6: Havoc

I wake. I am on the floor, drooling. I shoot up and rip across the room to my alarm clock.

Four. With relief comes the echo of my dream, and I grow warm from head to toe. I sink down onto my bed and hug myself.

No! I stand and brush away the intoxication, stumbling. I will be strong today. I attend the closet, and examine my battle gear for the day. It will do. I will even forgive myself for my wishful choice of undergarments. To be safe, I select a pair of woolen stockings. The demon grumbles within me, but has clearly become sedated by my ritual.

A light giddiness coats me as I apply makeup and get dressed. As I brush my hair, I evaluate my face in the mirror, and find it to be satisfactory. No trace of the bottomless hole in my eyes, no suggestion of the deviant in my smile. I pinch my cheeks, and grip my fists in front of me, standing as tall and proud as I can manage. For once, I believe Raphael’s compliments. I am pretty, I am powerful.

I flit into the kitchen, and allow myself a slice of toast with butter. I will need energy to continue suppressing the beast today. Something sparks, and I race to my bedroom again, scouring a small wooden chest under my bed, and withdrawing a small silver necklace. A tiny pendant hangs from it, a sapphire suspended in the center of a silver flower. Mother. I place it around my neck gingerly, and close my eyes.

Time’s up. I flee, practically flying out the door and down the stairs, with only enough sense to slip into my shoes and grab my purse before escaping.

The statue is something wonderful. I press my hand to one of the spires that seem to erupt from the ground to converge into a canopy at the center. A bronze bench waits underneath, barely large enough for two. The whole seems to suggest both trees and a dome, at times nearly organic, at others sleek and unnatural.

I am early. I glide through the structure, pausing to read the quotes engraved on the inside of the bent pillars. Both fiction and nonfiction are represented, and while I am not particularly well-read, I can appreciate the selection on display.

“Woah.”

Yes! I look over my shoulder and see him, staring at me, me! He is wearing a collared shirt, and his favorite purple tie, and dark slacks, and brown shoes. I am almost certainly imagining it, but I feel that perhaps his hair has been brushed just a little more thoroughly than usual.

I smile warmly, and wave shyly. My practice, my ritual, it’s all paying off. My heart still races, my cheeks still flush, but my demeanor is controlled, measured. I am my own master.

“You. Well, you look good.”

Yes, yes I do.

“Thank you. You look nice, as always.”

He clears his throat and points to one of the quotes near to me.

“I see they’ve even got more modern writers.”

It’s not one I’m familiar with. Octavian uses a digital reader with some frequency, so collecting everything he reads is difficult. I tilt my head in question. He obliges me.

“Ah, I’m a big fan of his. He writes a lot of historical fiction, and his language is just-”

He starts, and glances at me. Am I staring too intensely? He scratches his head and looks away. 

“Sorry, I’ll talk your ear off if I’m not careful.”

“I won’t mind, you seem very passionate about reading.”

He nods a little, and looks out towards the library.

“I like stories. I like stepping outside of now and spending a little time somewhere else.”

“Is the present so bad?”

He glances at me, and seems to get bashful.

“I don’t mean right now, I just mean, the world moves slowly. A book moves as fast as I go through it. I can choose the pace. To say nothing of the things that can happen in books and not the real world.”

I shudder when he looks away, and myself look out of the sculpture into the noise.

“Don’t you think it’s a little… Dangerous to indulge in too much fantasy?”

He shrugs and starts to walk, reading the engravings for himself. He looks back to me with an inquisitive gaze.

“I think the real world already has most of my time. What I do with what’s left is up to me.”

I concede, bowing my head. From a certain perspective, I must seem a photographer churlish at creative arts. 

“Are you always in such a rush to make the most of things?”

He pauses, seems to stop dead in his tracks. I’ve said something wrong. Panic. He looks back, and something forlorn and distant has his attention more than I.

“I guess I am. I just. I don’t like the thought of missing out on something because I thought I had all the time in the world.”

I take two steps towards him, biting my thumb.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was a sensitive subject for you.”

He shakes his head and brings back his smile, but I’ve already seen the gloom of the clouds reflected in his irises. I’ve never seen him affect a look so serious in public.

He seems to notice the mood sticking to me.

“You know, I haven’t eaten since punching out.”

The diner is nice, in exactly the way a bus stop can be nice. I hide behind a milkshake as he browses the Menu and chats with the waitress. I flick my eyelashes as playfully as possible when she calls me his girlfriend, and he stammers out a rebuttal, glancing at each of us rapidly with the terror of embarrassment.

I’m doing so good. Oh my gods, I am holding it together so well. The waitress winks at me and walks off as he continues to blubber. Something about the fear in his eyes… I cough and barely avoid choking on my milkshake. He stands ready to help in some generally pointless way, and I wave him off.

“Just… Brain freeze.”

“You sure?”

No. But I’m never sure of anything when you’re looking at me like that.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s passing. So, what made you pick this place? No offense.”

He actually comes here once every two weeks, right when he gets his paycheck. He didn’t get his paycheck today, though.

“I like it here. It’s close to home, and the food would still be worth it if I had to walk ten blocks.”

“Really? Wow, and I only live nine blocks away!”

“Wait, really? You walk that far to work? Or, I guess the café could be closer than the library.”

Oh, shit.

“Well, uh. I actually take the subway most of the time, but stopping at the café is sort of a habit. I need the energy.”

Half truths, half truths will save me.

He seems to comprehend my logic, and rubs his chin. I stare into my milkshake, and the waitress returns. He orders a plate of country fried steak. I meekly request an omelet. She nods, puts away her notepad, and leaves us to each other. Ruthless. 

“Breakfast for dinner?”

Ack. Okay, it’s fine.

“Breakfast for breakfast. I… Work the night shift. I actually suggested today because I had the day off. Night? I still don’t really know how to think about my days. Nights. You see?”

Okay, I rambled a bit there. But I don’t want him asking more questions, even in his head. It’s probably too late for that. He looks impressed, so that’s nice. Look at me more. Oh boy.

“Woah, woah, hold on. So every Monday and Thursday morning, I’m getting coffee to start my day, and you’re-”

“Refueling at the end of mine. It’s no big deal, I’ve kept this schedule for a few years now.”

He sits back and looks generally awed. I feel very, very cool. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I mean… Just wow. You obviously see the sun in the mornings and stuff, but… is the city quieter at night?”

“Only in some places. Other places get louder. All the concerts, bars, clubs, anything that can call itself a good time likes to happen after the sun has set. And news happens any time of day.”

I’m paraphrasing Raphael. The last bit is Jim, though. Octavian- Oops. He scoffs and runs a hand through his hair in a way that brings my knees up and makes me itch to bite my lip. There is a considerable pause, one that seems to make him uncomfortable, I hope not because of the intensity of my gaze, which I am practicing restraint with: glancing away, shying around his eyes when not speaking. Wonderful eyes. I can nearly see myself reflected in his pupils, a facade of the facade, proper and upright, and even likeable.

“Geez. I mean really, I never would’ve guessed. But-”

Our plates arrive, and he pauses to smile and thank the waitress. I thank her in my thoughts for the brief opportunity to stare at his neckline, his collarbone– and snap back to attention as he continues.

“I gotta say, you’ve got me hooked, I need to know more about this night life you lead.”

Sorry, you shouldn’t.

“It can’t be that different from daytime. Maybe a little darker?”

Much, much darker.

He picks up his knife and fork, and I swallow back the sudden salivation that occurs in my mouth. I collect my own utensils and attend my plate, supplementing the meal with the feast for my eyes.

I’m not sure why people get self conscious about how they look while eating. There’s something mesmerizing in watching his throat squeeze, seeing all the muscles in his jaw at work, the poetry of his tense hands, fingers holding the fork and stabbing viciously into tender prey-

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“Mmh? Oh, I like movies.”

The rain is torrential. We stare out from under the awning into the street that is becoming a river. I know very little more about him than I did an hour ago, but I am warm inside in a way that the rain and wind cannot erode. He has learned more half truths about me, too, and this is also nourishing. I am ready to brave all manners of catastrophe.

“Well. This is something. I don’t feel right sending you home in this.”

WAIT.

“Nine blocks is far too far, and I’d worry the subway might be flooding.”

YOU MUST NOT SAY IT, YOU ABSOLUTELY CANNOT SAY IT.

“Why don’t you stay the night at mine, or at least until this blows over? I mean, if you don’t mind, or… ”

“Yeah…” NO.