Date: 13 Jan 2003, Monday. Late.

The apartment's quiet, when he arrives at the door, tonight. Lights are
on, but not many.

Salem frowns, his head cocked slightly, then shrugs and closes the door
behind him. He goes about the usual coming-home routine -- hanging his
coat up, checking the kitchen for dinner. He doesn't turn on the TV; he
almost never does.

Mel opens her door, after a minute or two, poking her head out to check
and see what's going on. "Hey roomie," she murmurs wryly, leaning out of
the doorway lazily, and folding her arms. "Late again, huh."

He replies with a grunt that communicates nothing except his bad mood. His
hair's still pulled back, but loosely; a lock of it falls partially over
the left side of his face.

Mel just stands there a while longer, watching the man and keeping her
arms folded. "Get y'self in trouble, mentioning me?"

Salem pauses in the midst of heating dinner to study her calculatingly. "A
bit," he says at last.

She wasn't expecting the answer, and Mel looks away briefly, closing her
eyes with perhaps a hint of exasperation. Then simply nods a few times,
chewing absently on her lower lip. "She calls here sometimes, y'know.
Hangs up if I answer."

The microwave hums quietly. Salem stands facing it, hands resting on the
edge of the counter. "Hm. Yes, well." He doesn't really have much of an
answer to that.

Still slowly shaking her head a little, Mel murmurs under her breath,
"Fuck..." and turns to head back into her room. A neutral, if tired,
"G'night," and then she slips out of sight. There's the faint sound of her
flumping onto the bed, but the light remains on. Reading or something,
probably.

Salem frowns, rubbing a hand across his mouth, and after some thought
follows her. He knocks on her door lightly.

The response is a semi-jovial, "Yo." Mel's on her back, browsing a
catalogue of some sort. The cover doesn't give much away. It could be
furniture, apartments, or electrical equipment. She lowers it a little to
look over towards the door. One leg's crossed over the other. Far too much
skin visible.

He doesn't show any visible reaction. He barely even _looks_. Nothing
uncharacteristic there; it's enough to make a girl wonder, perhaps,
whether he really is attracted to women. Right now, Salem's expression is
the epitome of somber. "You don't need to worry about Rina." He hesitates.
"She... has issues."

Mel stops peeking over the edge of the catalogue, and puts it back in
front of her face. "It's not a problem," she grunts. Then frowns, and
drops the catalogue again with an expression of utter bewilderment. "He
was going to /marry/ her? The way she treated him? I mean, I just..."
There's a grunt of exasperation and she lifts the magazine again. Gripping
the edges a little too tightly.

Salem's face tightens, nostrils flaring. "He _did_ marry her," he informs
her. "Because he loved her. And she loved him. Desperately." His voice is
steady. Relentless. "She hurt him, yes, and he hurt her, but they loved
each other."

She swallows. Audibly. After whispering something he can't hear, Mel then
mutters tightly, "Stop talking. And go away." It's halfway between plea
and demand.

Salem doesn't leave her doorway immediately; he continues to stare down at
the girl, with a sternness that's easy to categorize as cold and
unfeeling. "Don't hate Rina because John didn't return your feelings for
him. She doesn't deserve that pain. She's had enough. More than enough."

"Ohh, it's easy for you. /She's/ still alive," she mutters tightly.

Salem's mouth tightens. "And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

She hunches slightly, keeping the catalogue in front of her like some kind
of shield. "Where you been every time you've come home late these days,
huh?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Salem, growling in exasperation, looks ceilingward.
"I'm not sleeping with her, if that's what you're asking." He glowers at
the redhead. "What the hell do you take me for? Her husband's barely cold
in the ground."

She lowers the magazine now, slowly, and glares at him - straight in the
eye, and shivering slightly with a pent up fury. "Yeah?" she whispers.
"But all you gotta do is wait, huh."

He meets it with his own brand of controlled temper, and it's like a rabid
dog straining at its chain. The hand that grips her doorframe is
white-knuckled. "No. She's his. She will always be his. We, she and I, are
_friends_. Period and end of story." It's the rage, perhaps, that makes
him add, ruthlessly, "And even if he were alive, he still wouldn't be
yours."

Mel just watches him. For the longest time. Her throat tightens and jaw
clenches as she grips the catalogue almost to tearing. "Close. The door,
please. On. The way. Out." she manages to whisper tightly, with eyes
boring into his own... and burning with a wetness that only manages to
form one trickle down her cheek.

He holds her stare for a long, _long_ couple of seconds. Then,
deliberately, his jaw clenched so tight she can all but hear the teeth
grind together, he steps back and closes her door, firmly.

There's no sobbing from inside. Just heavy breathing as she keeps control.

He stalks heavily into the kitchen. Dinner goes back into the fridge,
untouched. Moments later, he clomps into his own bedroom and closes the
door with a loud slam. He's up most of the night, pacing, occasionally
cursing.

In Serbian, of course. Which likely sounds like Russian to the untrained
ear.