1962

“1962,” she murmurs.

I swallow my shot with a shudder. The room whirls. “What’s that?” I ask.

“I haven’t plucked my eyebrows since 1962. I've not seen my reflection since then.”

“That explains the monobrow,” I say.

She kicks me hard, almost knocking her glass over. It’s half-drained, some lukewarm concoction of AB negative blood and vodka, and she seems to have forgotten about it. She’s sprawled out on the carpet at the moment, eyelids drooping and arms slack. It’s that point in the evening.

“I haven’t really got one, have I?” she says.

“You have. It’s worse than my dad’s.”

“Stop it!” she wails, kicking me again. “You get so mean when you have vodka.”

“I’m joking, you idiot,” I say, and I shuffle over to sit next to her. I nod to the glass of blood a few feet away. “You aren't gonna drink the rest of your Bloody Mary?”

She groans. “You’ve literally made that joke three times.”

“It’s still funny though.”

“It was never funny.”

“Bullshit. It’s top comedy,” I say, cracking open another cider. “Come on, I bought that blood specially. Chug it.”

“It’s AB negative,” she murmurs. “I don’t like AB negative.”

“Well, it’s all they had left,” I say. “You think I like this cider? ‘Course not. I’m not drinking it for that. We’re here to get pissed.”

She sighs, but then reaches for the glass and necks the rest of the blood, grimacing with every swallow. Once she’s finished, she slams the glass down and wipes her lips.

“Happy now?”

I nod, taking a swig of my own drink. We sit in silence, staring through the window at the clouds wheeling through the sky, the stars thrumming softly behind them. I can hear cats yowling on the wall outside, same as I do most nights.

“Alex,” she says. “What do I look like?”

“Edward Cullen,” I say.

“I’m serious,” she whines. “Last time I saw my own reflection was more than fifty years ago. I can barely remember anything.”

I shrug. “You look youngish. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”

“Obviously I can remember stuff like that. Give me specifics.”

“You want me to describe you?” I ask.

“Yeah. Bit by bit. Start with my hair.”

I look at it, but I can’t think of what to say. It’s long. It’s dark. There’s a kink at the back where it’s dried funny and she hasn’t noticed. I consider telling her that there’s a whole family of birds nesting in it, but I see the hope swimming in her eyes and decide against it.

“Well, you know what colour it is,” I say, reaching out and lifting a lock to her eye level. “But it actually goes sort of reddish when you look at it in the right light – kind of coppery. It suits your skin.”

“I used to tie it up,” she says. “I remember, back when I was human. I’d pin it up, have a different style each day. Colour-coordinated bows and everything.”

“I think it’s nicer like this,” I say. “It looks wild, in a good way. It doesn’t look like it should be tamed.”

She breathes in. “What about my eyes? I used to make them up with kohl and shadow and all that. People said they were my best feature.”

I look at them now, in all of their plain nakedness. They’re dark brown, just like her hair, and just a touch too close together.

“Your eyelashes are really dark and long,” I say. “They stand out against your cheeks when you close your eyes. I don’t think you’d need to make them up.”

“And I don’t have a monobrow?”

There is actually a tiny bit of hair in the space between her eyebrows, but not enough that anyone would notice unless they looked closely.

“No monobrow,” I say. “They’re nice, dark brows though. Girls pencil theirs in for what you’ve already got.”

She smiles, and her eyes crinkle. I motion to point at them.

“See, you get little wrinkles at the corners of your eyes when you smile,” I tell her. “Everyone does, obviously, but yours really stand out. Like you’re properly, genuinely happy. You’ve got a dimple, too, in just one of your cheeks, and you can actually see your teeth when you smile.”

“Are they wonky? I can’t remember,” she says, quickly covering her mouth.

I slap her hand away. “Stop that. I can’t see.” I pretend to squint at her mouth. There is a little gap between her two front teeth, and none of them are completely straight. They’re still a bit red from the blood she’s been drinking, as well. “Yep, a set of gnashers to be proud of,” I say. “Neat, pearly and even, and great for piercing necks. You’ve got the whole package.”

She giggles, her cheeks going pink. “You’re totally lying to me.”

“I am, to be honest,” I say, swilling my cider around in the can. “You actually look exactly like Edward Cullen. It's quite uncanny.”

For the third time in the evening, she kicks me.