rich flavors when her mind is now occupied with processing what has just happened.
She did anticipate a sense of familiarity, and even more so once she arrived here. A range of things recognizable enough to be comforting, with a few surprises thrown in the mix.
Carol is not sure which category Zosia falls into.