Path of the Vampire forum

The crisp night air is refreshing, and I'm revelling in the notion that a weight has, indeed, been lifted from my shoulders. Not just from my shoulders, but from my soul. Slowly, I've come around. Whether it was some ploy, some mind over matter ********, I don't know - but the ritualistic slaughter of Uncle Tommy (the cause for all my woes) has unlocked the chains wrapped around the box that my voice had been trapped inside. Now that I feel as if I am free, however, I continue to struggle. It's still a weakness. Still a psychological hurdle. How the **** do I start talking again after years, a decade even, of assuming I never would? I don't know what to say. I don't know how to begin. I don't know if I can. I don’t know if my tongue knows how to create the words, or whether it has become a dead muscle, useless and heavy.

Though, with a smirk, I realise that some women might beg to differ.

Banishing all thoughts of women and the particular fun I might be able to have with them—those that I could track down and call upon for that specific brand of fun--I want instead to test myself. I want to go somewhere where no one knows me. Where no one will judge me. And I want to test it. Can I just start talking again as if it were something I'd been doing all my life? I go to the cafe near Larch Court. I have a house at Larch Court, but I haven't been there so long that the locals know me, or my habits. I step into the Corner Cafe; it's quiet inside, some kind of radio station playing over the speakers, a couple of people in a booth by the window. I approach the counter. I clear my throat. The woman behind the counter - old and tired looking - stares at me expectantly. I swallow - smoothing the way for the words to come out. I open my mouth. My tongue flops around like a dead fish, my throat contracting, and then tightening. Tongue on the roof of my mouth I manage only to pronounce the 'C' of 'Can'.

"Can I help you?" the woman behind the counter asks, for a second time. She has interrupted the slow process of the first word uttered in public for twelve years or so. My lips shut tight. I cant my head to the side. I lick my lips. Why am I doing this? It's a momentous occasion, and I'm wasting it on this dire old woman. I shake my head, and shrug my shoulders. I exit the warmth of the shop and shove my hands into my pockets.

I stand on the sidewalk, blowing cold air from my lungs. Well, ****. This is going to be harder than had previously occurred to me--and I have no idea what it is that's stopping me. I stare up at the sky, teeth worrying at the inside of my lip. If only the few stray stars could give me an answer. If only Jordan could come back, and enlighten me with his creepy kid wisdom. I assume, at this stage, that it has been my subconscious pushing me along, forcing those walls to come tumbling down. And I figure it is my subconscious that will take it that one step further, when the time is right.

The night was bitter cold. A woman stood at the bus stop clutching her purse tightly to her chest. A young man looked like he had his pants so low, that they would fall off any second if he moved too far to the right or the left. Graffiti lined the walls of the nearby boarded up building, the cement cracked and chipped. The clouds looked ominous. The puffy, overstuffed looking grey pillows floated in the sky, allowing the stars to peek out and the moon to occasionally shine.

This place was better than the last, Grey continued to remind herself. It was very cold. It was very different. And the job was certainly something that she had not expected less than two weeks into the visit there. The cash was starting to dwindle and the few wallets that she found certainly helped with expenses. The change that was afforded to her by the pawn shops for the cheap gold chain was enough to live on for a couple days.

It so happened that she came by the Help Wanted sign at the local mall. A mall not too far from the Wickbridge bank. She had stopped in on a whim, put her application in and hesitated over the phone number. But of course, the place she was staying at had one. And that was the one she used after finding that little card she had stuffed somewhere inside of her wallet. It was a small wallet, black and well used. She kept it close when she walked the streets. Thankful for decent steel toed boots, Grey scrubbed her thumb over the dent in her chin. It was an odd thing. Sure, she had seen it on other people, but... She never felt like it belonged to her.

Her feet were cold. Her face ached. With a deep, icy cold breath she turned the corner. She had just left work and only knew of two other places. She had money on her person. Just enough to get dinner and a snack for later. First, the local bank was a savior. She stood inside of it, got warm, enjoyed the company in numbers. Because everything was safe in numbers, right? The more people there was, the safer she felt with her back to the wall and eyes open. Secondly, the job had certainly been a God send. She had been thankful for the position. And she certainly didn't want to stir up any kind of trouble. Her head was down, that black knit cable hat was atop of it. Straight brown hair that lacked any luster thanks to poor water pressure and generic shampoo. But she was clean and to her that was all that mattered; even if the hint of oil and grease seemed to be suctioned into her clothes after her shift.

Her face burned badly. Not only did the wind chap against the raw flesh, but she had gotten a little too finger-swipe happy and an accident on the way to work had left her with half an eyebrow and raw, angry looking skin along the left side of her face. The wind blistered it, making the cream that had been applied at the first-aid station burn more and the tears that streamed down her face from the cold now were, albeit she would never admit it; also part in pain.

So, that meant that she never even saw the body in front of her. She never even looked up from the crushing force that had her pinwheeling those arms and flailing out. One moment she was crossing the street, hopping up onto the sidewalk and continuing towards that place she called a shelter. Her only mistake was she never looked up. Not once did she lift that dimpled chin to check what was in front of her. Before she knew it, the pair of feet that she saw in canvas shoes were stock still and not moving with the flow of foot traffic. There was a varsity jacket. A maroon colored letter. "O- I'm so-"

Just then, her knee gave out given the awkward position of her body leaning backwards as gravity gobbled up her inertia and she went down hard. Her breath whooshed out of her chest, giving up a puff of cloudy white air as she saw stars - both fake and the tiny lit ones dancing in her field of vision.

Those poor chapped lips of hers could not even form an 'ow' as she just laid there, stunned by whoever she ran into. Whoever it was, she was not even sure it moved.

She blinked as she laid there on the ground and watched as Mother Nature finally opened up the sky and let big fat snow flakes start to fall.

There’s a certain satisfaction in being a dick for no reason. Though if you were to ask me, I’d say I did it to teach her a lesson in ‘watch where you’re ******* going.’ Truth is, I could see her coming. Could see the way she was headed straight for me. I could have taken a step to the side and she’d have breezed right past, oblivious to ever having passed some stranger on the street. Tough love, though—people gotta learn, some way or other. And so I stood, knowing that if she didn’t look up, her current trajectory would have her running right into me. I didn’t need to move; my hands still in my pockets, and my feet shoulder width apart, I knew that I would provide a solid, slightly immovable object.

Just as I had predicted, she did not look up. Of course, knowing what was happening, I could I have reached out to save her, to steady her. I could have caught her—and if I were some smarmy sleaze wanting to use this as some kind of pick-up, I might have. Instead, with all that sick satisfaction of being a dick for no reason, my hands remained in their pockets, and the girl went down—hard—onto the pavement. From the way her breath escaped into the air, the way her voice barely makes it past her lips, I could tell that she was winded.

And now, the sky has opened up. Fat snowflakes begin to fall, and I am momentarily distracted by the beauty of it; they fall not in a flurry, as in a storm, but achingly slowly, twirling and dancing around each other as if in slow motion. As they land, one after the other, upon my skin, they cling. They do not melt, as I do not give off any kind of bodily warmth. If I stand out here long enough, I could be covered. And I would not be affected. I could become a veritable statue. A veritable snowman.

And it’s only the thoughts of invulnerability that remind me that I have a vulnerable creature at my feet. I turn my attention to her; half of her face looks burnt. Her lips are chapped. Although there’s a crispness to her eyes, and a whiteness to her teeth that indicate some modicum of well-being, there’s also a hint of something downtrodden about her. In that position, lying on the pavement and staring up at the world, she does look vulnerable, whether she’ll ever admit to it or not. And as much as a dick as I might be, sometimes—most of the time on purpose—I’m not unfriendly. Finally, I loosen one of my hands from my pocket. I reach out to the woman, a crooked smile on my lips. I waggle my fingers and push my left foot that tiny step backward, bracing myself against the extra weight as I intend to elp haul her back onto her feet.

Again, I clear my throat. I remember why I am here. This is the perfect opportunity, is it not? Tell her. Just do it. Just say: Maybe that bruised *** will teach you to watch where you’re going.

All I manage is a barely discernable ‘Mmm’ before, once again, my throat contracts, clamping shut, refusing to let out any more sound. I manage an awkward frown. Silence it is.

While Grey laid there flat on her back, she took in the reprieve. Her *** was cold, her head throbbed with adrenaline, and her heart was beating out of her chest. In an instant, where lips had opened and the fall stole her breath, the young woman almost was thankful for the moment's break. She had been going strong for two days now, barely allowing herself that down time to warm up inside the Wickbridge bank.

She reflected upon what brought her down to the level of cement. Her own idiocy. In truth, Grey was a person that preferred to blend into society, but it was obvious that she needed to work on her peripheral vision. In less than two days, this was the second encounter that she had with another citizen of the city. And of course, both times it had been because she was not watching where she was going.

Foolish. Clutz. Stupid idiot.

Can't you do anything right?

Her voice was hard to forget. Habits were hard to change once ingrained. Still, Grey stared up at the sky. While the snowflakes came down, they melted against her face. A rapid blink caused a slow grimace to overtake her features and she could not school the furrow of her brows fast enough. Even the taut, burnt flesh of her face cried out in pain. Nerve endings sizzled and the skin was rightfully pink and agonizingly swollen. Hell, most of her left eye was nearly swollen shut by now. And she could not miss a days wage, so she had taken the time to reluctantly go to the first aid station.

They gave her a cream. A nice looking older woman tsked at her, telling her that she needed to be careful. She escaped from that tiny, claustrophobic room as fast as she could and got back to work. And with that money deposited into her bank account, she could maybe take a couple hours and look for the available apartments in the area. That was, before she allowed the grimace to overtake her entire body. It was natural to flinch when another made a move too close to her. She did not even bother to relax that clenched stomach under layers of shirts and a coat while the hand was shoved down at her. She stared at it - the hand. Hazel grey eyes would try to digest the flecks of ink and the markings upon his knuckles before she got the palm side up.

And then, in that moment as her lungs screamed, she remembered to breathe. There was a large puff of air after that first inhale post-fall. Rapidly, those lungs now pumped in and out as if trying to catch up with the oxygenated blood that surged through her system come Fight or Flight.

Her gaze traveled up his arm. He looked sturdy. He was tall. A bit taller than her. He looked like he had more color on his neck. And a swatch of something on his face. With one eye to focus, it was hard to make out at the angle looking up at him. Why was he offering his hand to her? He looked like a hard man. Like someone you did not mess with. And for all intents and purposes, Grey bit her teeth down on her tongue and clamped her mouth shut.

Yes. She just stared at him for a moment. Because he was handsome. But, the look in his eyes screamed at her with a mischievous nature. He had beautiful eyes. They certainly did not detract from his colorful features. And what was that in his ears? On his ears. No... She did squint more now, the water that blistered in her eyes fell over from the cold. Blinking only made the small rivers worse. Should she take his hand? As he wiggled his fingers, she wondered if he was starting to get impatient. After all, how appropriate was it that she laid there with a hand offered to her by the object of her downfall and stared at his outstretched hand like it was some alien concept?

She lifted her arm. She slid her cold, wet fingers into his grip and allowed him to pull her up. It took her a moment to get her bearings as she was hoisted against the wind's force and her face burned even more so. "I'm so sorry. I mean... I wasn't even watching where I was going. How stupid of me. I really didn't mean to run into you. You didn't even budge."

It was obvious Grey got her tongue back. She seemed in momentary awe of that man. And when she was nervous, she babbled. "I really should keep a better eye out. Eyes. Well no, eye would be appropriate right now. It is just the cold. It hurts." She gestured up to her face. The tube of cream poked into her side in her pocket but she didn't even care. And then, as she canted her head at him. She dropped his hand. But it wasn't because she thought it inappropriate to hold onto it for so long. No! It was because she brought it up to touch his cheek. Numbers.

He had numbers on his face! She, so very uninvitedly, reached up and swiped her cold fingertips against the numbers there. It was like she had to. Something inside of her needed to know if they smeared or not. And she did not even managed to look abashed.

"Did that hurt?" She questioned, almost touching her own face. But at the last moment, she remembered that the side she was going for was covered in goo. So she just stood there on the sidewalk with him, breathing heavily while she waited for his answer and the snow kept reminding her of how damn cold outside it was.

Oh, one of those. A chatter. A mouth-runner. Already I can see it—she’s going to toss all kinds of questions in my direction, make all kinds of assumptions when I don’t answer in the socially expected way. She’ll probably start signing at me, because she’ll start to think I’m deaf. That happens way too often, and I start to question the overall astuteness of society in general. Of course, I shouldn’t make assumptions. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about this woman, just because she did not have the astuteness to watch where she was going; just because she likes to babble to strangers who help her up off the street.

I cant my head to the side to assess the burn that seems to swallow half the woman’s face. It’s all red and swollen, and I have to use my imagination to figure out what she might look like without it; the other half of her face, the skin is smooth. The lips, beneath the chap, look like they’d be a nice natural and pouty pink. Her eyes are a clear blue, gem-like and faceted even in the dim light washing over us from the Café behind us. I project the good half of her face onto the bad half; I find myself glancing down at the body upon which the head sits. I always do this. I can’t help myself. I’m not leering, like some pervert, hoping to imagine the woman naked for some crass, base pleasure. Yeah, I like to imagine her naked, but only because I want to imagine how smooth and flawless the skin might be beneath those layers of clothing. Only because I want to know whether she has any ink. Always, assessing the potential canvas.

I return my curious gaze the woman’s face as her fingers graze the numbers on my cheek. I don’t flinch away. I’m not one of those who believe too much in personal bubbles and personal space. Of course, you won’t catch me running around hugging everyone like some carebear on crack. But nor do I find it an offense, that her slim fingers should touch my face.

Aside from the peculiar scent of enticing body odour that wafts toward me with the warmth billowing from her all-too-human body, I do not catch a whiff of any specific perfume. No flowery perfume, anyway. I catch the scent of grease, however. Grease and grime. Interesting. She asks whether it hurt, and I know that she’s talking about the tattoo. The ‘21’ is one of my more recent acquisitions. It might have hurt more in the very beginning, but these days I revel in the pain. It’s not pain anymore, but pleasure. I give half a grin, and shake my head. I gesture at the burn on the side of the girl’s face, arch a brow.

What I mean to say is: I bet it didn’t hurt quite as much as that did. I’m sure she can interpret the gesture how she likes. Maybe I’m asking how it happened, or what it is. Or, indeed, whether it hurts. She doesn’t look particularly comfortable. I wonder—I’ve never tried it on a human. I wonder whether it would break her, if I tried to ‘heal’ her. Somehow, I don’t think it’ll work. And besides which, it would go against protocol. I push the curiosity aside, and stand aside myself; with one sweeping motion I gesture to the Corner Café, as I assume that’s where she’d originally been headed. The weather isn’t exactly conducive to friendly half-conversations on the sidewalk. I am no longer an obstacle keeping her from her destination.

He had a way about him that seemed to not look right through her, but instead right at her. He looked intense and playful, while at the same time he had that cocky antic about him. She liked that. She liked the fact that he let her touch him and did not surprisingly recoil like she certainly would have. It was almost refreshing, Grey thought, to see someone stand and enjoy the sights before him.

However, Grey did not think that for a moment those sights could be set upon her own person. From a the cable knit cap to the bulky coat and the too big jeans, nothing much about her form was given away underneath the layers that padded her barely there hourglass shape. Great. He was checking her out!

He stopped looking at her face. She started to belatedly worry about the dent in her chin and now she was cursing the lack of underwire in her bra. Not, of course, that such a thing made an ounce of difference in the negative degree weather or the way she shifted under his scrutiny. It was as if she were there to pass some test only known to him. The blink of her eyes had whittled her sight down to one. By now, in the moments of cold, she stood there with him had the left eye completely swollen shut against the battering of winds flicking her straight hair about.

She had traced her fingers over the numbers. She wanted to ask what they meant. Because everyone who marked up their body got a tattoo for a reason. They didn't just walk into a shop, lay down on a table, and tell the artist to do whatever they wanted. That wasn't how it worked. At least, that wasn't the experience Grey had with the last tattoo parlor she had visited. Swallowing tightly, she opened her mouth, but slapped it shut. She choked down the next question when he hadn't even answered the first!

She wanted to keep touching him. She wanted to peel back his coat and lift up his shirt and see what else he had on him. It was obvious this man liked to express himself and he did so with the color upon his skin. So while Grey was impressed, she snatched her hand back. She touched him! She touched him and he did not even seem to mind. Embarrassment would have crept some color up into her cheeks, but they were already so chapped from the wind; an additional kick of her heart did not seem to bloom any more color there.

Soon, she saw the grin. She saw that mischievous lift of his lips that had her almost wanting to reciprocate, but instead she focused upon his face. Noting the shake of his head and the gesture to her own burned mess, she swallowed before opening her lips again. And there, that tongue. It was back. As he arched a brow it was almost as if he had given her permission to continue. "**** yeah, this hurt! Stupid camera. I was just going to pick it up and when I started to it blew up! Right in my face! Look at this mess!"

She pointed. Of course, she was upset for that clear moment she had relived the curiosity of seeing the camera and her greedy little fingers wanted to shove it into her pocket. She was going to make at least a twenty dollar bill on that device, but instead it blew up - scorching her eyebrow, setting forth a most likely second degree burn on soft flesh, and the hint of a scar was just enough to get her stomach nauseous from the smell of her own singed skin!

But, Grey was made from a strong stock. And even though she was hurt, she pushed forth. She had every intent to make it to that bank in Wickbridge. She was going to make herself feel better about a miserable day by looking at her growing bank balance. However, this ... this was a welcomed detour. A cafe! "Are you buying? Do they serve breakfast right now? I'm hungry. Do you have a favorite here?"

And since she had already touched him, Grey reached for his inked fingers that graciously gestured to the Corner Cafe. Hell, if he was inviting her, she was going to be sure she got a booth seat to boot! She didn't want to eat alone. Again. Not quite knowing what came over her, she decided to tug him along. That was, if she could move him.

"Come on! Let's see if they have hot chocolate!"

The way I have moved aside, the way I have gestured to the destination behind me, I did not intend it as an invitation. Hell, I just came out of that place unable to make a simple order. I cannot eat. I cannot drink. Nor am I in the habit of pretending. I am no actor, nor do I have any intention to be. Never have I been the sort to have a ‘hot chocolate’ date with some random stray picked up off the street. That, there, is straying a bit too close to carebear territory. At this moment, she does not mean enough to me, either, to make myself sick by pretending to eat in front of her.

There’s something terribly intriguing about her, however. I point to a burn marring half her pretty face, and she doesn’t blush and bow and try to hide it, like most self-obsessed women might. Oh, regardless of the redness already in her skin, I am aware of her previous blush. Preternatural sight allows me insight into every working capillary; besides which, it’s like an extra wave of heat billowing from heated skin. I can smell the blush on her, like a shark able to track the smallest drop of blood in the water.

The questions pour from her like water from a broken dam; I glance up the sign hanging over the sidewalk, through the glass windows of the Café that I have just exited. I have never been into the place in my life before now. I don’t know what they serve, or when. I do not have a favourite. I’m hungry too, always am. Always. For red meat, though—raw, without the flesh. Just the blood inside. Of course, the satisfaction of other meaty lusts distracts me from my ever-present hunger, but I suppose it’s far too soon to ask this intriguing human to help me with my particular needs.

Maybe later.

At first I do not move. I’m not sure whether I’m in the mood for this kind of thing. The questions. The silences that she’ll strive to fill. The awkwardness she’ll feel, because she’ll be scoffing her face and I’ll just sit and watch. Her hands—though cold from the weather—are still hot as her fingers curl around his own hand. Beneath the surface coldness there’s still hot blood rushing to warm the tips of her fingers. I have no warm blood. Not yet. But in the end it’s not the promise of conversation, or of a warm café, or of food that I won’t eat that has me moving forward, following where pulled.

No. I have a disease. I am a man who likes to indulge in simple pleasures, and I do not waste my time with those who cannot help to fulfil those pleasures. The heat radiating from her skin as all the invitation that I need; regardless of whether anything will happen, I like to indulge in the satisfaction of curiosity. And she has me curious, like a cat playing with its prey. I stride past her to open the door of the Café; I wait for her to pass me, before letting the door swing shut behind us.

The old woman behind the counter narrows her eyes in my direction, her thin lips set into a hard line.

“You back to actually order something this time, darl?” she asks. I shrug, and gesture for my companion to move forward, to make her order first. I’ll go second. I suppose I’ll pay.

He had opened the door for her.

Right then and there, the heart palpitations seemed to pound against her chest. She was sure that a rib or two suffered a minor fracture. That was what the doctors would always say when she sat for hours in the emergency room. It was always a 'minor fracture' and a frown of disdain from the white coat men and women. Her father was the only person that had ever opened a door for her. The gesture caught her up in the moment until she heard the older server behind the counter crack her gum and question the man behind her.

Hackles started to rise and Grey instantly felt protective.

Why?

From just one gesture? He did not deserve that from her. Granted, he was the same man that helped her up off the cold sidewalk when she fell onto her *** like a fool in front of him. Not watching where she was going and the only reason for that was because she was trying to protect her face and get to the bank. She knew exactly how much she had in her pocket. Four dollars and seventy-three cents. It was not enough to buy two people a meal let alone much of one. So, she pretty much accepted the invitation of his gesture.

Well, that was the way Grey took it. A gesture into that cafe where the man behind her still hadn't answered her question she had presented to him without her wondering aloud. She never seemed to help her tongue in such particular moments in front of strangers. Words just rattled out of her lips before she could stop herself and that certainly was a 'awful' trait, especially in a child.

"He was waiting for me. I just got off of work and he promised me dinner out. Fancy place you have here." Of course, Grey would then try to stop the smirk from tugging at the corner of her right lips. By now, the left half of the set were swollen and burning. After looking around, the server and Grey both knew that it was not a recently remodeled structure. The counter tops were stained, the old wooden stools scuffed and worn at the legs, and the booths were too nineties while the tables had mismatched ugly plaid clothes covering them. Really, this place could barely be called quaint if not for cozy. The blue hues did not even match, but Grey took any place that was warm over the two decade old color scheme.

"We'll take a booth." It must be an all night cafe, because there was a tiny little stand by the register with pain relievers, Alka-Seltzer, and No-Doz. Grey's fingers reached out and grabbed two Ibuprofen and two Acetaminophen. She lifted them so the server could see that she was taking them. There was no need for the woman to assume that she'd pay up front when it could be added to the bill. Yeah, she saw that schooled look of the waitress when her eyes finally landed on her face.

Grey had seen that look before. The rounded eyes of shock, the slightly open mouth, and the grimace for her. Well, the woman could swallow that all down because she was doing just fine!

"I'll start with two of each of these and an orange juice, please. And hot cocoa if you have it. Oh, and he will have a coffee! Lots of cream." The order was placed before the waitress could cluck her tongue or motion to the freshly burned flesh. Yes, it hurt. Yes, she was an idiot. Yes, she had something to put on it. One thing about working underneath a hood was that she didn't have to see people's expressions when someone was different looking than another. She saw the look the waitress gave her before she looked at the man behind her and then turned around to get the coffee mugs.

If the man didn't drink the coffee, she would.

See, Grey had manners. She looked over her shoulder - the good shoulder, the right shoulder at the man behind her and then took off towards the indicated booth. He couldn't leave now. She just started the tab and he'd have to wait it out! A nod of her head to him in the 'lets go sit down' fashion and Grey started to trudge her tired feet over the linoleum floor towards the booth the waitress nodded at. Another deep inhale and her stomach sounded. It was quite easy to digest the fact that the cafe smelled like french fries, apple pie, and a serving of roast beef. She took the seat against the high back wall, dropped down without even shedding her coat and grabbed up the menu while she waited for the man to take a seat too.

"Never been here before, eh?" Grey eyes, a smile passing her lips and sinking into her eyes while she arched a brow at him.

The girl lies like a born liar. The words slip from her tongue as if it is a story that we had discussed before entering the establishment. I level my gaze at the woman behind the counter. I don’t take my eyes off her. When she looks up at me, I can almost see the quaver in her lips. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t know how it occurred or when. I don’t know whether it’s something I control—whether it only begins when I garner a particular hatred for the humanity around me. Maybe it’s a wave that rolls from me, a natural aura that affects the minds of the weak. The see me, and they want to avoid me. Suddenly they are fearful of me. And so they ******* should be. This woman with her disdain, with her bubble-gum, she is nothing to me. She is pond scum. I could teach her a lesson or two, just like Ursula and I had taught that bartender a lesson—one that lasted the rest of his life. Which just so happened to be only a couple of minutes. Less.

But she looks like a chicken who’s been starved. She looks like she’d only be gristle between my teeth. It’s not worth it. Her punishment will be to continue living this life that she so obviously hates. She’ll never get out of this place. Maybe someone else will kill her in my stead.

And anyway. I have a different distraction; a woman with a half-burned face who has claimed me as some significant friend who has promised her dinner ‘out’. If she should be so lucky. I don’t reckon I’ve ever taken a woman ‘out’ for dinner. Nowhere swish, anyway. Sure, I’ve taken women out before, but regular, ordinary dinner dates are not exactly my thing. Not only that, but she has pretty much ordered for me. I do not have the opportunity to even approach the counter; she is leading me away, toward the booth that has been indicated for us.

Well, this is different.

I could, of course, make this easy. I could pull the pen and paper from my jacket pocket. I could write the words that I have written so many times: Jesse Fforde. I don’t talk. This is what I do if I’m feeling pressed for time. If I’m feeling like I couldn’t give a ****. Or if the person I’m talking to doesn’t stir in me a great curiosity. The woman across from me still does not have a name; but she doesn’t have my name either. What do names really matter, in the end?

It’s warmer inside. The heat is on. It’s safe for me to remove my jacket. I peel it away from my arms, and drop it on the chair beside me. On top of it, I drop the hat. Underneath, I’m wearing a long-sleeved, black-and-white checkered, button up shirt. The woman asks a question that I’m not too sure whether is rhetorical or not. I shake my head as I roll up the sleeves of the shirt to the elbows, revealing the tattoos underneath; above the hand with the blue rose I reveal a colourful, cartoonish city. Over the hand with the skull emerges, up the arm, a dark city, from which black birds fly. I undo the button at my collar—it feels restrictive—revealing the all-seeing eye tattooed just below the Adam’s Apple, the owl peeking up over the edge of the collar around the corner.

When I’m comfortable, I lean forward. The steam from the cup of coffee wafts through the air; the scent of coffee revives my senses a little, but not much. The scent of blood will revive me much more, but I don’t seek that just yet. I curl my fingers around the warmth of the mug, but I don’t drink it.

I arch a brow in the woman’s direction. I level her with a curious stare; the kind that normally unnerves other people. She seems the chatty sort. I’m curious to see what she’ll do next, without further prompting.

She took a deep breath. There she sat across from him in that booth, a relatively comfortable plush booth curved to her ***. There was a lick to her lower lip, and the woman could not but help think that the temporary shelter was a wonderful reprieve from the icy cold weather and the sub-zero temperature. She did not have a scarf. She was envious of those that she did see with colorful fringes flapping away in the horrid breeze. But, at the same time, the scarf would only get dirty attempting to protect her face from the wind. After all, she did have that clear cream smeared across the raw skin.

In a way, as she sat there with muscles starting to relax and the strain of the day beginning to be let down; she watched the man disrobe his coat. She watched with avid curiosity in almost a transfixed stare as he dropped the items of his onto a nearby chair and peeled back the cuffs of his button up shirt. Appreciation for another's work went beyond the look of this man. He certainly had an eye for art. The way the tattoos flowed into each other, wrapping around and transforming certainly spread seamlessly across his skin. She wanted to spend hours just peeling back his clothes and investigating his flesh for herself. The extra thump of her heart caused her to clear her throat just a little bit.

She did not realize that she had been holding her breath. It was not until there was a burn that started centering in her chest that she forced herself to exhale and take another quick, staccato suctioned clump of oxygen. He was beautiful. What she saw of him, he was gorgeous. And the sad thing about that, was that Grey knew he probably was quite aware of just how handsome he was. Men like that certainly had a sense of self with inflated egos and smirks a mile wide.

They could get any woman they wanted and knew it. They used it to their advantage to feed their need for entertainment and sex. Sex was certainly something that Grey had been well acquainted with. Of course, the act in and of itself and all of the carnality did not turn her off. No, it was the baseless amount of boyfriend after boyfriend that she had seen in a revolving door when she had been growing up. There was no endless escape of her mother's new friends that had often led her to straight A's and a vivid imagination. Of course, that was what her 8th grade school teacher said about her. The praise, though creating pride had been quickly deflated by a smack that wiped her smile off her face and a nasty memory that ended in a snide, cigarette filled snarl that 'vivid imagination doesn't bring home food for the table!'

That was what jolted her to blink and watch as the man learned forward, wrapping his fingers around the coffee mug. In that moment, she ripped open the tiny prepackaged pills of the pain relievers. She drew the tall orange juice glass closer and eyes the whipped topping nearly spilling over the rim of the hot cocoa. "Thank you."

Grey had said that in such a way that she graced the general topic of thanks. From helping her up off the cold ground, to this meal, to the pain relievers she choked down as the pills tickled the back of her throat. She ignored the need to grimace the bitter taste of the uncoated tablets away. Grey in no way was spoiled, the woman had been on her own since she was sixteen and that was all there was to it. But she didn't stop with just a gulp of orange juice. No.

It tasted so delicious. It was cold and sweet and she did not care that it burned the inside of her mouth like a canker sore screamed with too much acid. Her eyes watched him, insistent on taking in every mood the man made while she gulped down the juice and set the empty glass to the edge of the table. Used items always went to the edge of the table. It was polite for staff to not have to reach across the customers and grab up their empty items.

Grey did not miss the arch of his brow. She wanted to reciprocate, but that would only mean she'd delve into the realm of smart *** when all she was at the moment was thankful. Her feet started to warm and the menu had been grabbed up. Its laminated pages were slightly sticky, but she broke the eye contact from him and opened her mouth.

"Two weeks. I've been here for two weeks. Thought I was just passing through. Got a job now though. It lets me work with cars." She said that like she was mildly excited that she was doing something she perhaps had experience with. While her eyes skimmed over the note that the cafe's full menu was served all day long, she kept his hands in her line of sight. Long fingered. Slim. Delicate looking with an obvious strength that she felt out there on the sidewalk in his grip.

She reached out and would run her fingertips over his knuckles of his left hand. The way she did it was as if she had done an act before, countless times and took enjoyment out of the touch. Her fingers drifted over the fine unmarred skin and teased the tips along the back of his hand. And then, in a moment, her touch was gone. The chipped black fingernail polish fingertips were snatched back to turn the menu and mentally figure out what she wanted and how much. She'd start with dessert first. She wanted that glorious piece of pecan pie she had seen in the display case when she had been elated to see the Acetaminophen.

With almost a dismissive attitude, Grey looked up at the waitress as she made her way over with her tiny little pad. She did not even let the woman speak first, but instead told her about the dessert first. "Just a slice, please. I need another minute to look over the menu for my dinner order. Thank you."

It was always polite to look at someone when you were talking to them, Grey had been told by her father so many years ago. Sometimes she could not complete that task when a booklet of food was before her and she had a craving for pancakes, french fries, and the apparent house specialty of the roast beef. She'd add some of the glazed carrots and a side of ranch. She did not try to fill the silence with much more than that. The casual observation was something that she did not seem to think important to reiterate. They both knew that the snow was pretty, the weather was shitty, and the hour was late in the day.

Once that pie was delivered with two forks, Grey took one and dived into the dessert. She even let out a soft little moan at the back of her throat when the buttery pecan filling melted onto her tongue. She didn't even care that the piece cost almost four dollars. No. It was like heaven to her salivary glands. So much so, that the chest of hers rose up and fell with a hefty sigh as she peeled those hazel blue eyes open and let her eyes fall onto his face with that intense gaze.

"So good..." She shook her fork at the dessert like he needed an indication of what she spoke about. And in that same motion, she was offering him some from her slice. No, her swollen lips were certainly aching, but that didn't stop her from opening the set and letting that calorie rich goodness melt away. And then, there was a shrug. It seemed to be almost out of nowhere in her happiness over that sugar treat. "That's about all I know."