"How come I only ever see you at night?"
She dismissed the question, and suddenly he felt glad to have seen her at all. In the wan glow of the streetlight, they could have easily missed one another. Thank God for the glimmer of those damn cigarettes... He stood a moment, feeling awkward and small in her presence, then turned the conversation toward business.
"Can you do it, then?" fighting the eagerness that rose in his throat.
She snorted softly, her eyes derisive and sharp. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."
"...It's important, you know," he went on, pretending she hadn't spoken, his own voice hollow in his ears. Like he was convincing himself. "I'm not sure how much long I can put up with it, to be honest. If something isn't done..." His eyes turned on her suddenly, freshly-lit sparks of light glancing out of a sallow and shivering face. "Would you blame me, if I couldn't control myself?"
She noticed then, without saying a word, the bruises on his arms, the long gauze sleeve bound over his left wrist. One eye was tinged purple, the lid straining to flip up in entirety. His fear, his twitching certainty of failure--it threatened to engulf her sense of calm. She clicked her teeth, just once, and turned into the wind. When she spoke again, it was as though she were conversing with a ghost.
"Blame isn't my department, nor my specialty. You know that," reminding him. Her coat billowed back from the shape that she cut against the night air, like a folded pair of restless wings. He wondered if she looked half so powerful in the daylight, then decided in the same breath that he didn't want to know.
"How long?" The question escaped him before he was ready, hanging between them, double-edged and ambivalent. His terror curled the edges of the words. The pause that followed lingered like winter, chill and pervasive as driven snow. His shoulders twitched again.
A sigh, exhaling spent cigarette smoke where there should have been emotion. "Three days. Maybe four. You won't know, of course." Another drag; he watched her lips against the paper, desperate for distraction now that it had all been set in motion. His voice echoed hers, woodenly. "Of course."
When he turned to leave, he knew by the emptiness that accompanied his steps. She'd already extracted her price.
She dismissed the question, and suddenly he felt glad to have seen her at all. In the wan glow of the streetlight, they could have easily missed one another. Thank God for the glimmer of those damn cigarettes... He stood a moment, feeling awkward and small in her presence, then turned the conversation toward business.
"Can you do it, then?" fighting the eagerness that rose in his throat.
She snorted softly, her eyes derisive and sharp. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."
"...It's important, you know," he went on, pretending she hadn't spoken, his own voice hollow in his ears. Like he was convincing himself. "I'm not sure how much long I can put up with it, to be honest. If something isn't done..." His eyes turned on her suddenly, freshly-lit sparks of light glancing out of a sallow and shivering face. "Would you blame me, if I couldn't control myself?"
She noticed then, without saying a word, the bruises on his arms, the long gauze sleeve bound over his left wrist. One eye was tinged purple, the lid straining to flip up in entirety. His fear, his twitching certainty of failure--it threatened to engulf her sense of calm. She clicked her teeth, just once, and turned into the wind. When she spoke again, it was as though she were conversing with a ghost.
"Blame isn't my department, nor my specialty. You know that," reminding him. Her coat billowed back from the shape that she cut against the night air, like a folded pair of restless wings. He wondered if she looked half so powerful in the daylight, then decided in the same breath that he didn't want to know.
"How long?" The question escaped him before he was ready, hanging between them, double-edged and ambivalent. His terror curled the edges of the words. The pause that followed lingered like winter, chill and pervasive as driven snow. His shoulders twitched again.
A sigh, exhaling spent cigarette smoke where there should have been emotion. "Three days. Maybe four. You won't know, of course." Another drag; he watched her lips against the paper, desperate for distraction now that it had all been set in motion. His voice echoed hers, woodenly. "Of course."
When he turned to leave, he knew by the emptiness that accompanied his steps. She'd already extracted her price.
