- XXXIII -

* * * * *
         ". . . so I get back to my office and I find I can't get in the door . . . why? you ask . . . well, it's quite simple, you see. They were taking my desk out to God knows where, and, even better . . ." Brown snaps his fingers, inflating his face with false cheer, "there are three dead bodies sprawled where my desk used to be."
         "Anyone familiar?" Tristian asks nonchalantly, unconsciously perhaps imitating Brown's calm demeanor. Somehow he's negotiated a frantic peace in his head but how long that will last he's not sure. The line that nobody wants to cross is getting more and more smeared every day. The two of them are on the same couch, occupying distant ends. Life's tricky metaphors. Brown's slouched in his corner, legs spread, one hand connecting his head to the arm of the chair, fingertips touching points on his skull. In contrast, Tristian is a model of upright posture. Still he has one ankle crossed over his knee, a compromise to casual.
         "Nope," Brown frowns, hooks pulling his face down. "Never seen 'em before. Couldn't even tell you the race. Just three dead bodies." With the ease of a contortionist, Brown reaches behind him to pluck his drink from the end table, taking a long sip before cradling it in his lap with both hands. Tristian has been holding his the entire time, but aside from one almost polite swig when they sat down, it remains blissfully untouched. One of these days Brown is going to think that he's being poisoned. Not that it matters to him. Already happened once this week. The burst of humor, dark as it is, surprises Tristian. Maybe there's hope for him yet.
         "I imagine the boss had some explanations . . ." he notes. It's vaguely amusing to think that they discuss this kind of stuff like Brown works for some giant corporation, punching his card into a giant clock day in and day out. Or the Mob. In contrast, Tristian is just some damn dirty hippie, spreading his message of peace and love but getting little else done. And who listens anyway? Because it's only funny if other people are listening, which he's sure isn't happening. Still, he can imagine the reactions.
         "Oh, did he." Brown uncharacteristically rolls his eyes. His voice shifts from dryly observant to a more proper lecturing tone, no doubt a shadowy mockery of his boss. "He didn't say, but I'm assuming they were spies of a sort. Apparently he detected them sneaking around a few days before I left but didn't want to bother telling anyone. So what he did was hold secret meetings, swearing us all to silence, the whole works." Making a face, he adds, "I was wondering what all that was about. It was cliche even for him."
         "He didn't clue you in?"
         "Not one bit . . . which ticks me off now because I spent a few sleepless nights trying to figure out how to plot the troop movements out that he kept requesting from me. All part of the plan, of course." The way he says those last two words are laced with both sarcasm and utter admiration. It's not a contradiction, Tristian has seen the General in action. He does it all so effortlessly it's annoying but at the same time, it's a pleasure watching him work. Plus it saves him the trouble of getting his hands dirty. Don't want that. Guilt stains more than the skin.
         Is that why you let them handle-
         For his own sake, he lets the thought go no farther.
         "But he let you come here," Tristian suddenly points out. Even as he says that, he knows that it'll have been factored in somehow. It always is. Into the plan. Glancing at his back window, he sees that it's begun to snow. Or maybe it has been. The two of them have been talking so long that the entire house might get covered before anyone notices. But he prefers it this way, a conversation out of time, out of place. This could be happening at any time in his life. Perhaps even a week ago, before his life simultaneously became both better and worse.
          "And I thought he granted it way too easily, given the amount of work he was throwing at us . . ." Brown ponders, almost thinking outloud. Straightening up on the cushion, he continues, "He knew I was going for two day leave . . . he told everyone else that I had been unexpectedly captured."
         "Don't tell him I said this, but he's a damn good liar for a robot."
         "Tell me about it," Brown replies a bit glumly. "The lack of a face and the ability to modulate your own voice no doubt helps. And of course the amorality that can only come with a billion years of existence . . ." he adds airily, before commenting, "But I digress. So now with me captured, he starts scrambling everyone and bumping every plan forward, he almost had the whole goddamn city on alert."
         "For you?"
         "I know, isn't it touching?" Stretching out one arm over to pat the top of the couch, Brown sighs, a partly amused sound when formed by his lips. "You know, for all we know he could have arranged Will's party to give me an excuse to get out of there." Brown shrugs in response to Tristian's slanted and incredulous look. "Hey, I laugh about stuff like that but . . ." he laughs, "hell you never know with him. You just don't."
         "Hm . . ." Tristian murmurs, as if considering the thought. "I guess I owe him both a thank you and a swift kick for that one, then." The veiled reference to both aspects of the party is a clenched attempt at accepting something he doesn't want to. Either aspect really, Tristian still can't say he's a big fan of change, which is odd considering the way his life has been. But there's nothing here he has any control over. And, frankly the plunge is sometimes exhilarating, your stomach trying to escape through your pores and you finding that you won't even miss the baggy bastard. You're laughing even as the snow freezes your face, icicles clogging your nose. Just the melting crystal man.
         But it's not as simple as dropping onto your stomach and riding the ice until the bottom. When you were a kid you let the cold cake your face like a second skin, the wind bruise your lungs and it all felt right. Now, it hurts. Burns, even. And when you get to the end it's a lot harder to pick your battered body up and stride away without showing any pain. Nobody heals quickly anymore. And we all need to help. All need to reach out a hand to make sure your fellow riders can stand. If it didn't take a lot out of you, it wouldn't be important.
         Except the ice Tristian finds himself on has no traction. And he'll slap any hand away that tries to keep him upright. Not their business, he'd say. Doesn't want to be a burden. Your problems are so much more important.
         It's the way he's lived.
         But perhaps it's the wrong idea. And maybe it is time to start learning to try a different way. The straightest path may be neither the most direct nor the shortest.
         "Step in line," Brown comments, picking up his drink, peering into it as he swirls it around but then placing it back between his legs. Like he was just checking to see if it was still there. "So, yeah, back to the story . . . don't ask me how, but he managed to convince our little spies that he had locked all the necessary information in my office. So naturally they broke in and started looking."          
         "And that's when the shooting started?"
         "No," Brown fires back, grinning widely. "He didn't fire a shot . . . he . . ." holding his head, Brown laughs almost silently, his humor rattling his body. Tristian waits patiently for the moment to pass, which it does shortly. Lifting his gaze to regard Tristian with dancing humor, he almost spits out in one sure syllable, "He irradiated my desk." Pausing a beat to let that sink in, he immediately adds, "After about ten minutes they just dropped dead."
         "What?" Now it's Tristian's turn to shake his head, passive disbelief. The drink in his head looks sorely tempting suddenly. Sometimes this life makes him feel like he's pulled a muscle in his brain and this madness is just another one of the symptoms. "I have to admit . . . that's different."
         "Certainly wouldn't have been my first choice," Brown admits. "But apparently they were some kind of weird shapeshifter and those races are more susceptible to radiation . . ." he throws his hands up, letting defeat have him before the debate is even started. "Don't ask, I have no idea."
         "Maybe . . ." and Tristian can almost hear the gears turning in his head, dormant processes grinding back to life. How long has it been since he's done some research, made some headway in the matters that used to occupy his life? Pouring over textbooks, writing papers, projecting some figures on a screen and trying to convince an entire room of people he's not a babbling idiot, once that was the spoked wheel of his days, and he just rode it around and around, pinned to a strut with wire stronger than a diamond but thinner than an atom. Now, it's all different. He's living a life where the science he knows doesn't make sense anymore. Even if he wrote it all down, they'd still be laughing at him a hundred years from now. "Maybe it's something to do with their DNA, you know because it's more mutable . . ."
         "Pal, you're asking the wrong man. Talk to someone who did more than complete high school."
         "You're done all right for yourself," Tristian notes somewhat unnecessarily, kicking himself for sounding patronizing. Well, nobody said he was going to change in a few days. Tomorrow, he'll work on that. Tomorrow. One day at a time. Right? A face flashes into his head but with a great effort, the man pushing his endless boulder up the endless hill, he shoves it away. Not now. He can't think about her now. Not in the way he wants to think. Close off the tunnel, reopen it some other day. Some day far away.
         "I have," Brown points out cheerfully. "Oh and get this," he picks the glass up in his head, ramming his ass into the pointed corner of the couch, laying one ankle over his lower thigh, "lucky me gets to visit their homeworld and make a speech to the senate . . . just babble about whatever I feel like really until just before I leave . . ." the grin that spreads across Brown's face could be seen as evil in the proper light. Here it's nearly infectious, "At which point I snap my fingers and three bodies drop from nowhere. Then, I make my exit. Though I'll probably ad lib some suitably sinister parting comment, purely for kicks. Nice, huh?"
         Tristian's aware that he's keeping a straight face, but he's not sure how. "I think it's clear you people need another war to keep you busy. The last one obviously didn't exhaust all your creative energies."
         "Believe me, it exhausted more than that . . ." Brown sighs, crack of seriousness showing through, a kind of feeling that seems out of place in this cozy home. It's not the sort of sentiment you expect here.
         Nothing gets said for a few minutes. Tristian glances outside again, finding the slow motion snowfall to be rather relaxing. Snow is something you don't see too often on other planets, he won't go as far to say that it's uniquely Earth but it's damn rare. So he tries to appreciate it here as much as he can. If it had been doing this a few nights ago, it would have been even more special, Tristian thinks, his mind drifting, gossamer claws taking him back. No. No, it wouldn't. It wouldn't have made any difference at all. Just wishful thinking, pushed the extra step into near poetry. What occurred was simple and unchangeable, the rest was just backdrop. Painted on matte sets, an oil rendition of a perfect skyline, all lit buildings and pollution filtered starlight. Blink and you're in the tropics. In paradise. Is that what happened? Tristian isn't sure, memory feels so far away.
         And there's someone he should very much be talking to. But the nerve that gripped him that night has fled now, gone back to slumbering, content that it set the wheels in motion. It doesn't know that they stalled, gears locking together, a pitched whining the only indication of the strain. Tristian could use that boost again but he has a feeling it's not coming. The next time, if it ever arrives, he's on his own.
         A percolating rumbling noise reaches his ears. Snapping back to alertness, he realizes it's Brown quietly chuckling to himself. "I swear, Tristian," he snorts, "there's never a dull moment there. Whether you like it or not, something's always happening." Brown tips his glass back, draining it of fluid, twisting to set it down behind him with an air of finality. A vague fear grips Tristian. He's going to leave. Brown's going to leave and he'll be alone again.
         But, no, you're never alone. That's what they told you. Still not totally convinced of the truth wrapped within that statement, he tries to draw reassurance from it nonetheless. "You don't have to tell me," Tristian comments, placing his glass on the coffee table. Not even a coaster. Good God, you rebel.
         "I know," Brown agrees, placing both hands on his knees and standing up, almost seeming to spring upright. "And that's what's so great . . . I talk about the nuttiness there and you understand . . ." Tristian's joined him in standing now and Brown is looking right into his eyes. With a start, Tristian realizes that they're almost the same height. For some reason he always thought Brown was taller. His lip jerks into a lopsided smile. It makes him look even younger. "You've lived the madness that is my life."
         "And then some," Tristian amends.
         "That's right, and then some," echoes Brown, almost solemnly. He gives an odd sort of laugh, more a forced exhalation and a half smile done in tandem. His gaze ventures somewhere distant. "There's a story I have to tell you . . ." he mutters, nearly to himself, like he's forgotten Tristian is there. Shaking himself back into the present, he blinks and says, "Some day." Then, abandoning the subject entirely, he turns to glance out the window. "Damn, I'd better go before that gets worse and I'm stuck here."
         Tristian knew it was coming but still feels slightly sad that his friend is departing. He's not sure why, but this time feels different. Every ending is different. Maybe that's it. It's been nearly half a day but it feels like no time at all. That's the way life is around the eternal man. He just sucks time into the black hole that he is.
         So he lies and agrees, "Yeah, you'd better." Pretending to brighten up a little, he says, "But listen, it was good to have you stop by. Really, it was."
         "Always a pleasure," Brown responds, the edges of his mouth turning down a little as he says that, even as his voice remains cheery. Leaving it at that, he starts walking toward the door, Tristian coming along as if on a leash, the two of them pacing measured footsteps, trying to find the length of the crime. Brown's looking down as he's walking but suddenly his head snaps to the side, facing Tristian. "Have you talked to . . . you know, either of them?"
         "Either of . . ." taken off guard, the question means absolutely nothing to Tristian for a brief moment. And then his fuzzy memory tightens its focus to resolve an image into something so sharp that it nearly cuts him. Oh. "Ah . . ." he stammers, not sure what to say, Brown's pulled the shutters down over his face and Tristian can't read anything clearly from his expression, ". . . ah, no, I haven't, not since . . . since the party. It didn't . . . didn't seem . . ." and he finds words don't exist to let him finish the sentence. Inappropriate? No. Wise? No. Just one big blank space. Craft your own misstatement. Fun for all.
         But Brown's only reply is a gentle smile. "Don't worry, I'm guilty too . . . I kept meaning to give Jina a call but everything's been so crazy . . ." dead men draped all over his office are floating in his eyes, he shakes his head to eject them from his thoughts. "Next time," he vows. A toothy grin emerges as he slips his hands into his pockets, strikes his usual confident pose. "I still owe her dinner . . . and hey, maybe you'll have a reason to come along by then, too, eh?" There's a mischievous glint in his eye.
         "Last I checked, three was a crowd," Tristian deadpans, not missing a beat. Sometimes his timing is so good it scares him, while other times he figures he must be responding to the reverb in life's theatre and not the words themselves. Always a second out of step. That's how it's felt these last few days.
         "But four's not," Brown hints, even though they both know full well what he means. Oh, these silly games. Will they never get tired of the useless clowning around. His face suddenly dissolves into something serious and honest. "But, listen, don't take me too seriously now, okay? You've got to do what you think is best."
         "Yeah," is the unsure reply, "that I do." Not that he'd know what best entailed even if the newsletter was delivered straight to his porch every morning.
         "So, you know," Brown continues, "I'm not going to tell you what to do but . . . remember . . ." and he seems to be staring at Tristian so intently it makes the other man slightly uncomfortable, "it wasn't a fluke, Tristian. Nobody was drunk or playing mindgames or anything. You didn't imagine it."
         "She thinks she did, I'm sure," Tristian whispers, the words struggling to find his voice. It's not something he wants to think about. Why the hell did Brown bring this back up? But he knows it's necessary. Otherwise he'll forget, perhaps even deeper than Lena has. What we do to ourselves voluntarily will always surpass what others do to us. Someone may have thrown a shadow over Lena's head, but he'd bury his under quicksand until he knew nothing more if that's what it took. And Tristian knows he can't do that.
         "Not where it counts," Brown pronounces. "And I mean, I know you're not going to push anything on her, which is the right idea. But . . . don't forget, all right?" As if to emphasize his point, he claps Tristian on the arm, like he's hammering the idea into his muscles. "All right?" he says again, apparently waiting for confirmation. When it doesn't come, Brown nods to himself, appears to look Tristian up and down, saying, "You both could do a lot worse. Keep that in mind."
         Brown's eyes are so clear Tristian feels he can almost see into the entwined grey tentacles of his brain. His own head is a shredded salad, every time he rearranges the components, a different picture emerges. What does he want, really? Does he simple want to just help her get better and let it stay like that? Can he ever face her again, knowing what he knows and not like some of those now burst emotions leak into his motions, his speech? And if she realizes what he means, will that trigger whatever fumbling emotions he inadvertently awoke the other night? Poke holes in the uniform darkness and let the light come back. The perfect ending. Ha. How it should end, in his perfect world. But it's not. Like Brown said before, the writers of the world don't ask for our opinion when they mail in the final script. Our approval isn't necessary. As long as we follow our lines and stay on the same page and try to exit with a maximum of dignity and a minimum of whining, we're told we've done a good job. The union hands us the paycheck for our pain and we take a spot on the bench and hope the next time around we get a better role. But there are no good roles. It's a damn lie. Every part is supporting.
         "I'll remember," he says, "but I won't lie to you and say that I'm hoping she will." The words are another lie, he's very much hoping. But if he admits that, even to himself, it'll attract the hot nails to bore right into his heart again, drilling their tunnels as they try to pass right through. Tristian doesn't want to be magnetic, let everyone else have polarity, he'd rather be able to walk right through a crowd and neither attract nor repel. Simple. Let others turn the heads. He'd rather waltz in the manner that only the best ghosts can.
         Brown answers with only a half smile and a small shake of his head. "Why am I not surprised at that response? Still," he admits, as if to himself, "it's probably the best I'm going to get." Holding his arm out like he's going to lay it on Tristian's shoulder but keeping his palm hovering inches from his body, a soldier's benediction, "You know what, just remember what I said. Okay? That's all. After I leave you can tell yourself how wrong I am and how I'm an idealistic fool and berate me for knowing so little about you." He taps his forehead with one finger. "Do all that. And in four months maybe we'll see."
         "We'll see," Tristian repeats, his tone vaguely questioning, though he's unable to keep a sly smile off his face. Brown exerts that kind of pull on people. He's gotten where he has by pure willpower, the best kind of steam engine and just talking to him can convince you that it's that easy. All you have to do is want it. Eventually it will happen. It's supposed to be that simple.
         Except it's not. They both know that. But who can blame Brown for wanting to believe otherwise? Tristian certainly can't.
         Brown's hand morphs into a salute that means more than just the military. "You take care, all right?" he tells Tristian with an honesty that's almost painful. "Tell everyone I said hi . . . and get the boys to drop you off at my office sometime. Maybe bring some friends. It'll be something different."
         "I don't think they're ready for that kind of different yet," Tristian comments.
         A mysterious smile is Brown's only response. With a precision beyond clockwork he opens the front door, letting it swing freely. Tristian puts a hand up to stop it. The vista reflected in his screen door is of endless sheets of drifting snow. It whines as Brown's clicks it open and then he's out into the cold with merely a backward wave and a small skip off the front steps onto the walkway to the street. Tristian's last glimpse of his friend is of a man slightly hunched over to protect his face from the biting chill, hands rammed deeply into pockets until he almost seems to be a single unit on furiously pumping legs. He looks like the man who would plunge headfirst into a snowstorm and never stop walking until he got to where he needed, never break stride for even a second.
         Snow streaks his body, trying to swallow him in arctic jaws and then Tristian closes the door and there's nothing left to see except the darkly paneled wood of his entryway.
         He rubs his hands, even though he's not cold. For a few minutes he stands there motionless, watching the seconds hand on the clock idly count his life down, knowing he should be doing something but not sure what there is to do. That's the way he's been the last few days, aliens beaming nervous energy into his system for their own diabolical schemes. A few times he's had to stop himself from pacing a path to insanity. His house is a cage. And yet it's not. It's the world that cages him. The empty energy is a constant pressure in his limbs but he knows if he takes a walk to release it, he'll never stop walking. So he wanders the bars of his inverse prison, glancing every so often at the world peeking in the windows, trying to make eye contact, telling him to come out and enjoy the sights.
         But it's the sights here he wants to see. That he can't bear to witness. In circles. That's all he's doing. So fast he's going to lap himself after a while. Brown's visit was a blessing, since talking to him turned out to be a great distraction. But eventually life will take you and get you distracted back to where it wants you to focus.
         Now Brown's gone. And it's just him. The worst kind of crowd. Tristian takes a step back into his living room, trying to put some heaviness into his footsteps, so at least he makes some sound, break the gelatin monotonousness of his house. The storm falls silently outside, nature running on a continuous loop. Definitely not going anywhere today. Right? Snow's a damn good excuse. A blessing in disguise. One more day where he can avoid leaving his house, resist the urge to visit, to just "stop by", to just see how life is. That's all. A harmless little visit.
         And, dammit, he rationalizes harshly, she doesn't remember anyway. He knows she doesn't. So what's the point? What's the goddamn point? And even if she did remember, what good would it do her? Even if it was real, that she wasn't just playing out some darkly curious fantasy, who's to say she didn't change her mind? Came to her senses, even? Why, he'd look like a fool.
         Yet he wants to know. Know for sure. A nebulous in between state hardly suits him, even if his life feels trapped in a transparently murky soup. He hates this. He really does. But at the same time, Tristian knows that there's only way one to find out. To really know. A step that he could take any time he wants.
         A step that right now, requires a courage he won't allow himself to possess.
         And so he looks out the window and thinks that it's going to be a terrible day weatherwise and that he should just stay inside where it's warm. Put on a CD to break the silence. Pull out one of those books he never has time for anymore. He used to love reading. A book and a few albums and the hours will pass by like a dealer laying out cards. Just like that he can pass the day. Or let it pass him right by.
         Tristian's stepping toward the couch and as he strides he's taking a broom and shoving away all other thoughts, filing it all away for tomorrow. Even though he knows that he's going to go through the same routine then, rain or shine. It won't matter. It's a cycle that scares him on a level he can't comprehend because he honestly doesn't know if he can break it. Or that he even wants to. Just press his face against the world and let it push him farther and farther away from where he wants to be.
         It can't end like this. Oh God, it can't. He didn't put himself through all of that so he can sit here and spend the rest of his days diluting his thoughts into watery suspensions. Goddammit, he's supposed to be better than that.
         Standing halfway between his couch and the door, trapped in a center that offers no respite, he realizes for the first time the terrible stagnation he's allowed to creep into his soul. Where he's progressed beyond merely playing it safe to simply not playing at all. But you can't remove yourself from the game, from humanity. Because then there's nothing left. You're just a benched uniform, not even fit for waterboy. Even he gets to see the action. You'll sit back and see the sky and wonder how it got so far away. Tristian can't be like that. He's better than that. He knows he is. At least he used to be. A long time ago.
         And perhaps for the first time he thinks starkly, I don't want to stay like this.
         The couch or the door. Both beckon.
         Balanced on a razor's edge so fine he can't even see what he's standing on, Tristian clenches his fist and does his best not to move. One step can end all of this before he's even properly began.
         But he doesn't know where to go.
         Or what to do.
         Or how to go about deciding.
         And the world's tired of waiting for his answer. It demands an answer now.
         Couch or door. Stagnation in comfort or the frosted winds of the unknown?
         His chest tightens. Outside snow falls, blissfully unaware of the pressure growing inside.
         The couch.
         The door.
         Which is it, Tristian?
         I don't know. I don't. I can't decide.
         You've had long enough. Surely you must have drawn some opinion by now. Which do you prefer?
         God, I can't tell you. I don't know. I can't decide. God help me, I honestly can't decide.
         Tristian, what are we going to do with you.
         Drawing a ragged breath into lungs that feel too small, he tries to ignore the sweat forming on his brow.
         A wordless whisper escapes his lips as his eyes tightly close.
         Then the doorbell rings.
         Almost hesitant, it snaps across the silence and seems to echo, a ghost breaking through the barrier for just one second.
         His eyes fly open, flicker toward the door. Who-
         Brown. It must be Brown, he probably forgot something. Or his ride stranded him here for a bit. That's it. He'll just come in, he knows Tristian is home. He'll come in and they'll start talking and he won't have to think about any of this.
         The screen door bangs as someone moves within it. A shadow flutters just under the door window. He can't even hear his own breathing.
         Or maybe it's just some salesman. Selling him stuff he can't use. He'll just stand right here and they'll get bored and go away and he can get on with his life. They'll both be the richer for having never spoken to each other. All he has to do is stand right here. Do nothing and let life move the pieces for him. Arrange the puzzle and he'll just continue having no goddamn say at all.
         He can live with that.
         No. No, he can't. That's not good enough.
         Not anymore.
         His feet are carrying him toward the door even before he makes the decision. The body always knows. The brain has to think but the body just acts. Instinct is the intelligence we can never measure.
         The doorknob feels oddly warm under his hand. A second later the door swings open. Revealing a person standing nearly huddled in the doorway, almost falling in, like they were leaning against the portal.
         "Um, hey," Lena says, shivering a little, glancing up to meet his eyes briefly, giving a neutrally friendly smile. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of a long winter jacket. It looks good on her. For a second that's all he can think about.
         A blast of frigid air slithers through the space, strikes him right in the face. He barely notices, Tristian's too busy trying to figure out where his heart got the strength to pump so goddamn fast. His heart feels too large, like it's hollowed out his entire chest. There's no air in his lungs. No language to speak with. He's forgotten it all.
         What is she-
         "Ah, I was just passing by, I was just in the area," she can't meet his gaze, biting her lip nervously and shivering again. It's not from the cold. He can tell. Because he's shivering the same way and he feels far too warm. A hand brushes furtively at her hair, there are bright crystals of slowly melting ice caught on her scalp, reflecting the light. A net of stars. Behind her the snow keeps falling, impassive.
         Tristian focuses on a bare tree across the street, the draped coating of snow making it seem even more skeletal than it did before, and tries to absorb the timeless equanimity with which the tree meets the constantly changing seasons. Tries to let it steady him. It helps, a little.
         "So, I was in the area and I realize this is kind of odd," her face telegraphs silent laughter at a private joke even as she trips the edges of a quavering rambling tone. All the old motions are there, tugging at him with each second. Slowly goosebumps are springing to attention on his arms. He's very much aware of her eyes looking directly into his suddenly. There's a vibrating emotion there, wavering with every shiver. Almost shimmering. She's scared. Lena's scared of something.
         And oh God, so is he.
         "But I think, Tristian, that . . . we have to talk." And as she says that, her voice turns serious, but her eyes soften just a little, ever so slightly.
         A thousand thoughts flash into his head and leave just as quickly. There's nothing to say. There's everything to say. A million questions soar through the aviary of his mind, silhouetted against his endlessly grey sky.
         But Lena's still staring at him.
         And he can see her eyes.
         And he knows.
         Finally, he sees.
         Even as a somewhat shy smile colors his face to match the tentative one he spies on Lena.
         Stepping back slightly, he opens the door a fraction wider and says simply, "I think I'd like that, Lena." He arm gestures stiffly, swinging in a wide arc. "Please. Come in."
         Lena's eyes widen and for a second that's the only indication that she's heard anything. Then she gives a smile that's only partially for him. Shaking herself a little to rid herself of caked snow, she replies warmly, "Oh. Sure. Thanks," and crosses the threshold, her steps light, her wet sneakers squeaking a little. She gives Tristian a sheepish grin at the sound, which he can only return. There is no time. In that porcelain silence, he realizes there's no reason to hurry at all.
         While from the outside, you can see the two of them framed in the door. Meager light outlines the basics of their forms. It seems like Tristian's saying something to Lena, if the angle and the light was better you might be able to read his lips. But you shouldn't. Let them have this moment. Whatever he's said has her grinning and responding in kind, shaking her head as she moves to lightly touch him on the arm.
         Lena begins to remove her jacket, shaking it free of her shoulders. And gently, you see him go to help her, his touch tentative, unsure. You think they might be standing close to each other, but it's hard to tell. Neither is shying away.
         Shadowed forms meld, blend.
         Something moves the door and, like a slit healing, it slowly closes, a vault sealing its secrets away. And now there's nothing more to see.
         Leaving all your words and all their words to be struck silent, weighted down by the delicately intricate sound of snow, falling forever, always falling free.

-          "We're so ill equipped to deal with all the pressure, risk and stress . . . they can't hurt you now, it doesn't matter what they say . . ." -- the Mekons, "Last Night on Earth"

THE END