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There’s definitely something different about this girl; as if she’s something right out of some black and white movie, some Rom Com that I have never seen. Some notion of a thing that doesn’t exist except in the mind of some lovesick playwrite. She doesn’t question my silence, or the fact that I haven’t spoken a word, yet. She answers the arch of my brow, perhaps assuming a silent question, answering with whatever she felt she wanted to say first. Which, in and of itself is a curiosity. These are the things at the top of her mind. The things that she is preoccupied with. The things that she thinks I most want to hear. Take your pick.

There’s a gleam in her eye as she says she’s been here two weeks. That she has a job that allows her to work with cars. The way she says it, it’s the tone and treble of a person who is happy, who is excited. I realise, now, whether that faint whiff of grease came from. That makes sense.

And then, again, she’s touching me, running her fingers over the numbers and letters on my hand—1990, LOCO—and the eye sockets of the skull, leering out from the skin. I don’t pull my hand away. I don’t move it as her fingers make warm tracks. And then, just as spontaneously as she reached out, she took her fingers away again. The coldness of the atmosphere tries to smother the trails of warmth she’d left behind. I return a curious gaze to her face, but she has turned away to address the waitress.

This is what gets me. She forges on ahead, orders food, starts eating, all as if I am either not there, or as if I am just an object that she so happened to bring with her, a pretty new thing that she will glance at every now and again, maybe talk to, when no one else is looking. I cant my head to the side as she returns her attention to the menu, remaining silent as she pores over it, as if it is the most interesting thing she has had the opportunity to read in a long, long time.

The pie is finally delivered. I don’t touch the fork. I’m enjoying watching this girl eat. I continue to ponder what it is she reminds me of. Yeah, okay, she seems like she’s someone right out of a black and white film, but beyond that—she is a character who hasn’t got a past, who hasn’t ever read a menu, who hasn’t ever had a job, who hasn’t ever had a mouthful of pie. As if she is experiencing everything for the very first time, even while having previous knowledge of its existence. She shrugs her shoulders, and I’m again imagining what those shoulders might look like if they were bare. She’s this rough-and-tumble thing that came out of nowhere, and caught me in the snares of curiosity. I have no idea what I plan to do with her, if anything. Maybe I should just sit here and watch, watch her, stare at her until she reacts to it.

Instead, I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket. Within, I have a small, plain-paged notebook, and a pencil. The pencil is semi-sharp. It will do the job I want it to do, however. She had said that’s about all I know, but I make a circling gesture with my hand that she should go on, regardless. Just keep talking at me, because for once I don’t mind listening. I clear my throat. There’s a husk of a sound, there, but still words don’t come. I don’t allow them to, or they’re being stubborn, clawing at my throat because they do not want to come out.

I flip the notebook to a blank page. I push the cup of coffee aside so that the notepad is front and centre. And then I begin to sketch, glancing up every few seconds, stroking and shading and hatching as I try to capture the woman’s likeness—as I narrow my eyes and focus, imagining how her face would look without the burn, erasing it as if it never existed. And there I sit, still staring, but at least making use of it.

She desperately needed to repaint her nails. With her new job, the lacquer did not have a tendency to withstand two engines and a carburetor. There had been a few days where business was slower, allowing her to stare out the windows, man the lift, or just make sure there had been no sticky fingers in the office while customers poured over the counter, lamenting on shallow pockets. However, if they wanted the work done and their car back, they always seemed to hand over the pretty plastic or the rolls of green without much whining.

Grey swallowed deeply, her tongue barely working except around that little moan at the back of her throat. Her teeth would hurt with the next bite of the super sweet treat, but she'd relish every bit of it. Seeing that he neglected to pick up a fork and indulge her in the very intimacy of sharing that calorie packed treat, she continued to devour it all. While she chewed, she could feel the aching pull of swollen skin across the left side of her face. And it felt hot and extremely painful, her eye watering at times to where she could not even muster the swipe of her thumb against raw flesh.

No, as the single tear from that swollen flesh worked its way down her glossy skin; Grey ate the last bite of pie. Some crust and some filling and both made her stomach roll in happiness. While that single tear dangled precariously from her inflamed jaw, the sigh emitted was enough to let the drop fall and splatter against the sleeve of her coat. The fabric was a combination of rain resistant and some blend that made the fabric just a little noisy as she moved. The fork clanked on the plate and she watched while he circled his fingers at her. As if he were demanding in all his silent definition to keep going.

To keep talking. And that very aspect was unnatural for Grey. She really just kept to herself and the thoughts from upstairs were all underneath lock and key. As much as she wanted to reach out again, she curled her fingers around the edges of that menu and held onto it in a way that prevented her from reaching out again. She wanted to pluck the pencil from his grip and see what he'd do to get it back. But, she managed to not act like the sudden two year old that was giggling inside of her and the skin between her no longer nicely formed brows puckered in concentration.

"I hope with the money from the job, I could get a cell phone. One of those really nice ones that let you access the Internet. And you can have books on them too. I don't know too much about them, yet. I've been doing a little research on them. Well, as much as the library can let me. Only an hour limit at a time on their computers. I did just get a flashy new library card yesterday. A new friend of mine suggested I go there." In truth, Grey didn't quite know if she knew Solene well enough to truly call her a friend, but that was what she was claiming the woman as.

"I was thinking about getting an apartment too. The job at Auto Doc really lets me save up quite a bit of money. More money than I thought I'd even have right now. I really like it. So surprised I even got the job with just arriving in town, but Brock has been certainly understanding. He even had me go down to that aide station in the mall. It was so embarrassing to have to sit there and have someone cluck their tongue at me. The lady there wanted to put a dressing on my face, but that would be even worse. Something constantly rubbing on raw skin? Ouch." Grey certainly made a face now. Well, in truth, she made half a face. The right side scrunched up into what could be assumed as a grimace while the left stayed pretty much unmovable; so tight in its swollen state that the skin barely budged.

"Your tattoos..." Grey trailed off though, seeing the waitress come back wearily out of the corner of her eye. She had that little pad out and dutifully reached to grab the empty pie plate and glasses. Of course, Grey shook her head and wiggled the menu, indicating that she was still looking at that laminated booklet with enthusiasm. "I'm just going to let my pie settle for a few minutes while I finish reading this. Then I think we will be ready to order. Thank you." With a little smile, the waitress gave a nod and turned away. Of course, that wasn't before she gave a look to the man across from her like she wanted to say something to him, but decided against it.

"They're beautiful." She said, looking away from the waitress with almost an arch of a brow to her demeanor. It seemed like the man certainly had an aura about him. Of course, he was a silent, stoic man who lorded over his domain. He seemed to be the alpha of his area and dared anyone to enter his turf. She gripped the menu tighter, giving another shrug to her shoulders before feeling the heat start to creep once again over her face in a belated blush. "So, did you have anything to eat tonight? Are you hungry? I was going to get a little bit of this and that... Everything sounds delicious. It smells wonderful here. Can't wait for some french fries."

And that of course was a hungry stomach talking. It had been a few days of junk food and pocket size five-finger discounts that Grey nibbled on. It was hard to break the habit of stealing to survive. One who got their GED and never attempted college classes was quite knowledgeable about lost wallets and cheap gold chains to afford at least a ten dollar bill. The woman in front of him didn't give him much time to answer her questions. As if the lesson was already learned from the earlier silence, she dropped her hands down into her lap and gave away a deep breath.

She stopped talking. She just sort of continued to read over the menu, looking at the page that had 'Dinner Plates' written across it. And then, without almost thinking, she reached over and pulled his coffee close to her. She opened packet after packet of those tiny foil covers of the creamer and dumped it in. Well, he made no attempt to drink it so she figured it was a free for all. And in with the creamer went a couple packets of the sugar. "And some pancakes. With the strawberries. Oh! Or the cinnamon and pecans. Those sound delicious too. Hmm...."

She seemed to try to make a decision, looking up at him before she'd look back down at the menu. She sipped the rapidly cooling coffee and lamented over which decision to make. "Maybe I'll have one of both. Oh! With buttery maple syrup over top the pecans. What do you think? She's going to think we are only getting dessert and her tips going to be fifty cents probably. Better order before she is dead set on booting us out." She worried her lower lip, lifting her eye to him now while she held onto the coffee mug for what warmth was left of it. A grin was on her face, peeling back the corner of her mouth that could bend free of the swelling.

I’d been in the habit of painting my nails, once upon a time. That period in one’s teenage years, where androgyny seemed to be the name of the game, if you wanted to be hip and cool. No, scrap that. You weren’t hip and cool if you were androgynous. You were cutting edge, you were to be avoided at all costs. People assumed you were into witchcraft because you rimmed your eyes in black and listened to death metal. I am ashamed to admit that there was a period in high school when I did fit that exact mold. I smoked weed beneath the stands around the hockey pitch. I often slept in the back of the class—or in the detention hall. I often skipped, choosing instead to wander aimlessly around town rather than attend a school with people that I hated. I chose to scare them rather than to submit to their teasing and their base judgments. If it weren’t for that tattoo parlour, if it weren’t for my first employer, who sternly shoved me back on track, I might now be one of those drugged up, always-drunk booze hounds sleeping beneath the train tracks.

I might be dead. Vampire food. Then food for the fishes.

A single glance at the woman’s painted nails brought back a whole bunch of memories that swam languidly around the inside of my skull. Memories that don’t cause pain or regret; my past is my past. My present is not something that I loathe. I quite like where I am now, and who I am now. The painful things from my past I have now dealt with, and I can move on from them, with only a small amount of struggle. Everything else is meaningless fodder, wisps of events that may or may not have shaped my current personality, my current demeanor, but which regardless now remain memories that may or may not even belong to me. They may as well be images on a screen that I neither care about, nor wish to keep watching.

When next I glance up, I see the miracle of that single tear blazing a trail down the side of the woman’s face. Like a single crystalized manifestation of… what? She doesn’t seem particularly upset about anything. I have to pause, pencil poised over the arch of the sketch’s brow; I myself am poised to make a hasty exit should this woman all of a sudden start bawling, or telling me some story of woe. I may be many things, but I am not a man whose shoulder one can readily cry on. That kind of ******** is not something that I can easily stand.

As she continues talking, however, I am relieved to discover that the single tear is the only one of its kind. Perhaps a side-effect of her injury. I don’t comment upon it, though I do add a slight glisten to the sketch’s cheek, just because. Regardless of whether or not I will allow my shoulder to be cried upon, tears are still naturally beautiful things. Things that cannot be explained, not when brought on emotionally, anyway. I remember those that I cried a week ago. A flood of them, that no one saw. And that no one will ever know about.

Auto Doc. I don’t know why I repeat the business’s name several times in my head; as if to remember it, should I need to find this woman again. Here we are, sitting across from each other, her talking about all the current events in her life, and neither of us know the other’s name. But hey, I do know where to find her, now.

I listen while I continue to sketch, storing away the information for a later date. Maybe. Maybe it’ll all be useless drivel that I’ll forget after tonight. But it gives her something to do. At least she’s not sitting there awkwardly trying to force conversation out of me. I do glance up inquisitively as she mentions my tattoos, only to discover that we have been joined, once again, by the waitress. My companion tells her, in too many words, to go away. I glance up at the waitress just before she leaves; her mouth is parted just slightly, a curious gleam in her eyes. She doesn’t say whatever it is she may have been prepared to say, however, and wanders off. I turn back to my companion.

I give her a smile. Yeah, I’m rather proud of my tattoos, too. It’s been far too long since I got a new one. The newest being the mermaid etched onto my thigh—one that my new friend cannot see right now. She continues on to ask questions about today’s eating habits. She does not wait for an answer as she lists the things that she herself wants to order. I give her a grin, and a wink as I shake my head. It’s only as she lifts the mug to her lips that I realise she has taken the coffee from me. That’s fine. I don’t need it. I’m not going to try to drink it. I’m fine, I tell her silently.

I add a few finishing touches to the sketch that has manifested on the page in front of me. It’s a hasty thing, with a few stray strokes; it is a messy depiction of a messy woman, though I have not portrayed her as unappealingly messy. More, the sketch seems to allude to an endearing messiness. Of course, I have depicted her without the burn. With the glisten of a tear dripping from her jaw. But with a crooked smile, because she is not at all sad. I sign it, down the bottom – a neat Jesse Fforde. I tear the page from the book, and slide it across the table. All hers.

"Yeah. Definitely one of each. And the roast beef. With some beef gravy. You can always tell if a place is worth their salt if their gravy is good. That is what my father used to say." Her eyes would lower to the menu again for a minute as his pencil looped down at the sketch. Of course, Grey could clearly see that the artist drew a female, but the recognition was not that quick. She would let her eyes dart back and forth, from the menu, to the man in front of her, to the entrance as the little bell sounded announcing new customers or old regulars hobbling in of the freezing streets. She licked her lower lip and kept a grimace inside, worrying the edges of the menu that peeled back upon its laminated self.

He was quiet.

She liked that. She liked that he did not try to fill the silence with stories about himself. With his thoughts and his feelings and his worries and his excitement. Her mother always used to announce herself in a dramatic fashion, being sure to lament or sigh heavily and Grey was often ashamed that she'd find herself giving off one of those heavy sighs for no reason at all, but being clearly in the moment of nothing. She swallowed, gulping down the luke-warm coffee faster now. She was not quite chugging it, but one would worry that someone was coming to aptly snatch the ceramic entity away. No! She couldn't have that. No sense in something decent going to waste. And Grey certainly was not picky. She ate more questionable things out of a trash can then served on a silver platter with a waitress that could not quite give the correct French pronunciation.

As he turned the sketch to her, she had set down the empty coffee mug close to the edge of their table. She did not dare touch his work. No, her fingers stayed firmly upon the menu's edge and she hastily glanced up at him. Why would he do this? Was he just showing her? Was he giving it to her? No one had so freely handed her anything before. She stole it. She lifted it. She slipped it into her pocket with a brush of her fingers and a fake stumble and a muttered apology.

"For me?" She questioned him, her capable eyebrow on the right furrowed where the red, angry skin at the left drew into invisible white lines of tension. She looked at him with those bright, blue splattered hazel eyes with a complete misunderstanding. In the picture, though the lines were scraggled with purpose; she was beautiful. And the tear she had hoped he would not notice obviously was depicted front and center. With an almost painful swallow, her eyes roved over the woman. Her. This was what she looked like from his point of view.

Him.

His name.

Jesse Fforde.

There it was. Signed plain as day at the bottom. With a soft, almost breathless whisper his name caressed her tongue. How simple a name could be. It gave someone purpose and meaning. It gave someone a title and splendor. It gave someone a sense of self; being able to be unique even if the name was shared with another. And she whispered it again. Just the first name. "Jesse."

Lifting her eyes, she gave him that very same crooked smile that he depicted so well upon the paper. But just then, she had been so very enraptured by his presentation and the distraction of his very name that the waitress chose that very moment to crack her gum and tap her pen against the tiny pad. "Oh, ah... Right." Soon, Grey went on to order all the items that she had just informed the man of. Some al a cart. But, the roast beef was made into a meal. She requested a chocolate milk this time. A large one. It was obvious the cool liquid felt better to her mouth then the hot chocolate.

In any case, the waitress with blink kept writing as Grey kept talking and finally ended it with an extra side of ranch for her fries and some mayo too. And she told the woman that the food from her order would be all, thanked her, and said she'd like the milk now. Of course, that was polite as possible. As the woman took the menu away, Grey lowered the zipper of that too large coat. She was starting to warm up and she needed something to further distract herself in that moment while the sketch laid between them.

"You are very talented, Jesse." She said quietly, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear the praise she had just for him. Some things, of course, were quite private and Grey did have discretion at times. She looked up at him, her good eye staring into his face while she waited for her order to be filled. The silence did not seem to bother her at all.

I nod, slowly. She can keep the sketch. I have memory that’s good enough, that should I want another sketch of the woman, I can procure one at a later hour. It’s not hard to keep the memory of a face burned into one’s memory. All you have to do is stare. Stare, long and hard. Do not take your eyes off the face; follow every curve and every line so that you know how it all fits together, and how it would look under every angle of light. How thick are the lashes? Are they weighted down by mascara? Are the lips that red naturally, or is there some kind of paint on them? Are the teeth straight or crooked? Do they contribute to the way the skin spreads across the cheek? How high is the brow? Are there lines between the eyes, and if so are they frown lines or lines of mirth? The eyes… the eyes are always the best part. They are like gems, multi-faceted and home to whole galaxies of colour. Especially after being turned. Preternatural sight has its perks.

I realise that I am staring as I watch the woman’s lips move; my ears perk at the sound of my own name. Jesse. I have no idea why the name was given to me. Why that name specifically. But I like the way it sounds. It comes with a hiss, a susserance, like that of a snake gliding through grass. Jesse. Esse. Ss.

The woman—whose name I do not know—would probably slap me if she knew what thoughts those lips of hers, burnt and broken as they may be, inspire within me. I imagine her trapped beneath me. I imagine a sigh, a tortured furrow to those brows, as my name passes her lips in a hiss of pleasure. Perhaps I have too much of an ego, but I do have to shift slightly in my seat. Have to remember that I am sitting in a booth in a brightly lit café. Where the smell of food cooking in the kitchen might make the mouths of the ordinary customers water, it’s the scent of blood that instigates my hunger—the thirst that never goes away, that I can force to forget about.

But I can’t forget about my thirst for long. Imagining this woman trapped beneath me, I can’t help but also imagine the lurid sight of crimson blood upon crisp white sheets. She’s human. Oh, so ******* human. What the **** am I doing here with this human if I’m not going to eventually kill her? All that food that she’s going to eat, all that coffee and chocolate that she’s consuming, it’ll all be absorbed into her blood. I can almost taste that blood on my lips. My teeth ache. I run my tongue across the sharpness of the elongated canines; the back of my throat is unbearably dry. Each time I swallow, each time I breathe in, it’s like swallowing sandpaper. It’s as if my veins throb in anticipation.

It’s all because she’s unzipped her coat. All the heat that had been trapped inside is now released, wafting on the air. The scent of her, pure and untainted, reaching me across the limited space.

I have no idea what I look like, in that moment. All I know is that somehow, the woman has ordered a fuckload of food and I haven’t paid one iota of attention. The air shifts as the waitress walks away, taking the menu with her. Mixed with my companion’s scent is that of the waitress. Hardly as enticing, but the woman has been working all night, maybe all afternoon too. It’s heated in here. Whatever deodorant she may have been wearing has long since slipped, dissipated. She smells like food.

She tells me I’m talented. I know that I’m talented. I don’t acknowledge the compliment. I hold up a single finger—give me a minute—as I slide out of the booth. I head toward the counter; I wander along it, to the other side of the café. There’s a door there, that leads to the bathrooms, to the kitchen, to the back of the café. The thirst is a demon demanding satiation. I know there’s a cook in the kitchen somewhere, I can hear him, singing some song in a foreign language. And there’s our waitress. Good fortune would have it that she saunter out from behind the counter to go to the toilet, which is located down a small hallway. I follow her into the lady’s room with a quick glance over my shoulder, to ascertain no one has seen me. I have mere seconds to ascertain that we are alone. She hasn’t yet locked herself in a booth. She gives a light gasp as I lock the door. I do not give her the opportunity to protest before I have pushed her up against a wall, pulling her head to the side with my palm over her mouth as I strike. Canines break the tender skin over the vein. Her blood, hot and heady, gushes, soothing that aching itch in my throat only as I swallow, only as the sticky cruor coats the taste buds.

I leave her body locks in one of the stalls. I sit her on the toilet, so to anyone looking under the stall door, it’ll just look as if she’s doing her business. Her neck is broken.

It’s only five minutes later that I return to our booth. And there I will stay, until it’s obvious that others have realised something is wrong. And then I will leave—either with or without my spontaneous companion. Or so I tell myself. I sit back down, veritably beaming with new warmth. I’m still ******* thirsty, but at least it’s not as bad as before.

The look that passes over the man's face is almost, for a moment, unnerving. He looked as if he were thinking about something that would bring a blush to Grey's face. So, as if in an effort to save them both an uncomfortable moment, she looked away. He did not seem to be paying too much attention in the time that the waitress was short-handing her order for a long awaited dinner. With her now gone and the promise for the food to be out soon, Grey waited impatiently.

The pecan pie in her stomach was rolling around, causing a sugar high to a system that was so close to crashing. The rush of sweetness through her blood, coupled with the orange juice and other drinks had her system floating high in the mountains of richness. She inhaled deeply, managing now when that look was out of his eye to venture her own stare at his face. There was no blush to be had, just the quick variation of a flush along her already reddened flesh that heated as he held up his finger.

A minute. Two. Excuse me. I'll be right back. Just hold that thought for a moment.

His words that were not all his words tumbled through her mind. And he left the booth, voiding her of his company. She felt, in a way, an instant loss. It was not as if the man was of great importance to her. Nor, did she feel in any danger even in his company. But, in all the same moment, she felt like the lonely diner once again. She toyed with a spoon that was close by, stained with the remnants of coffee upon the napkin and looked around for their waitress while she was being left alone.

The chance to flee caught her mind. Should she? Damn. She already told him where she worked, though. And that was stupid. But, she had to share that information with someone. Solene had been so kind to her several evenings ago and it just seemed like such big news that it could not be contained for too long. She wanted to tell everyone that she had a job. That she was not homeless any longer. But, she was. That she could pay for her own things, even if all her money was in the bank. It was a rocky start, and she could not seem to let that natural instinct of preservation go. She was down to her last candy bar, after all, and it was safely tucked away in an outside zippered pocket of her coat. Her fingers reached down to the left pocket of that noisy coat and squeezed it, just making sure the outline of the item was there.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up to thank the waitress for delivering the pancakes and a refill of chocolate milk. However, her tongue knotted when the gruff gentleman with a grey ponytail and a smeared up chefs jacket had clunked the plates down in front of her. She fought a grimace and instinctively held still. Waiting, that was, for the man to just leave so she could dig into her food. Grey did manage a smile though when the syrup container was added to the fray of plates and she nodded to the man as he went to gather more items from the full kitchen window.

The noise in the background started to increase, more guests were coming and going, and Grey kept an ever watchful eye - the blue piercing through the hazel under the harsh iridescent lights as she started stuffing her mouth with syrup laden pecan cinnamon pancake pieces. She ate like a woman who wasn't sure where her next meal was coming from. She was hunched over her plate, defensive of her food, and her hands encompassed the other strawberry slathered, cream cheese filled crepe.

Hers. All hers.

She barely chewed the bites in her mouth before seemingly choking it down and stuffing more into her mouth. As the noise in the back of the cafe began to rise, the woman at the booth seemed oblivious to the growing concerns of the kitchen staff and the scowls and squeaks of the aproned staff about having to take over for someone's tables. The fork clanked onto the empty plate and Grey managed to sit up straight. She looked around, chewing while her cheeks bulged with creamy crepe. It was awkward, just a bit, to chew when one side of her mouth was so swollen from the burn.

It did not stop her.

Chugging the rest of the chocolate milk down, Grey arched a brow to the man before her as if to ask him - Is everything okay? While she looked around, she noticed the angry barks of customers at the counter for refills on their coffee and what could only be taken as jovial harassment of the staff to hurry it up as newspapers were shuffled around and clanks of silverware into dish trays sounded. Her stomach was stretching, and she let her tongue dart out to lick her lips while she brought the stiff, white paper napkin to make sure nothing was too offensive to the tattooed man in front of her.

"S'very good." She said before the rim of the chocolate milk touched her lips and she gulped it down as if she had not had a drink in days. She washed her mouth out with it, swallowing the cool milk down a hot pipe of her throat and set the small glass once again away from her. She watched him, though. She had watched his face over the rim of the glass and there was something about the man that seemed ... more at ease than before.

She shrugged it off and sat back while a pair of hands shoved themselves in front of her, taking away the empty plates. The syrup was snatched away as if it too were all used up and the roast beef and fries piled high on a dinner plate wafted up at her, tempting her tongue with all of the golden fried goodness and the river of dark, beef gravy.

"Mmm..." Was all she could say before she started stuffing french fries into her mouth and stabbing a hunk of the roast beef to only fight with it as it fell apart. Caramelized onions and shredded carrots were mixed into the meat, allowing for her taste buds to just dance in joy and that was before the scream startled her like a deer in headlights.

Her head jerked up, her eyes went wide, and she took stock of those around her.

The shouts of someone to call for help, get the police, and the gruff cries and patron chairs all scratching the linoleum alarmed Grey in what could only be perceived by Jesse as an instant flight response. She took one look at him, and choked down her food. The police were never a welcomed entity to the woman who had just started her fries a moment ago and now had them half gone. "Go. I've got to go. I can't stay. I'm so sorry."

Her voice was rushed. She reached down for the picture, grabbed it up, pulled her gloves out of her pockets and gave him a nod towards the door. It was all, in a way, very methodical. It was not so hurried that she looked suspicious, but she pulled the four dollars she had in her pocket out and left it on the table while the other customers were leaving their tips too. They certainly weren't the only ones who did not want to stick around and see the show.

Crying could be heard and while the hysterics were happening in the back, she shook her head. She did not wait for Jesse to follow her. No - instincts had her up and across the room in a few heartbeats. Holding open the front door for the elderly couple that was coming in, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. "I do hope everything works out okay. Rough day in here. Poor help."

Her heart was pounding in her chest. She looked over her shoulder as she brought her hood up, in part to see if the man was still in the booth or if he was scrambling to pay the bill. The thudding of her heart was so hard that the rush of adrenaline caused her ears to burn. And as soon as the couple was past her, she went right. The direction she had been going before she bounced off of Jesse Fforde.

The girl eats, and I watch. It’s a thing I’m good at – watching. She looks like some waif who’s come out off the street – I figure she thinks I’m paying. Maybe that’s what this is? Maybe she doesn’t actually have enough money to buy food for herself. Maybe I’ve been played all along. She meant to run in to me, meant to play the victim – meant to tug me along behind her, assuming that I would have a bleeding heart, and that I would play.

The food has been delivered by a rather cranky chef—a man who obviously does not belong front of house, and who would prefer to remain in the kitchen. I am aware of the buzzing tension in my periphery. If I were a cat, my ears would be swivelling and twitching on the top of my head—I may not be watching, but I am listening. I can hear the numerous complaints people make about having to wait. I can hear the numerous complaints uttered by the staff as they wonder where the hell ‘Katie’ has gone. I assume Katie is the waitress who I summarily consumed. Dinner—not quite as delicious as I assume the girl in front of me would be, but good enough, given the circumstances. Certainly not as delicious as she herself seems to find her food, which she scarfs down as if it would be taken away from her at any second.

I wonder, idly—has she done time? Is this a thing that people in prison tend to do? Eat voraciously either because their meal might be taken from them, or because they’re not given much to eat? I find myself wondering whether this chatty woman could have ever done anything to land herself in jail. I begin wondering how she would handle herself in a place like that, with women so butch they may as well be men. Could she murder someone? How would she react, if she were to discover that I myself have murdered someone, in this very building?

My assumptions that the girl must be some kind of jail bird only mount, the way she reacts to the climax in the action around us. Someone screams—I don’t even flinch. Someone shouts to call the police, and the girl in front of me seems to jump out of her own skin. She’s up and out of her chair before I could even say boo (which, really, maybe I could?). She apologises, and makes a run for it. Says she has to go. Well, that we have in common. I shouldn’t stick around either. I don’t particularly want to be questioned by the police. I’m not too sure I have the necessary acting skills. I follow the girl from the café—the old couple she passed on the way out give me a wide berth, afraid of me for reasons they cannot even fathom. I jog to catch up to me quarry. I clear my throat as I push my arms slowly back into my jacket.

”…how…”

There it is. The first word. Wow. I even sound like some creepy *** serial killer. Is there even a voice in all that rasp, or is it just dead air? Whatever.

”…how would you react…”

Oh wow. That even hurts. I clear my throat again, seeking to coat it with the remnants of the waitresses blood, drops of which have caught behind my teeth and under my tongue.

”…if I told you I murdered that woman…?” I ask with an inquisitive arch to the brow. I really would like to know. Depending on her answer, I’ll maybe figure out something about this girl’s past that made her act so damned suspiciously jumpy as soon as she realised the cops would be on their way. It’s intriguing. And so damned endearing.

Her dinner was churning within her stomach. Half of it was backed up, tickling the back of her esophagus and taunting her brain with the thoughts of erupting somewhere in the sewer. She gulped another deep breath, letting the icy cold wind blast against her face. Her stomach rolled again, allowing a small portion of the food to follow down, sinking into the acidic wasteland of her bowels that seemed to be reminiscent of that time a few months back at that dingy, dank truck stop. She squeezed her eyes closed, turned right down the street and moved a little faster towards the bank.

One foot in front of the other. The boots were the only thing relatively appropriate for her size. She hid under layers of clothing - Canada was ******* freezing. Her bank account was slowly growing. The daily deposits from Auto Doc's had her jumping for joy inside. Little did her boss know where she laid her head at night. What did that matter? He took a chance on her. And she damn well worked her fingers to the bone, showing up early and staying late and keeping those customers happy. Grey did not mind the dirty work. She'd do almost anything for cash. Her moral compass was not a halo, after all.

So when she heard that sound, that tiny little rough 'how' it almost blended into the wind. Her ears were freezing - the rook piercings threatening to frost bite her ears before the snot in her nose formed icicles or frozen caves along her nostrils. Her head whipped around, the gust of wind tossing back the hood of her jacket. Her hair stuck into the ointment upon her swollen face, and she instantly clutched the area underneath her coat where the sketch was located; protecting it.

"I-"

She stopped when she turned completely around to face him. He was trying to say something. Did he want money? She didn't have any. He was supposed to pay for the meal! She left the tip. Or, at least part of it. There was a lick to her lower lip. A quick wince when her tongue would stroke too far over and the burned lip screamed. Blue hazel eyes squinted against the elements, letting her focus just a little more on the man that wanted a reaction.

A reaction. Grey rarely had a reaction. Did he expect her to scream and yell? Did he expect her to bring forth physical harm to him? Did he expect her to break down in tears and sob for the loss of the soul the woman possessed? For her family members she left behind or the unfinished business someone would be forced to take on in her stead? He was mistaken if she would react in any typical fashion.

Grey was a woman of black and white. She did not care much for the murky in-between. She lived it. That was how she had gotten the nickname to begin with. Grey; because she always teetered a fine line between the right and wrong. The up and down. Existing in the middle of life to not really exist at all. She was long ago pasted up wallflower, dulled to the grime of society and the rung of misplaced youth.

"Why?"

Grey's voice sounded strong against the wind. She didn't judge him. Her eyes were not demeaning. They were not frightened. She did not read any sense of impending harm from the tattooed man in front of her. She lifted her fingers up, pulling the strands of hair from the beat red face, tucking the hair futilely behind her ear. "Why did you kill her?"


There was always a reason.

Life was cause and effect.

There was a yes or a no.


To survive, Grey had done a lot of things in her short many years on this earth. Her fingers of both hands were flattened now against her abdomen of the coat. She was holding that sketch to her stomach, watching him while he waited for her to look appalled. While he waited for her to break down into tears and call him a murderer. Is that what he wanted?

He would be so sadly disappointed if he were to expect her to break down and wail.

Instead, she just stood there looking at him while her injured eye dripped again. Her right remained completely open, blinking in every kiss of the wind without redness or apathy.

He hadn't killed her, after all.

I press my lips into a tight line.

For the first time in over a decade, I am having a conversation conducted with spoken word. My throat aches not only with the persistent thirst, the one that is always there no matter what I do, but also with the effort of speech. My head spins, the implication slightly edifying. Is this the kind of enlightenment that I want? Is it enlightenment, or is a burden that I have inadvertently given back to myself? To speak again after so long ought to be freeing. It ought to be something to celebrate. I ought to welcome home the ability as if it were a child who’d been kidnapped, who’d been locked in a cellar by some evil and yet caring tyrant. The tyrant was guilt, and fear. And now it is gone. I should be screaming my freedom from the rooftops.

But something happened over that decade of silence. I grew accustomed to it. Maybe, in a way, my disability had only been fortified by a further choice. I’d chosen silence. It had become my friend, and the thing from which I found comfort. Only now do I realise I was more free without speech than I am with it. I have asked a question, and I was not prepared that my question would be answered with a question.

I don’t answer immediately. I have never had to answer anything immediately; often, I’d choose not to answer at all. I could slip back into silence, if I want to. I could shrug now, and forget that I had ever uttered anything to begin with. This Grey is still a stranger, so what will it matter, if she thinks me strange or deranged? We can go our separate ways. And yet, I know that I need to cover my tracks. I know that I need to clarify. I need to lie. This Grey is a stranger. She may appear calm and serene now, but what if she is questioned, in the future, about the murder at the diner? What if she gives my name, my description, to the authorities? I cannot allow that to happen.

I clear my throat as I shake my head, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

”You assume too much,” I say, finally. It feels like there is dust in my voice box. Like a record that is scratched beyond repair. I feel the need to cough and hack and shout at the wind in order to clear it. Of course I don’t.

”I asked if. How would you react if,” I clarify. Tentative, is what I was. Hypothetical. She doesn’t need to know the truth. She doesn’t need to know why.

”And you didn’t answer,” I add, turning to Grey with an arched brow. I’m still trying to figure her out. It appears that she is more afraid of being in the vicinity of police than she is of being in the vicinity of a murderer – and alone with him, too. For some reason or other the majority of the population choose to give me a wide berth, choose to cross the street in order to avoid passing me on the sidewalk, choose to slip to a further end of the train carriage rather than sit in the seat beside me. And yet this one is different. She welcomes my company and answers my strange, serial-killer-esque questions with calmness, even with the practiced ease of a demurrer. But I will not let her avoid answering the question, even if she has succeeded in delaying the answer.

I continue to watch her, now with my hands pushed deep into my pockets, eyes locked on the features of her face to see, by the tiniest hint of movement, what she might be thinking.

There is an intensity in his gaze that she could not look away from. With each blink of that right eye, she struggled to keep her attention on the view behind him as well. He looked like he was barely out of high school, but his eyes were older. Old souls was what her father used to say. She always wondered if her father's words about a person's eyes were just an old wives tale. However, Grey had begun to trust herself. She began to trust her own instincts when she packed that bag at the age of sixteen and never looked back.

As she stood there with that tattooed man on the street corner, her chin tipped up to look at him fully; she wondered why he seemed to be struggling with his words. It sounded like he had one of those infections of the throat. Or maybe the man had an issue with his sinuses that caused his voice to sound like pebbles crunching underneath heavy work boots. Not quite nails on a chalk board, but also not the most heavenly hymns.

Even while he stood there, accusing her of assuming too much, Grey watched the features of his face. From the way he blinked, to the quirks of his mouth, to the tension of his jaw and the way the Adam's Apple of his bobbed with his staccato words, he was impressive. He did not even realize it, she knew in that moment. Sure, he may know that he was handsome. That he had that edge of danger to his person. After all, he was a guy that sported what she could only assume as the hint of fashionable, if not designer clothes, and tattoos. By all means, Grey was not an imbecile. She knew that tattoos were by no means a mark of a bad *** man on a mission to cause havoc and and miniature reign of terror as he walked down the street.

No, Grey didn't see any reason to give him a wide berth or to ignore the fact that he was just like everyone else. The woman seemed to stick to her own non-existent social circle. She knew the rungs of society and the tsk of touching or attempting to have what wasn't within her reach. That was why she stole everything. She got her five finger discount to everything from basic hygiene, clothes, and food. So while those flashing lights and the wail of the siren passed them, she turned herself closer towards that building and offered her support to the structure. She leaned against the brick with a deep sigh. Right, he was looking at her like he wanted an answer.

"I have been asked enough hypothetical questions for a lifetime. I know all about the 'what if's and 'my friend did' this and that to know better, Jesse. I'm not stupid." No, she had a GED degree and some street smarts that got her through the latest grapple of the law with picking the handcuffs and discreetly slipping away with nothing more than the satchel that she always carried with her. She had to be on the go. She had to leave material things behind all the time. The Go Bag was what she referred to her link to that past life that was currently secured at work.

"Survival of the fittest. Right?" She arched her good eyebrow at him right back. She had seen that smile of his. The smile would look only better on a snake, for he seemed to try and charm himself along. He had nothing to prove to her. He had no reason to defend himself in front of her. Hell, she was surprised he even followed her. Most would have been glad that she didn't stick around. Instead, he seemed to want to know more. More than she was even willing to give. So while she half shielded her face with hair - sticky ointment be damned, she took a deep breath.

"I don't have a reaction for you. I don't have a cluck of my tongue or a tear to shed for someone I didn't know." Grey was the type that felt herself well up with tears when an innocent animal was kicked and not a convicted murderer get the lethal injection. So, she would still lean back against that building as the wind whipped and laid its icy fingers on them. As she hugged that coat around her, as if it would make her warmer, she made sure not to move her grip on her sketch too much.

"Hypothetically, I might shake my head and frown. I might even manage to utter a few words like 'Oh, that's too bad.' Would that be enough reaction for you?" She questioned him quietly. But the tone of her voice certainly came across as a mixture of frustration, exhaustion, and a dash of being a smart ***. Grey wanted to know if that was what he was looking for. So, she waited him out too.