Love in a Bottle

She hates this.

She hates that she’s not satisfied. Being satisfied would mean that she’s enjoying her life, and she’s not. It would mean that everything is fine, and it isn’t. It would mean that she’s completely content with being alone for the rest of her life, and that just isn’t true.

She’s poor; she’s never had much of anything to her name. Her ten tattered books, broken oven with a dirty stovetop, splintered wooden floors, and tilted ceiling mock her every time she walks into her worn-down apartment. The carpet, which is covered with dust, is a dull yellow that makes her sick every time she looks at it, as do the ugly green walls that are faded to the point where they’re practically white. At least the walls have a few pictures hanging on them. Of course, she doesn't know any of the people in the photos. Then again, she doesn't know anyone in real life either. It’s just nice to have someone to look at. Sadly, this apartment is the cheapest she can afford. It reeks of cat piss since, she supposes, the previous owners didn’t give a damn about cleaning. But, given that they were living here, she isn’t entirely surprised.

Being poor, however, is much worse than living in a cramped apartment that stinks of waste and has almost nothing in it. She’s saving every dollar just to pay rent, counting every penny to make sure she can afford groceries, and never spending a single cent on something for herself just for the hell of it. She can never purchase something she’d enjoy, like a new mattress that doesn’t feel like lying on rocks when she sleeps on it, or clothes that don’t look like she wrapped a towel around her body before rolling in mud. She stares at luxury ads of whatever she can find in the windows of stores as her legs carry her through the city. All of her money goes into food and shelter. Always. And because she’s saving all of her money, she can never buy the one thing she truly wants.

Love.

Love comes in a bottle the size of the average adult’s thumb. It’s thin and cylindrical with a cork stuck in the top. Some people put a chain through the cork and turn it into a necklace, and some others place it in one of their pockets. She’s seen all sorts of people do all sorts of things with that small glass bottle. And sometimes, people with love will ask her if she’s okay or if she needs anything, but her ears will close at their words and she’ll just keep moving. She knows they don’t care. They’re being influenced. When her eyes catch a glimpse of the glimmer of a bottle on someone’s person, they narrow and roll over in their sockets, and she keeps trudging down the sidewalk. You’d think it wouldn’t be worth all that much since it’s so tiny, but you’d be insanely wrong. Apparently, just that little cylinder is worth three years of her monthly rent.

She wishes love could be intangible. Over the years, she’s tried to make that happen. She’s looked at hundreds of men and women, mostly married and handsome and covered in jewels, trying to feel something, anything, but nothing happens. She’s supposed to be attracted to them, to gravitate toward them. Hell, they’re married, aren’t they? If they weren’t attractive, they wouldn’t be married. She should want them. But, no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that she can feel something, nothing ever happens. God, why can’t love be like happiness or grief or any other emotion? Why can’t she feel it when she wants to, with whom she wants to? She’s spiraling. Falling. Drowning in her want to be seen and her desire to love. Why won’t someone, anyone, just—

A sharp jab to her shoulder brings her back into the present. Her ankle twists, and she cries out in a mix of surprise and pain as she falls to the ground. Managing to twist her body mid-fall, she lands on her side instead of her face. The pavement is cold and hard, and she can feel her scraped elbow before she sees the blood flowing out from under her skin. She looks after what she ran into. Her eyes widen slightly when she realizes it’s not a what; it’s a who.

The man in front of her stands at about average height, with messy light brown hair and ivory skin. He’s dressed in a light gray t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His eyes, which are a soft hazelnut color, go wide when he sees her lying on the concrete. Apologizing profusely, he reaches out a hand to help her up. “Shit, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!”

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” she mumbles, taking his hand with slight hesitation. It’s warm, and it makes the sting from her fall lessen slightly. Her eyes are dragged to his face. They’re studying it with interest and what she prays is not too much intensity when he speaks again.

“You sure? That was a nasty fall. Christ,” he mutters as he looks at her elbow. Taking her arm, he carefully extends it to examine the scrape. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you.”

She nods, her gaze dropping to the pavement, expecting him to just keep walking like the rest of the people who run into her do. When he doesn’t let go of her arm, she looks back up at him, a bit stunned. “I… I don’t suppose you have a bandaid or something?” She asks, gesturing vaguely at her arm.

“Oh, yeah, I do.” Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a bandage. The man lets go of her arm to grab it, and she sighs almost silently in relief while also being a touch disappointed. “It’s small, but it’ll work,” he says as he hands it to her.

She thanks him quietly, still suspicious of his kindness as she strips the paper off of the bandaid. Her fingers place the bandage over the wound, and a short hissing sound escapes her lips at the feeling. After a minute, her eyes flick up to the man’s before falling back to the ground. A whole mix of emotions is coursing through her; she’s embarrassed by the fall, anxious because she’s not sure if he’s just acting, and angry that even now she still doesn’t feel an ounce of love in her heart. Then, she realizes it. God, he must have a bottle of love on him. That’s why he’s being so nice. It isn’t genuine kindness like she’d foolishly hoped for; he’s being manipulated by a small glass bottle the size of the average adult’s thumb. How could she be so stupid? People with love help others on a whim. They don’t really care. Anger wins the battle. She glances up at those caring, terrible, loving, and deceptive eyes before walking away without another word. She doesn’t look back.

The man just stands behind, looking at her departing form quizzically. “She must have love,” he quietly thinks aloud to himself. Shaking his head slightly, he murmurs, “Those people are always so entitled. Can’t accept help even if they tried.” He watches the girl retreat back to her smelly, cramped, worn down apartment with splintered floors and faded walls before turning on his heel and slowly striding away with slumped shoulders. His head turns back every few minutes just to be sure she’s still moving, just to be sure that she doesn’t feel something. Slowly, with his back hunched, he starts the journey back to his own place, eyes attracted to every glimmer of glass in someone’s hand, fingers playing with the collar of his t-shirt as he wishes he had what they had.

Soon, the man will reach his apartment and fumble in his back pocket for the key. Finding it, he’ll slip it into the keyhole and twist his wrist harshly so the door, which is usually stuck due to humidity, will unlock. “Home sweet home,” he’ll whisper to himself, kicking lightly at the fractured floor beneath his feet. His shoes will slip off, and his soft hazel eyes will stare at the images of people he’s never known on his faded blue wall. Feet will take him to the shabby kitchen. Hands will open the mostly empty fridge. Legs will force him to walk to his small bedroom and lie down hungry on his uncomfortable, tattered mattress. And he’ll think for a while about love before worrying about money and groceries. Eventually, the man will reach to turn off the tiny lamp on his chipped nightstand, snap his hand too quickly, and slit his index finger. His mouth will make a hissing sound before pressing to the cut to catch the blood. And he won’t do anything about the mess because he gave the girl who must have had everything his last bandaid.