**Warning, child abuse** Don’t talk unless spoken to. Madam says my voice is disgusting. Kevin calls her mother, but when I tried she slapped me. She said she wasn’t the mother of a bastard. That I was a mistake, that she was forced against her will. I don’t understand. Kevin calls Sir, father. I wanted to see how that word felt, but he pulled out his belt and hit me. I taught myself language one day. Sir and Madam were furious. They tied me up and hit me with what looked like a long rope. A whip, yes, that’s what they called it. They hit me over and over, and explained that it was only education. Education is good, whips are good, pain is good. Don’t hesitate when answering a question. I hesitated when Sir asked me if I had spoken to Kevin one day. I didn’t know what to say. He slapped me, and asked again. I said yes, and he told me to never do it again. He tied me up and whipped me till the sun went up and then down again. It was five suns until Madam gave me food again. It hurts, but hurt is good. I never hesitated again. Don’t lie. Kevin snuck down to the basement again the day after the first incident. He finds me interesting, he calls me his half brother. I tell him to go back up to the light. He says no, and talks to me for a while. Sir asked me if Kevin came down again. I said no, and he slapped me. He told me to never lie, he will know if I do. This time he does not tie me up. He pulls out a knife, and slashes down my face with it. It hurts. There’s a lot of blood. Don’t make noise. I accidentally toppled over a pile of books once. Both Madam and Sir are furious. They tell me I interrupted something called a dinner party. I almost exposed my existence, they say. They bind me up and gag me. Then they return to the dinner party. But I am confused. What is a dinner and what is a party? Is it that important? They return when it is pitch dark. There are still little lights outside my tiny window, I envy those lights. They tie me up and whip me again. Madam doesn’t give me meals for many suns again. After that day, my movements have become quieter than a ghost. Don’t cry. The first time Madam slapped me, I cried. Madam was even more infuriated by my tears and slapped me even harder. Crying equals pain. I learned my lesson. I refuse to cry again. It makes Madam angry. I don’t like it when she’s angry. It would be nicer if she smiled. I read of smiling in a book. Apparently it can make a person glow. I tried to smile. My face couldn’t do it. But I think it would look nice on Madam. Perhaps she smiles when she leaves this dark place. Don’t touch anything. The first time I met Sir, his hair looked so bright and beautiful, even in this darkness. I reached for his hand, but before I touched it he kicked me away and called me vermin. He angrily wipes his hand, and pulls on a pair of black gloves. He pulls me by my hair, and tells me I’m a bastard, trash, that I shouldn’t even exist. I didn’t understand back then. All I learned was to keep my hands to myself. Don’t ask for anything. I asked Madam for more books to read once. She told me that I should be grateful that I was even allowed to read the old books stored in the basement. I ask her what a basement is, and she tells me that it is where I reside. Basement probably means the dark in that case. From under the door, I see that the outside world that Sir, Madam, and Kevin live in is always bright. I wish I lived in a world like that. Even the world outside the tiny window would do. It is sometimes bright and sometimes dark, but it is better than eternal darkness at least. Don’t do anything Sir and Madam have not told me I can do. I tried climbing up to the window a long time ago. I wished to see what lays beyond that square of light. When Madam saw what I was doing she called Sir to come. They were furious, they kicked me and whipped me and denied me food. I promised to never do anything they haven’t told me I can do ever again. Don’t leave the basement. Once a long time ago, I tried to open the door. Sir saw me peek out, and yelled at me. He told me that I am never allowed to leave the basement, the darkness. He told me that the basement is the only place I belong, for I am a bastard. I am not human. I have no rights. I did not understand, but I knew not to try to leave the darkness again. Don’t show your face. Kevin, my older brother, tells me I look too much like my father. I don’t understand. Sir has platinum blonde hair and icy blue eyes, while I have raven black hair and slate grey eyes. In my opinion, Kevin is the splitting image of him. Madam has golden blonde shoulder length locks, and bright green eyes. Madam gave me a mask, it is a Japanese fox mask. She told me to never take it off. She gave me one of Kevin’s old hoodies. She tells me to never take it off, and to always keep the hood up. I am happy. These are the first gifts she has ever given me. Don’t go outside. One day, I had asked Madam if I could go into the world outside the window. She told me that is a ridiculous idea, and that it can never happen. I was saddened, but I knew better than to ask why. Nonetheless, Sir came down that night and whipped me again. ~~~ I met a goddess today. She had beautiful chocolate brown hair that went to her waist, and soft honey brown eyes. She opened the window to the basement and peeked in. When she saw me, she gasped. She asked me why I wore the mask and hood, I told her that I am not allowed to take them off. She asked me if I lived in the basement, and I replied yes. She asked me how old I was. I tell the girl that I am sixteen. She says that she is the same age and smiles. It is a beautiful smile, and it truly lit up her face. She asks me for my name. I hesitate for the first time in years. Slowly, I tell her that it is bastard. She looks confused and asks again. I tell her, bastard. She looks shocked and tells me that is not a name. I cock my head, and she tells me her name is Angelita. She tells me that she must leave, but she’ll be back again. I tell her that I will be here waiting, no matter how long it takes. She is back three suns later. She talks to me for a while, but then she asks me why I do not ask her questions. I tell her my first rule, to never speak unless spoken to. She freezes, and tells me that it is a bad rule. I tell her I don’t understand what she means. She tells me that I can say whatever I want to her, whenever I want. I ask her if she will be angry if I do so. She looks at me oddly, and tells me that she would be delighted if I spoke to her casually. I ponder this for a moment, and for the first time, I say something before someone speaks to me. I tell her that she is beautiful. She stutters and tells me that she must go, but she will be back. Ten suns later, I saw her again. She smiles when she sees me, and we talk of little things that have passed these few suns. She tells me that from the middle of the night, that is the dark, and then all the way back to the night again is one day. She teaches me about time and dates. She asks me when my birthday is, I tell her September tenth. She tells me that hers is December twenty-ninth. I count the days, and realize it is only fifteen suns, sorry, I mean days away. I point this out, and she asks me if I will give her a present. I tell her that I will do my best. We talk some more, and she asks me why I answer her so swiftly and truthfully. I tell her about rules two and three. She shakes her head, and tells me if I feel like hesitating then I should hesitate, and explains to me how some lies are good. I don’t understand the concept of white lies, and she takes the time to explain it to me. Suddenly the basement door opens, and Angelita quickly closes the window and steps out of sight. Sir walks in. I ask him why he has come. He slaps me hard. I realized I had broken rule one. I try to apologize, but he ties me up and whips me till the sun goes down. I peek at the window, and I notice that Angelita is looking in. Luckily I am still wearing my mask, no one likes it when I take it off. It is because I am disgusting and ugly. Madam told me. Finally, he turns me around to face him. He asks me if I have spoken to anyone recently. I say no. He slaps me. I have broken rule three, but I don’t care. I wish to protect Angelita. He keeps hurting me, but it does not change my answer. When the sun starts to rise, he finally accepts my answer, and leaves. I lie on the ground, bruised, bloody, but not broken. I look to the window, and I see Angelita. She asks me if I am okay. I tell her that this is normal, that this is just education and she should not worry. She explains to me that this is not real education. I don’t understand, but I do my best. She is my light, my savior, the first to make me feel such warmth. I will trust her. Two days later she came again. She tells me that she will save me, and bring me outside. I tell her to not bother, and that her visits are all I need. Her face becomes red, and I ask her if she is sick. She says no, and that it is just cold out. She throws me a yellow crescent and tells me that it is a banana. She also passes me a few crinkly rectangles that she calls granola bars. She tells me that every time she visits she’ll bring something for me. She asks me how I move so silently, and how I did not cry when Sir had hurt me. I tell her about rules four and five. She gasps, and tells me that if I want to cry, then I should cry. I tell her that if I cry then the pain will increase. She sighs, and tells me again that someday she will save me. I hear a beep, and she pulls out a rectangular box. She looks at it, and tells me that she must go in ten minutes. I ask her what the box is. She quickly tells me that it is a phone, and promises to tell me more the next time she visits. I see her again in four days. She gives me more granola bars, as she slowly explains to me the concept of technology, and I am amazed. She then goes on to teach me about science and math. I understand the information easily, and she tells me that I am smart. I feel I tug at my mouth, but I do not understand the urge. She teaches me more, and asks me if I want to see her phone. I tell her no, and she asks why. I tell her about rule six, to never touch anything. She looks at me seriously, and once again tells me that it is a stupid rule. She tells me that I am allowed to touch most things. I do not understand, so I ask her to clarify. She tells me all about ethics and human rights, and how no matter what anyone does, those rights apply to me as well. I remain skeptical, but I absorb her teachings relatively well. The next time she visits, it is on her birthday. I have folded a paper crane for her. When I present it to her, it brings her to tears, and I worry that she doesn't like it. She shakes her head, and tells me she loves it. I ask her why she is crying, and she tells me it is because I have almost nothing, and yet I still gave her such a sweet gift. Then she looks down, and tells me that it may be a long time until I see her again. Her family has business overseas, and if it works out, she might never come back. But she promises that once she becomes eighteen and gains her own true freedom, she will come back for me. She then throws me a red ball. She tells me that it is an apple and that it is good for me. She then throws me several bags of what she calls dried apple chips and some granola bars, and tells me to hide them. She tells me to eat them slowly, as I quickly hide them away under some books. I hesitate to ask her something, and she asks me what I want. I tell her that rule seven tells me that I should not ask for anything. She frowns, and tells me that I can ask anything of her. I steel my courage, and ask her to bring me a present from her travels. She smiles and agrees. She turns, about to leave, when she looks back at me one more time and throws me her barrette. I catch it, and she tells me that the little designs on it are angel wings. She then runs off, as I clutch her barrette close to my chest. ~~~ It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen my angel. Today should be my seventeenth birthday. Ever since my Kevin started university, he always tried to sneak nutritious food to me whenever he can. We’ve gotten caught a few times these past years, but you can tell that I’ve finally started to gain some muscle and flesh on my bones. He is too kindhearted to have been raised by Sir and Madam, but I’m not complaining. I sit with my back to the wall. Closing my eyes, I dream once again of the short moments I shared with Angelita and I recall her kindness, and the firmness with which she broke down my rules. Although they still stand, a part of my character, there is more leeway with my rules. She showed me a new world, new possibilities. Suddenly I hear yelling coming from the rest of the house. I slowly stalk my way towards the door. It flies open, and I come face to face with a man in some sort of uniform. Angelita peeks out from behind him and smiles. She tells me that it didn’t really work out overseas. I ask her who the men are, and she tells me that she has come to save me. She explains that they are police officers and have arrested Sir and Madam. She pulls my arm, trying to lead me out of the basement. But I tell her no. Rule number eight and nine, and how I can’t, that this darkness is where I belong. She tells me no, and that I can leave. The police officer agrees, and slowly, they convince me to take my first step out of the basement. It is bright in the rest of the house, and I blink a few times, unaccustomed to the light. Angelita tells me that I should take off my mask and hood. That I should start my new life, showing my face to the world. I hesitate and tell her rule ten. She glares at me, and tells me that it isn’t right to hide who I am. Hesitantly, I take off the mask and the hood. She gasps, and I ask her if I’m too ugly. I try to put the mask back on, but she stops me. She takes a mirror out of her purse, and makes me look at my own face. Startled, I realize my face isn’t actually that uncomfortable to look at. Looking at me, she smiles. She tells me that it would be nice for my name to be Andrew. I ask her what it means, and she tells me that in Greek it means strong and manly. I agree, and she calls me by my new name. I feel my face start burning, and she laughs. She tugs on my sleeve, telling me to go outside. Hesitantly I step out the front door. I notice a line that seems to separate shadow from light. Angelita bounds over the line swiftly and easily. Looking at her smile, I know that no matter what happens I want to be by her side. Confidently, I step over the line, and into the sunlight with Angelita.


“It doesn’t matter now.” Foci leaned forward, xyr pink glasses slipping a millimeter down xyr nose. “Your past is in the past.” The client sighed and smiled downward, shaking his head slightly. “Just like that? A new life?” “All yours,” xe smiled and slid the document toward him. He glanced once more at xem before tracing his finger along the dotted line. *** “Two cases done already?” Eglin, xyr manager, said when xe dropped the signed paper at eir desk. “That last one was a breeze.” Xe opened xyr hand for xyr next assignment. Eglin examined the new signature and eir eyes widened. “He just took his own life--you convinced him to start a new one in less than an hour?” Foci opened and closed xyr hand. “I can get a third in this morning if you have another you think I can handle.” “Wow,” e slipped eir fingers over a stack of papers and lifted the first from the pile as if e had been waiting for xem to ask. “But you have to be careful about this one; two counselors from other branches have already failed them. They might need a few days, so don’t chug through your usual routine, okay?” Foci clamped xyr hand on the document and walked toward xyr office, granting em a brief wave in place of a thanks. Though Foci had no doubts in xyr mind, xe remembered how difficult xyr first time in the counseling firm had been. Xe had passed on too soon in what people from xyr last life’s hometown referred to as a tragedy. Foci shook off the memory; it was years ago, and all stories eventually fade from a soul’s reality. After the two weeks Foci spent bouncing off six counselors, xe finally hit a wall and cracked open to expose a runny yolk of trauma. Xe took an offer to train as a counselor instead of claiming a new life. In these glass walls that looked into ocean, xe took on every difficult case until xe was known for handling tough souls, talking off their rough edges, and easing them into their next lives. Foci heard xyr office door click shut as xe sat down and gazed into the blue water around xem. Their next client would arrive at any moment. How tough could they be? Xe glanced at the document and read the name: Perigee (they/them/their). The door shut suddenly, and Foci adjusted xyr glasses and looked up at the soul who was draped in black smoke that billowed from seven feet off the floor. “Draped” was the wrong word; they were smoke. Since a soul could choose their visual manifestation in liminal spaces like the counseling firm, many of Foci’s clients appeared as some reflection of how they saw themselves. One client who had issues feeling out-of-place presented as an elephant who barely fit in the room. This new client’s smoky appearance was creative, and Foci wondered if Perigee had only recently accomplished the effect; they had been at the firm for at least two days already. “Welcome, Perigee, please take a seat.” The smoke column made no move. “If you prefer to stand, I should tell you that this meeting might be long, so if at any point you feel inclined to sit, you are welcome to the chair across from me.” Still no movement except for their perpetual smoke curls. “I’m told you’re different.” Xe folded xyr hands on the desk. “I want to make clear that I have dealt with hundreds of so-called difficult cases, so have no fear in confiding in me; there’s nothing I haven’t seen.” At these last words, Foci thought xe saw the top of the smoke column--where a head might be--tilt upward. The next three hours passed with no words nor gestures from Perigee and only two prompts from Foci who was quickly learning how tired xe could become of xyr own voice. The prompts were vague and open-ended; Perigee had probably heard enough pointed questions from other counselors. By the end of the workday, xe resolved to be patient with this client. After all, they had infinite time. Xe shook xyr head when Eglin asked if xe wanted to pass Perigee on to a different counselor, answering none of eir questions about them. The second day passed with no words from Perigee, and though Foci had never spent more than a day on any client, xe was certain xe could convince this one to pass into their next life. On the third day, Foci decided to transition away from long silences. “So far it appears you are uninterested in speaking, so how about I tell you a story? This way you won’t need to speak much. I only need you to tell me what sort of story you want me to tell.” Xe leaned forward only with xyr head, wanting to maintain an appearance of leisure. The column of smoke scoffed, releasing a puff of black, which Foci viewed as progress. Perigee was silent after, and Foci waited in that silence for xyr next idea. Xe turned toward the see-through wall, the corners of xyr lips falling. A minute of silence passed before Foci was startled to hear Perigee’s soft but unimpressed voice for the first time: “The other counselors tried the story thing too.” Foci kept xyr eyes on the ocean, afraid xyr gaze might send Perigee back into silence. “You weren’t interested in stories?” “I had already heard them ramble on for hours by the time they offered.” Foci tried to keep the eagerness out of xyr tone, “So, what would you like to hear about?” “It’s a technique, right? A tactic to make me think or feel some way?” “More or less,” xe turned to face them. “But since you’re talking now, why don’t you tell me a story instead? Or tell me anything you like.” The smoke column had shrunken a foot, and the billowing had ceased, so now the smoke hung like thick mist. “Are these real windows? Are we really in the middle of the ocean, underwater?” “No,” xe spoke slowly but without the intention to sift details. “We’re in a space that doesn’t exist in the same space as earth, so these blue waters aren’t part of any ocean you knew in your last life.” “But they’re not really there at all, right?” They didn’t wait for xyr answer. “I know because I punched through a wall on my first day here, and the glass shattered, but no water came through.” Foci smiled. “It’s a sort of mirage--a moving picture meant to be calming.” On this last word, xe raised an eyebrow briefly. The two of them talked for the last hour about the false space, whale sightings, and why most souls feel compelled to move on from this liminal counseling firm. The next day, Perigee was the first to speak, no prompt necessary: “If we are in a space that is not a space but just a transition, then how is today not yesterday? What’s the point of time in an invented place?” “Same reason there’s an ocean around us: it feels right. You probably heard on earth that the body needs rest, well, so does the soul, so there’s a time here for rest.” “What about you? Why haven’t you moved on from this ‘liminal space’?” Foci laughed once, “Such a personal question.” “Right! as if your whole purpose isn’t to learn all the most personal details about my life and use them to shove me into some other life.” Perigee’s smoke pushed out of their column formation into what could have been two arms if they weren’t comprised of black vapor. “I stayed here because I had a hard time with many counselors, and I wanted other souls to have an easier time.” Perigee was silent for a moment, and then Foci watched as they lowered into the seat across from xem. Xe was surprised at how normal a seated mist looked, as if clouds were commonly seen sitting. Realizing xe was staring, xe tried to think of something else to say but instead felt the silence was more comfortable than polite but meaningless words. “Could I stay here too?” Perigee asked. “You could, but you have to open up first, to face whatever you’re holding on to from your past.” “Hm,” they sunk an inch in their chair. At the end of the day, Eglin stopped xem in the hall before xe left. E whispered hurriedly to xem, “Foci, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but my supervisor says that Perigee is going to change counselors at the end of the week if they don’t sign something before then.” “The end of the week? That’s in three days.” Xe titled xyr head. “They never change a client’s counselor without the current counselor initiating the change.” “I don’t know what, but something is different this time.” E glanced around even though there was no one in the hall. “Don’t tell anyone I told you; rule changes like this one are usually for everyone’s benefit.” Xe nodded but left work with gears turning over how to make Perigee move forward in the following days. Pushing the process would likely cause them to close themself to Foci, but xe wasn’t ready to give up on this client and wouldn’t be ready by the end of the week. Xe had never failed a client before, had never asked to have someone assigned to a different counselor. What was different about Perigee? The next day Perigee arrived looking nearly human in shape, each finger made of mist. “Perigee,” Foci began. “Tell me what plagues you about your past life.” Perigee didn’t flinch or stand from their chair. They exhaled softly and began their story, selecting each word slowly: “Where I grew up, no one expected me to live very long. I was raised in bad conditions. My parents--” Perigee froze and let the silence lengthen. Foci could see in their misty face that they weren’t ready to speak of those details. “You don’t have to put it into words,” xe assured. Perigee shook their head. “ I want you to know. I--” They stopped again, and xe let the silence distance them from their words. “When I was twelve, I ran away after my father killed my older brother. He was never found guilty, and when I left, no one bothered to look for me. One night in August I froze to death.” Foci remained quiet for a moment out of respect. “So that’s how you died, but that’s not what’s keeping you here.” Perigee’s head moved suddenly upward to face xem. “How do you know? Wouldn’t it make sense that my brother’s death kept me here?” Foci knew xe was risking them completely shutting down the conversation, but xe moved forward anyway, sensing they couldn’t lie now that they had begun to open up, “Do you want to see him again?” “No,” Perigee responded so quickly that they looked startled. “Do you want revenge?” “No.” “Do you feel responsible for your brother’s death?” “No.” Astonishment swept over their foggy features. “That’s all as I suspected.” Xe resisted the temptation to explain xyr guesses. “Well, don’t you just know everything.” Foci almost fell quiet, almost let Perigee’s sarcasm be the last word. When xe began again, xyr voice was gentler, “Tell me about your nightmares. What do you think about when you can’t avoid your feelings?” Perigee looked down at their hands in their lap. “When I was much younger, I punched down when things were really bad at home.” Suddenly Foci and Perigee were no longer sitting in the office surrounded by blue water. They were on a gravel road with yellow stalks on either side. Though Foci could hear the tones of Perigee’s voice, xe couldn't discern clear words. In place of their narration were two children--maybe seven or eight years old--speaking in semi-shouts. One of them wore plastic glasses, and the other was slightly taller. The taller one pushed the one with glasses into the ditch between the road and the field. They lost their balance and fell hard on their head. The taller child laughed, but after a moment they stopped and developed a look of concern that devolved into terror when the small body remained still. Without warning, they were back in the office, sitting as before as if nothing had happened, Perigee still speaking. “I ran for help and said xe had fallen, so naturally no one suspected it was my fault.” They looked up suddenly, their eyes narrowing slightly. “Why did I say ‘xe’ right there? Xe wouldn’t have gone by xe at that time.” Foci stood abruptly. “Excuse me.” Xe scrambled out of the office, leaving Perigee to ponder pronouns: “In fact, I don’t know why I would think xe uses xe now , wherever xe is...” Foci half-sprinted to Eglin’s desk. “I know why they’re only giving me until the end of the week with Perigee--actually, they shouldn’t have assigned them to me at all.” “Whoa, slow down.” E put down the document e was scanning when xe began pacing in front of em. “What do you mean?” Foci stopped moving long enough to look Eglin in the eye. “We knew each other in life.” “Oh no,” eir eyes widened. Xe resumed pacing. “You know that whole memory teleportation thing that only happens when two souls share a memory?” “Foci, this is bad--” “I know, but I can convince them to sign a contract now that I know what’s keeping them here.” “No, listen to me, I’m your manager ; it’s my responsibility to report this sort of thing. As soon as my supervisor knows, your client will be moved.” “Right, right, but why did management assign them to me at all?” Eglin looked at the ceiling for a second and bit eir lip before saying, “Foci, there’s something I haven’t told you.” Xe stopped pacing again and looked into eir face. “I mean, I’m not supposed to tell you, but now it seems relevant that you know.” E met xyr eyes. “Management has noticed how well you’ve been doing, and they have an order to their ranking system that keeps newer counselors from climbing the ranks too quickly, so they’ve been assigning you some of their most difficult cases to slow your growth and keep the order predictable.” Foci’s back straightened. “If I succeed with this assignment, their gamble will have backfired.” “Yes,” Eglin said. “And they set you up to fail by assigning you a soul you cannot help.” “Can’t help?” Xe grinned. “Just watch.” “You don’t even have until the end of the day,” e called as xe walked toward xyr office. “I have to report this!” “I don’t need until the end of the day!” xe called back. Foci sat down loudly, palms on xyr desk, shoulders jutting up, “Perigee,” and in xyr excitement, xe forgot to face the difficulty of the same past that had once kept xem talking to counselors for weeks. Xyr face fell, and xe froze, xyr eyes sinking into dimness. “We must have known all along.” Perigee was becoming a darker and thicker vapor again. “Some part of us separate from thoughts recognized each other.” “Yes,” Foci regained a relaxed posture. “It’s not unheard of for the soul to know something before the mind.” “You must hate me.” Perigee shook the top of their seated smoke column. “But somehow I know you don’t.” “I can’t hold hate for you the way you might expect me to.” Xe looked toward the ocean. “Even when I first arrived here, I only despised myself, thinking I deserved no life.” “No, no.” They darkened into a swarm of black. “I would never want you to--can’t you see it’s my fault? It’s all my fault.” “No, Perigee,” Foci suddenly shook off xyr own memories and grasped determination. “You have repented enough for your mistake.” Perigee lifted slightly, but Foci was afraid xyr words weren’t enough to convince them they deserved life. “You have endured some of the worst parts of life at no fault of your own, and you have emerged and faced your worst fears.” Foci gestured to xemself. “You are stronger than any soul I have counseled, and you would do yourself a disservice to not claim your next life.” As Perigee’s smoke parted, xyr eyes widened to see a face unrecognizable from the child xe once knew, and yet they were familiar. “How do you know my next life won’t be as painful as the last?” “There are no guarantees.” By habit, Foci slid Perigee their document. As they reached for it, the door opened and banged against the wall, startling both counselor and client. Two figures entered and one shouted, “This client is to be reassigned immediately.” The other figure shuffled to one side. “Sorry for the sudden entrance, but this particular case must be handled now.” Behind them, Eglin mouthed, “Sorry.” “Wait,” Perigee stood up and faced their palms outward. “There’s no time for protest,” the first figure shouted. “Follow me.” Perigee snatched their document from the desk and traced their finger over the dotted line. The figures stopped, stunned, and watched as Perigee glowed for a moment and disappeared. Before they were gone, they turned to Foci, and xe was certain xe saw them mouth, “Thank you.” The signed document fluttered to the floor. “Well,” the second figure mumbled and then cleared their throat. “Great job, you’re clearly a top counselor. I suppose there is no need for the reassignment now.” As they lowered their heads and turned to leave, Foci stopped them. “Actually, could you find me a contract?” “Of course. Whose?” “Mine,” xe removed xyr glasses and exhaled. “It’s time I moved on to my next life.”


The Tea regulation Charity fumbled trying to put the key in her apartment door lock. The dark hallway, her gloved hands as well as the folders and books in her arms made it more difficult than usual. As soon as she was able to slip the key in track, she opened the door and quickly slipped inside. With a deep sigh, she relocked it and dumped the armful on the table. She hurried into the small kitchen and turned the stove burner on high beneath the water kettle. Retracing her steps, she unbuttoned her coat and flung it over the back of the chair at the table, and hurried again into the kitchen to set up the tray. Teapot, one packet of tea spices, a sugar bowl, a can of cream, and a large mug. She placed the tray on the table and sat down, waiting for the kettle to boil. She was beginning to relax as the tablespace had a faint aroma of the spices: nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and fennel. She closed her eyes as the aroma carried her back to her childhood days, Mama’s smile as she carried the tray from the kitchen, and her brothers and sisters vying for a place in front of the biggest mugs around the table. All became quiet with the sound of her father’s footsteps. Papa was coming from the family shop next door for tea time. She smiled remembering each precious face. Being the youngest of eight children, she watched them disappear from the morning tea time to their life activities. There came a day when she was the only one at the table with her parents for the morning tea time. Those were precious times, which would never be possible again. Her home had changed completely two years ago. When Papa died, leaving Mama alone. her eldest brother, Baba with his wife Makosa and their two small children, moved back into the family house with Mama. Baba was now running the family shop and Makosa was the one preparing the tea tray. Last week, during their weekly telephone call, Mama had teased Charity that Makosa makes a great tea and is an expert at serving. Charity wondered if Baba’s children were also becoming quiet when they heard Baba’s steps in the hallway connecting the shop. The kettle’s piercing whistle brought Charity’s mind back to the moment. Once the hot water was poured and while the tea steeped in the pot, she sat back down. What was it about tea time that brought structure to society and diverse cultures? The English had introduced the practice that had found a hollowed place around the world and observed religiously. The tea leaves were not originally from England, but once embraced, they became irretrievably ingrained. It was treated as a precious well-guarded transplant, which was grafted into the trunk of each society the British culture touched. No matter if it was in a jungle or a desert, what the altitude, stifling heat, or cold weather in the middle of a war or an island holiday, the rattling of teacups on a tray could be heard mid-morning and afternoon like clockwork. It made the day predictable and, in a sense, a token of reassurance that all would be well. If there was anything life offered little of it was the comfort of a predictable day. These two columns of support in the structure of one day at a time in life, for some reason, made the day doable. How simple could the price of comfort be? Hot water and dried leaves were a cheap price to pay for comfort, with or without milk or spice or lemon or sugar. Maybe that was it, tea was the token for security. It was the anchor of the comfort emotion and adaptable to any situation. It wasn’t like the bells tolling from the church tower, the muezzin singing from the mosque minaret, or the bells or drums from a temple, evoking a cultural response. It transcended all of these to be international. Tea time was recognized everywhere she had traveled except in America where the mid-morning break was called coffee time. She had wondered why she was so unnerved and distracted after she first arrived. She discovered the secret one morning when she was sitting in her apartment feeling at the end of her rope. She knew she needed to get to class, but had no energy or desire to go. Looking at her watch she saw it was 9:45. The thought came to her that it was tea time and tea was not yet prepared. She jumped up and went straight to the kitchen to find the kettle and the ingredients stashed in the back of the cabinets. She was humming by the time she sat down over the steaming savory cup. It was shortly afterward she felt energized. It was such a grounding experience she had resumed a daily tea time in the afternoons and when at home in the mornings. A change in her state of mind and sense of well-being had ensued. She had happily mentioned this to Mama during a weekly call. Mama had said she had packed the tea sachets knowing she would need them. She was surprised that Charity had not been using them all along. “Taking time for tea is important! It is the one thing you can take anywhere with you and at the same time, it helps you to stand. It is like your bones helping keep your shape and helping you to stand. Everything positive or happy time memories flood your heart when you take tea at tea time. This helps you keep your emotional shape and stand up again if life is trying to knock you down.” “My friend said I should ask you if there was some medicinal effect from the spices used in addition to the caffeine from the tea leaves. Do you know anything about that?” “Don’t waste your time looking into that. Just take your tea and focus on what you are supposed to be doing. Do a good job and finish your schooling so you can come back home, get a good job, and get married.” “I guess that is the one thing that has not changed, Mama.” “What are you talking about?” “Your goal is to get every conversation and all my efforts focused on me getting married.” “Of course, where else would you be focused? I will know my job is finished when you have trained your daughter to serve a tray of well make tea. I have to help keep you on the right path. So, tell me did you locate a shop where you can buy the spices?” “Mom things are different here. You can go to the corner supermarket and buy s bottles of each kindꟷ” “Bottles? What are you talking about? You need fresh spices! You find a shop where all the spices and flour are for your bread. You need to find the right place for the quality you need. This is very important. You can also ask other questions about possible community connections. Maybe he has a son or a friend of the son who is looking for someone to marry.” “Oh, Mama!” “What? At the least, you will have the proper tea for your health. You never know.” After a deep sigh, Charity agreed, “I will look for a shop with fresh spices.” When Mama asked about the spice shop, Charity assured her that she had a large supply remaining, but would look when her stock started getting low. This excuse would not last forever but for the present, it was working. The aroma of the spices released by the warm water in the teapot was gently filling the room wiping every worry and negative thought away. A heavier wave of scents rose from the golden liquid as she poured tea into the cup in front of her. She usually closed her eyes at this point and allowed herself to be transported to the table with all of her family gathered around it. Even Papa was there smiling and Baba’s round cheerful face looked over at her. Sipping the warm liquid, all was right with the world. With a sigh she opened her eyes to the real world where she was far from home, Papa was forever gone and Baba’s face was narrow and bearded. His son was the spitting image of his younger self and others were preparing the tea in place of Mama. There was homework to complete, dinner to prepare and she would have to get up earlier than usual to put air in the bicycle tire. She did a visual check to make sure she had set the locks after she had closed the front door behind her earlier. She added the milk and sugar and after stirring to perfection, she took a sip. “ Yes,” she whispered to herself with her eyes wide open, “all is right with the world.”


I am having a hard time writing as I sit here at the kitchen table. I am not in a writing mood. Sometimes, here at the kitchen table, I have been in a spectacular writing mood. I sat here with my Dell computer on middle school summer vacations and seventh-grade half-days, typing away as I ran my hands over the rhinestoned computer back, tapped my fingers on the tabletop. I stayed up until the house was dark and still and my eyes were sore and dry, immersed in the swings and roundabouts of imagination. I was going to write a famous book that surpassed even Harry Potter . It was going to be so epic, and my mother would be so proud, and of course then I wouldn’t have to go to college. Other times, I have not at all been in a writing mood, here at this round glass table. I have stared at the fingerprint-smudged glass, not seeing it as anxiety roiled through my chest, a beast, twisting my heart with its acid claws. I have sat here all alone after shouting matches with my parents over college applications, after feeling as though, if only computers didn’t cost so much, I would smash the stupid keyboard with my mug of tea. I have sat here empty after pulling down the blinds around the kitchen table so that I didn’t have to see how darkly the night was pressing in. Most times, here at the kitchen table, I shift about in the mildly uncomfortable leather chairs, and I do not think about writing at all. I have often sat here and studied into the wee hours of the morning, a strange, thick pressure in my chest and a hand clutching at my frowning forehead. I have scrawled frustratedly through monstrous calculus homeworks, picked diligently through redundant chemistry puzzles, broken down over English essays I wrote and yet didn’t understand myself, as sometimes happens with English essays. I have cried at five in the morning at this table as I finished a calculus review sheet. My head felt as if it would split in two. I have drunk more cups of steaming ginger tea than I can count here at the kitchen table. Cups of ginger tea leave a round, foggy mark on the glass surface when my mother sets them down, the shape of a full moon late in the night. The ginger tea is dark, so that you can’t see the bottom of the cup. I have squeezed more honey bottles than I can count dry at this kitchen table, because my mother never stirs in enough honey. She says it is bad for me. I have eaten so many dinners at this table. I know a rotating list of foods that my mother conjures in her scrubs: soy sauce-sautéed vegetables with rice; steaming tofu soup; orange fried rice, sometimes with spam; Korean barbecue with lettuce and spicy red bean paste; pesto pasta salad. I can’t pinpoint what we talked about when we ate all those times, just that we talked, and that we teased each other, and that my dad always finished first because he ate so fast. And that my mother scolded my sisters and dad when they forgot to thank her for the food. I have shifted my leather chair at this table so that my mother could crouch and gather the crumbs and dirt from underneath it. I have sat down at this table and felt bad that my mother crouches down to gather up the crumbs and dirt from underneath my leather chair. I have sat here and typed out a Google Sheet designating chores to everyone in the family but her, so that she wouldn’t have to sweep the floors and wipe the fingerprints off the table and whip dinner out of thin air in her scrubs. I’m leaving fingerprints on the table as I write--I will wipe them later. I have chugged hot ginger tea at this table late in the night, my other hand sprawled over a precalculus textbook. The tea scalds my throat with ginger spice and boiling heat, but I drain it, teary-eyed, as my mother sets down a hot snack by my elbow and asks, in her polka-dot nightgown and night glasses, how much longer I will be up. My sister has sat in the seat next to mine, here at this round glass table, in the night with the blinds drawn down. Her eyes have dried out over math study guides, she has picked through the mud of biology textbooks till dawn just barely kissed the windows. She has fallen asleep here at the kitchen table, the cup of steaming ginger tea our mother placed by her head cooling through the night. Our youngest sister will, too, sit here at the kitchen table, maybe in that leather seat across from mine, or in the one I sit in and type in now. She will take out her pens and pencils, and when she sets them down our mother will set down a mug of piping hot ginger tea next to them, and tell her not to stay up too long. Then she, too, will lift her feet off the ground as our mother crouches down in her scrubs to gather up her crumbs. Just as her mother, our grandmother, did in their little house in New Jersey, reaching with a cloth beneath the thin wooden table and telling our mother to lift her feet a bit more, shift her hard chair back an inch or two. Just as her mother did, crouching down six decades ago to clean the dust by our grandmother’s feet beneath the low, glinting wooden soban at their house in Korea, telling our grandmother to drink up--ginger tea is good for your stomach . And when I close my eyes, I imagine that one day, perhaps it will be me. Me, crouching here as I weave through my daughter’s ankles, gathering up the dirt and glancing up to study her tired, determined face through the smudged glass of a table, the blinds drawn closed around us. I hope that she will not stay up too long.


Franklin pushed through the revolving door of the Social Revenue Service Annuity Center at 7:50am just as he had every morning for the last twelve years. Even though it was morning, it was dark outside except for the flashes of lightning. He was relieved to be out of the driving rain. Shrugging the rain off his shoulders, he walked past the empty guard desk and waved his right hand over the turnstile, pausing briefly for the green LED flash after the chip scanner had logged him into the building. Hearing the ding of system approval he pushed through the chrome bar and shuffled toward to bank of elevators. He shifted from one foot to the other waiting for one of the lights above the doors to identify the door to the rest of his life. Another ping and he stepped into the elevator alone. Like the turnstile, the elevator recognized his RFID sig and took him directly to the fourteenth floor. Without looking up of acknowledging any of the others in the office Franklin moves down the center of the cubicle farm to the third row, made a left and arrived at N-1436. He removed his still dripping coat and threw it over the hard plastic “guest chair” not minding the remaining drips of rainwater that sprinkle the fabric of the cube. It is the only weather his workday world ever sees. Someone years ago had taken to calling this section of the office Murderer’s Row. The guy even made copy paper street sign and hung it outside the entrance to Franklin’s cubicle cul-de-sac. It got him fired for misuse of government funds. At least that is what the form said. The truth was calling the bureaucrats on this row murders was considered insensitive given the nature of their work. Franklin always thought it was funny. He dropped his cell on the charging pad and the projected image of the SRA logo blinks into existence on the silver white panel in front of him. Smiling he remembers the days of passwords, two factor and other biometric. Now his implant tells the cube who he is and diisplays his first task for the day. Franklin’s official designation was Social Revenue Administration Case Analyst, though his email signature read Annuity Counselor. The SRA had created by an Act of Congress in 2032, soon after the Social Security Trust Fund was determined to be hopelessly insolvent. The austerity riots across the EU inspired the terrified politicians to actually work together on a bipartisan solution. In a brilliant and rare moment of insight, some Congressman decided it would be a good idea just to combine Internal Revenue with Social Security and Social Revenue was born. With a wave the agenda paged to the first case. The first of sixteen names he thought. Sixteen stories. Sixteen recommendations. Every day. Three thousand days. Always sixteen. \ Case#A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: William Arthur McKinley DOB: 1982-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Senile Dementia, early stage Alzheimer’s Prognosis: Degenerative Remaining Residual Social Value: $13,527 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$1,325,425 Accelerated Benefit: $42,000 \ Franklin checked “APPROVED: No review required” on the screen and hit submit. He then sat flipping through news stories on the internet for the remaining twenty eight minutes of the mandated half hour review each case received. \ Case: #A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: Mary Louise Horton-Miller DOB: 2002-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Melanoma Prognosis: N-Stage Remaining Residual Social Value: $5,242 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$2,425,000 Accelerated Benefit: $65,000 Again “APPROVED: No review required” \ And so Franklin’s day progressed. Case after case of elderly or terminally ill people being approved for accelerated benefits. \ The most innovative part of the Social Security Solvency Act of 2032 was the establishment of the option for accelerated benefits. The idea of paying pensioners every month until they expire had proved too costly so there must be a better solution. Everyone, the authors reasoned, has some intrinsic value to society. That value can be expressed in monetary terms. At any point in life, or so the accountants argued, you can determine how much value you have left to contribute to society. Not only does every life have a value, society also incurs a cost for supporting that individual. This can also be reduced to a monetary value. There naturally comes a point when the cost of sustaining a citizen exceeds the value of their contribution. If one were to compare it to a mortgage, that citizen would be upside down in their value to society. When this occurs it obviously makes good fiscal sense, or so the politicians concluded, to consider liquidation. Unfortunately they were unable to just arbitrarily order such things with pesky things like civil rights in the way. There was however just too much money to ignore. One suggestion had been to exercise the concept of eminent domain on the lives of burdensome people. This was a little to far but once again money was the answer. People needed an incentive to liquidate. An annuity as it were. The regulators developed a complex algorithm that determines what percentage of an individual’s remaining social benefit they will be offered, plus a reasonable uplift, that they would receive immediately. These funds could be used anyway they like. Settling debt (a mandatory prerequisite) A child’s education. Philanthropy (highly encouraged). Donated to the state.(Very highly encouraged) After payment the citizen would then be liquidated, saving society untold billions. After two hours reviewing the first four cases, exactly thirty minutes for each, Franklin pushed back his ergonomic desk chair and shuffled toward the elevator for union mandated fifteen-minute break. Standing on the observation deck of the thirty-ninth floor he watched the movement of the tiny insect like people and cars in the streets below. It reminded him of videos of the blood stream and cells moving through the body carrying nutrients to and waste away from all of the important organs. He liked to think of the city as an organism and that was his job. Helping to move the old and dying out of the way of the new and growing. After fifteen minutes exactly he was back at his desk. Franklin waved to the next appointment and for the first time in twelve years something new happened. \ 10:15 End of Assignments 10:30 - 11:00 Counseling Center 2 \ Nothing for the rest of the day. This was exceptionally odd. Every other day, Franklin would spend the afternoon sessions with candidates. That is what he called them. The algorithm did not just evaluate people who had recent diagnoses or reached a certain age. Those were usually processed automatically and informed through the mail or by field offices of their options. The algorithm evaluates every one. All 1.2 billion citizens in the country. It does not simply look at one’s health but also takes into account education, performance, skills, social media profile and personal relationships. To be honest no human is really certain how the value is calculated. That is the thing about self-learning artificial intelligence. It is sort of a black box. The AI sets the value and from that moment forward the amount you can receive ticks down. For the good of society and your loved ones, of course you would want to liquidate as soon as possible. The usual term was thirty days. Enough time to settle affairs, take a final vacation, tell off that rude neighbor that has been putting his garbage can in front of your condo instead of his own. One could always request more or less time but it was the counselor’s job to make sure the length of term was equitable. And by equitable that meant best for society. There were even bonus programs for the counselors who met targets for minimal accumulated term during a review period. Franklin had never received one. Troubled by what this could mean Franklin shifted in his chair. Perhaps there was a meeting and procedures were changing. It could be a new head of the department. That must be it. The director had changed every four years and he had only known about it through email. Franklin had never seen them before but that must be it. He felt odd too. A tightness in his chest. Sweat beading up on his forehead. Still he sat. Five minute walk to the counseling center. Five minutes before I should leave. What to do? He spun in his chair to ask the man in the cube across from him, forgetting that this desk had been empty since the sign incident. What was his name? Franklin had never even known. He just learned about the dismissal from an inter office memo and paid no attention to it. Come to think of it there weren’t any other occupied cubes on Murder’s row. One by one they stopped showing up but Franklin had never taken notice before. They must be letting me go he concluded. He’d experienced this before. Knew what it looked like. Questions flooded his otherwise unencumbered consciousness. Should I take my coat? No I’ll come back for it. Will they let me? How can they do this? Will there be a severance? Surely the union will have a say. Franklin looked around for someone to ask, but realized he didn’t know anyone of the dozen or so people he saw scattered in the mostly empty cube farm. He took a breathe and resigned himself to keep his composure. His dignity. Yes that was important for a man.  His hands trembled as he pushed the elevator call button. He stepped in and the system again recognized his sig, checked his calendar and chimed “Destination 2nd Floor.” In the enclosed space he found it even harder to breathe. His chest felt like a huge weight was on top of it.  Surely this is just anxiety and nothing more. Should I go to a doctor he thought? No. Maintain my dignity. Take the news like a man. Make a plan. Move on. That is what you do.  Franklin stepped off the elevator, turned right and through the frosted glass double doors of Counseling Center 2. He had never been in here. His sessions had always been in Center 1. A left turn off the elevator. So many new things.  There was no one at the reception desk. There never is anymore. Just a screen that read “Franklin Moss - Room C “and an arrow pointing to the left. He walked down the stark white hall to the third door on the left. Another screen inviting Fanklin Moss inside.  A white plastic chair sat in front of a simple conference table. At the other end of the table was a large plush office chair. It is the kind of “executive” chair Franklin had in his office all those years ago when he had been an insurance adjuster. In the chair “sat” a hologram of a blonde woman in a blue suit. Another person would have found the image attractive but Franklin had stopped noticing those things a long time ago.  “Mr. Moss, thank you for joining me. Please sit down”  “I don’t understand what is going on. Am I in some sort of trouble?”  “Not at all, Mr. Moss. Please sit down and we will review your case”  He recognized the script and fear seized him. He felt the sweat now pouring down his neck and pulled unconsciously at his collar. He steadied himself and tried to take deep breath. His chest felt like someone was slowly squeezing it in a vice. He felt cold.  The holographic counselor seemed unaffected by his state as he squirmed in the hard plastic chair.  “Mr. Moss, I am required to inform you that this conversation is being recorded for quality assurance as well as compliance purposes. The Social Revenue Service has determined that your residual social value will shortly cross the threshold for solvency. Were you to receive medical attention for the coronary event the system has predicted you will experience at 10:38AM, society would incur a cost of $852,138.98. As your position is being eliminated, to be replaced by interactive counseling systems such as myself, your remaining social value if you were to find other employment would be $128,175 for a period of one year when a second coronary event would occur with 78% certainty resulting in a further burden on society totaling $1,327,886.42.“  A lightning bolt of pain shot down Frankin’s arm. He clinched his teeth and struggled to inhale. Barely aware of the sound from the counselor across the room.  She continued, “In an effort to optimize the benefit to society, the system elected to allow you to continue your role as “ a brief pause and the voice changed to a male tenor that said “Case Analyst” - returning to the female voice - “ until this time. It is now my privilege to offer you this annuity of $17.38 as incentive for voluntary liquidation for the good of society. I realize you may have many questions and I am here to assist you in any way. Mr. Moss, do you have any thing to ask?”  Franklin’s eyes and teeth clenched, his right armed gripped his left shoulder digging into the skin but he never felt it. Then a release as Franklin’s body relaxed, slumped over the arm of the chair and the last air in his lungs escaped.  “Mr. Moss. You may ask me anything at all.”  The minutes ticked by. The long lashes of the hologram blinking every 7 seconds.  At 10:58 she spoke again. " Thank you Mr. Moss for your contribution to the solvency of the Social Revenue Safety Net. The funds from your annuity will be delivered to your beneficiary of record."  The hologram winked out of existence. A door in the back of the room slid open and two orderly bots rolled in, collected Franklin and carried him to yet another new place.  At 11:00am in room B, the hallway door opened and a lovely blonde hologram in a blue suit said “Ms. Anderson, thank you for joining me.


The old button was finally laid to rest. Put in the Jar with the other old soldiers to rest and relax. Relax, but always be ready to replace a fallen or broken button. A blue button's duty was never done. Be it at parade or on the field. If the buttons didn't hold up, the army would never hold together.  The Blue Button couldn't help but remember the old times. It had seen a lot. Three wars, three men. All returned home safe. A button was normally so overlooked. But this button, this Blue Button knew it's duty. It would stand strong. Like men, this button had a lineage to make proud. A lineage of generals, of heroes and saviors. Of martyrs and men of unyielding will. A lineage of buttons that held all those men up upon their backs, even if the men didn't realize it.  The Blue Button remembered it's first man. He was general. The Blue Button was commissioned just for this man. A sigil carved into its very body and soul. It was a hard war. The man lead thousands upon thousands of men to their death, and it tore the man apart. He stood on the frontlines, chest held high, with the Blue Button on the top rung, sigil shown proudly to the world. A sniper took the shot at the man. But the button knew it's duty. It threw itself in front of the bullet, ready to do it's a duty. It managed to deflect the bullet and save the man's life but took great damage in the prosses.  After that battle, the Blue Button was put in the Jar. It thought its job was done, duty complete. But that was only the start of its journey. The sigil carved upon the Blue Button was still visible, shining in the firelight like gold polished to perfection.  There was a second war. Much like the first, yet so different. The second man didn't wear the button. The Blue button was too broken for that. Instead, it served a different purpose. The sigil carved upon it's body and soul shone like the sun after walking in darkness for eternity. Its duty was to guard letters, given from one man to another. The homeland had fallen, but it's people had not. The Blue Button repressed that will. The unbroken, unyielding will of that Button inspired men. They looked upon the sigil carved upon the Blue Button and remembered who they were. They whispered of the General who stood upon the hill, who charged with his men. Who gave his life for them.  The button didn't know the man had died. The Blue button had saved him from one war, only for the man to die in a second. But now, he had another man to protect. The Generals son. One time, the son was caught. They tried to take the letter, but the son had thrown it away moments before he was caught. But he couldn't throw the Blue Button. The Button thought the son was a fool, but he wouldn't allow the boy to be caught here. Through sheer force of will, the button changed. It lost its luster, it became dull and rusted. The boy was amazed, but the enemy nearly thought it an old memento. The sigil never shone as brightly as before during that war. To shine too brightly was a danger in itself.  Finally, after what seemed like ages to a small Blue Button, the war ended. The Button was returned to the Jar. This time, the Jar moved. It traveled long and far, without seeing anything. The other Buttons made a ruckus, being thrown about like a toddler playing with toys. But the Blue Button held it's proverbial tongue. It was a soldier. It had seen and been though worse.  Finally, one last time, the button was pulled out of the jar. This time, the man was different. He looked so much like the General. So much like the Son. Though the hold the bullet made, a string was sown. Around the neck of this man the button laid. As the third man went through training, he was made fun of. He kept and old Blue Button, but the Blue Button lent the man his strength. A will of iron, just like what the Blue Button was made of.  The battlefield this time was different. Forrest surrounded everywhere. Enemies hid in trees and bushes. Traps were behind every rock. The button didn't know how to help, but every time the man ran his hand over it, the Blue Button gave him the iron will of the two men before him. Even if it was just this, the Blue Button knew it's duty.  That was when it finally happened. Everyone was looking left. The enemy were to the right. The button saw, but no one else did. With the last of its will, the button shone. It shone like it was new. It shone like it had just gotten the best polishing in the world. The light filtering through the leaves reflected off this shine and blinded the man. That small tilt of his head from being blinded saved his life as a bullet took off his ear.  The Blue Button knew it's duty. It was the Button of a General, leading thousands of men. It was the Button of a freedom-fighter, protecting his home in the only way he knew how. It was the Button of a man fighting for the freedom of others. For now, this button was to be put back in the Jar. But it knew it's time had yet to finish. There would be more young men that needed protection. The sigil still stood strong.


He’d had four tries at this before, all ending before Phase II. One hadn’t even gotten off the ground, if he was honest with himself, because it wasn’t even ten minutes into Iron Man before she had turned to him - maybe she thought she was being sexy? - and had asked if he \*really\* wanted to be watching this movie? Yes, in fact, he did. It was even in his profile! “Must be willing to work your way through the MU movies with me while we decide if we’re a match.” The Marvel Measure, he privately named it. After the years of solo nerd enjoyment he was determined that the right girl would pass the test and make it through all of the movies. Fifty hours to prove compatibility...excessive? Maybe. Effective? Undoubtedly. The fourth try had gotten the furthest, admittedly, but they had heated arguments after Captain America. Oh, she liked the movie just fine, but that date was when she revealed she was still sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, and that was ok right? After all, they had never said they were exclusive. And this, he thought, was why he would never kiss before the third date. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The ding of the app notification started sounding like a warning, but she opened it up to find that the tall ginger she had swiped on - oh yes, the Marvel movie guy - had apparently liked her profile enough to swipe back. And now, to formulate the opening line. Not for the first time she cursed the “girl writes first!” conceit, but it did have a way of weeding out the dick pics (eight received, three declined, and one she wasn’t sure \*what\* it was.) Without thinking too much, she shot off: “I’ve never seen the Marvel movies before, but I’m willing to try! Hot take: I think they should be watched in chronological order.” She was done with the first dates. There had been ‘Too Much Tongue’ Guy, ‘Too Enlightened for Me’ Guy, and then the one whose wife had cheated on him four years prior and....well. She knew more details about \*that\* encounter than she did about her best friends sex life. How many times was she going to trot out the same stories, swipe on the makeup she barely knew how to apply, and sit listening interestedly to men who managed to make it clear by the second date that a night at home on the couch was going to result in more fun? And this, she thought, was why she would never kiss before the third date. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The first date was a surprise. His spur-of-the-moment offer of drinks (after 9pm? Even if it was a Saturday, it was a ballsy move.) was only accepted because she was having a good hair day. The conversation flowed through the usual first date stories, and ended close to midnight with a hug and wave goodbye. He thought she was cute and wondered if she’d want to go out again; she thought he was funny and figured the next date would be more revealing. The second date was dinner and more hours of conversation. They walked slowly by a small river and she wondered if there would be a kiss. He enjoyed the goodbye hug and didn’t waste any time the next morning asking for a third date. She guessed this one would make it or break it. The third date ended with three bottles of wine, kissing that didn’t stop, and clear signals that the game, as they say, was afoot. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The fifth date was where it all really began. They ordered Thai food and got ready to watch Iron Man. “It’s a labor of love,” he said. “It’s going to take almost 50 hours to watch all of these.” She settled in gamely though, and told him any excuse to sit on the couch and snuggle for hours was fine by her. By the end of the movie she was hooked and already making plot predictions. By Iron Man 2 it was clear that there was more than just casual movie watching happening. By Thor they were spending the night together. By Iron Man 3 they were pretty sure, but kept it quiet from each other. He said it first, after Thor 2. She couldn’t hold it back either. By Guardians of the Galaxy they both knew that they were falling. Really, truly, frighteningly in love. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* Life interfered, as it often does. They saw each each other almost every day for dinners, walks, stolen kisses and any time they could muster - even if it wasn’t to watch movies curled up on the couch together. In a way, neither of them was quite ready for it to be over. The quiet darkness of the bedroom took the place of the tv-glow in the living room and they spent hours exploring, learning the most intimate places and secrets they could find. The brightness of that spring saw them walking hand-in-hand around the local lake; sometimes unable to keep the words from flowing out like a fountain, sometimes in amicable silence as they kept their own counsel. He brought her roses and she cooked him dinner, and all along they could be seen smiling at each other in amazement, still unable to believe their luck at this match they had found. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* Late one night they finished Avengers: Endgame. They sat quietly through the credits, lost in their own thoughts and the feel of their fingers intertwined. Finally, she asked, “Only one left, right?” Yes, he confirmed, only one left. She felt an odd emptiness, after the weeks of watching, that they were this close to the end. “Tomorrow night?” she asked, wondering if he felt it too. They agreed to end the way they began - with Thai food and the final movie in the experiment. When she got to his house she could hear the music coming from the kitchen and the scent of something she couldn’t quite place. She smiled and opened the door - he’d long ago told her to just walk in - and stopped in her tracks as she took in the scene before her. The roses caught her eye first: bunches just placed everywhere she could see, in all the colors he’d brought her before. Candles lit and glowing, and in the center of the kitchen he waited on one knee. That night they finished what they had started.


Three months. That’s how long they say it takes to know someone, to fall in love with someone. Personally, I think that’s nonsense. I think you can know someone in an hour - but they have to be the right person. It took me less than three months to know Serendipity. After one night, I felt I knew her better than I knew myself, and that scared me more than I cared to admit. How can you fall for someone so deeply that their every word is carved into your brain like initials in wood, how can you feel so intensely that the colours of the world seem brighter than ever - in a single night? I regret going to that bar, I think. It was a Saturday afternoon and I felt horrible, because I’d just found out that my backpacking would be cut short - that I’d have to leave Italy in three days to return to my regularly scheduled life and the monotony that accompanied it in an inseparable duet. The reason was simple - I’d run out of money far sooner than I’d calculated, on account of the fact I enjoyed a lavish lifestyle I hadn’t predicted. It could have been prevented, of course, and god do I wish it had. I sat in that bar over the cheapest beer I could afford, having offended the waiter with my abhorrent Italian - because lazy and arrogant as I was, back then, I hadn’t bothered to learn properly - and I simply took in the atmosphere, the open air, the water, the cliffs and the beach, so stunningly unreachable from up there. I was about to order my second drink when I saw her, leaning against the wooden bar alone, impatiently waiting for the bartender to leave his conversation with another sorry patron and notice her. She was stunning, was Serendipity, and I was not blind. She was tall, with legs that reached to the end of the world, brown skin, and perfectly curled dark hair tumbling to her waist. Her eyes were dark and cloaked by long lashes, touched only slightly by the magic of makeup. And her cheekbones were sharp - shaped so perfectly that any model would be jealous. She wore white that night, a dress that clung to her like a scorned lover, the back plunging almost to her hips and the neckline only a little shallower. When she turned her head, glancing around for another bartender, I smiled at her, shrugging as if to say, “Well, what can you do?”. I was not a handsome man, but I wouldn’t say that I was ugly - however it stuns me to this day that the beautiful woman at the bar came up to me and asked me my name. I told her it was Alexander, but only when I was in trouble, so she could call me Alex. “And you are...?” I said after her giggle, sitting up a little straighter on the rusted metal stool. “Serendipity,” she replied, and her voice was red and gold and silver and chocolate - and I realised then that you can fall in love with a voice, even before you love its owner. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?” “It means a happy accident - something you weren’t searching for, but that you found in a lucky coincidence.” And perhaps it was fate, that Serendipity was in fact my serendipity - my beautiful lucky coincidence. We spoke for hours that night - walking through that small Italian town in the cool heat of an autumn evening. It was that night, in that small town, where I realised that all they tell you about love is true. The sounds of the town create a heavenly chorus, the people seem to have stars in their eyes, and the colours of the world are brighter and deeper than what I thought was possible. She spent the night with me in my too-expensive hotel room, and we fell asleep to the sounds of music from the street below echoing up the six stories between earth and my new heaven. It was beautiful. *She* was beautiful. My Serendipity, my lucky coincidence. But nothing lasts forever. I woke up alone, the sheets folded over, the bedding cold, and the widow closed. The world was dull again - the sun shone over the greys and blues of the hotel room, once again an earthly realm that much closer to the ground. It was as if Serendipity was never there at all. I remember the dismay that crashed over me - the fear and panic that maybe it was all a dream, and maybe I’d never met a beautiful girl in an open-air bar, but then I saw it, on the bedside table. A note. I scrambled to the other side of the bed, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline rushing through me. Her handwriting was neat cursive, flowing over the page like water. It was a simple note, but my heart leapt nonetheless. *To lucky coincidences, and nights to remember.* \- *S* And carved into the wood of the dressing table just out of sight from anywhere in the room save that side of the bed, was our initials. *S+A* I never forgot Serendipity. I treasured her note, and the memories of the night we spent together more than I treasured anything in the world. When I lay down to sleep, my dreams were filled with her anecdotes and the colours and sounds of the night. When I woke in the mornings, I saw her face. Perhaps it was more infatuation than love, but those memories were what sustained me through the years. They kept me going, she kept me going, even when I felt alone and despairing. And years later, against my better judgement, I went back to that small town in Italy, with a full wallet and a hopeful heart. I knew, yes, I knew that she wouldn’t be there, but I looked anyway. I stood in that bar and looked around wildly, as though I was chasing after her. She wasn’t there. I’d expected it, but the disappointment was immense and all-consuming, and I nearly cried. Once again, I sat at the bar drinking the cheapest beer - for memory’s sake - and dwelt in my sorrows. Until I saw it. Carved into the wood, among the many scratches and water stains that spoke of many years of use, was a name in perfect, flowing script. *Serendipity.


Beware the Dark Laura Holt The carnival was a kaleidoscope of lights and sound around them as Ingren and Lucian walked hand in hand through the press of bodies lined up to ride the carousel. A freak show stood nearby. Its MC dared passersby to “come in and see the eighth wonder of the world!” Brightly colored posters lined the wall behind him: pictures of a girl with a fishtail, a girl with the body and hair of a snake, a man with hair growing out of every part of his body, fangs, and pointed ears, and a man with a nose like an elephant. A small, plum-colored tent sat beside it. A crude, hand-carved wooden sign advertised Madame Corissa’s Fortune Telling: Palm Reading, Tarot Cards, Crystal Balls, Tea Leaves, and More in painted gold script. “Let us go in there.” Ingren followed the line of his finger, her brows arching. “In the fortune-telling booth? You do know that stuff is fake, right?” “Perhaps not as fake as you think.” His voice held an odd note she’d never heard before. His hair glowed as if from a halo thanks to the sun shining behind it. Despite her common sense telling her that she shouldn’t waste her money or her time on something so silly, she gave in. “Okay, we’ll do it if you want to.” “Thank you.” A genuine, excited look lit his cheeks with a pinkish flush, and she followed him as he half ran, half walked across the trash-littered midway. His love of magic, it seemed, didn’t extend to books alone. He held the door flap open, gesturing for her to go ahead of him. Obediently, she stepped over a dropped funnel cake and walked inside. The first thing she thought was that she had never seen so many candles in her life. They were everywhere--filling the shelves that lined the thick, velvet walls of the tent, dripping white, red, purple, black, and navy wax onto the mismatched colorful rugs on the floor. The air smelled like vanilla and cherries, violets, licorice, and midnight, with an underlying hint of powerful incense. The latter smoldered in trays situated among the forest of candles, creating a dense cloud of smoke that filled the space near the ceiling. It burned her nose, making it tickle. Fighting the urge to sneeze, Ingren peered through the haze at the woman seated behind the small, round tea table in the middle of the room. She looked like something straight out of a novel, like Esmerelda in Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame , with a full, sensuous, red-lipped mouth and round, dark brown eyes. Her skin was the color of bronze, and her hair gleamed in the candlelight, black as a starless night sky. It rested in a loose knot at the base of her neck beneath a tall jeweled turban that’d been wrapped around her head. Layer upon layer of shawls in different shades of purple covered her body, making it impossible to tell her size. But her arms, their wrists covered in gold cuff bracelets and their fingers glittering with large stoned rings, were slender. And when she sat up straight, she looked tall. She smiled, the movement pushing up high cheekbones and forming deep dimples at the sides of her mouth. “Sastipe. Good luck and good health, strangers. I am Madame Corissa, seer of the future. Have you come to hear your fortunes this fine autumn day?” Her accent was strange, and Ingren fought the urge to roll her eyes at the mystical tone in her voice . This whole thing was ridiculous. Why had she agreed to it again? Oh yeah, she remembered as Lucian stepped forward. Because a hot guy wanted her to. “Yes. We would both like to hear our futures if you please.” “Of course,” Madame Corissa agreed. “However, I only do individual readings, so one of you will have to wait your turn outside.” “I’ll go,” Ingren volunteered, grateful for the easy escape as she took a step toward the door. Already she was planning to say she’d changed her mind or didn’t have the money for a reading after the blonde boy had his turn. Lucian stopped her, his hand on her arm. “No, I will go. Ladies first.” He pushed her toward the chair gently. His voice clearly said she was not going to get out of this so easily. Without giving her a chance to reply otherwise, he went back outside, leaving her alone with the madame. The latter gestured to the plush, tasseled ottoman seat across from her. “Please, sit.” “Fine.” Giving in to the inevitable, she did as she was told. The soft cushion sank beneath her, sending up a thick puff of dust. Coughing, she fanned it away as she tried to get comfortable. It took her almost a full minute to straighten enough that she wouldn’t fall over before returning her attention to the woman across the table. She was watching her with a small smile, her odd gaze alight with something like amusement. Her candlelit expression clearly said she got girls like this in here all the time. Ingren blushed. “Look, I know it’s probably obvious, but I don’t believe in stuff like this. So would you mind just doing a quick reading to appease my friend, nothing fancy or elaborate?” “As you wish.” Her voice was mild, with no sound of offense. “Give me your palm.” Ingren laid her hand face-up atop the table, and the madame took it in her hands. Her touch was surprisingly warm and firm. Leaning over, she studied the lines etched into her pale skin with a glittering intensity. “Hmm, I see a long life. That is good, with one child, a daughter, who you will have at a young age. You have an extremely thick bravery line, as well as a stubborn streak that is interwoven. You should watch that lest it get you into unnecessary trouble.” She paused, her finger resting against one, a small m shape, near the center of her palm, and looked up at her in slight surprise. “You have the sight.” “I’m sorry, the sight?” Ingren repeated. The woman tapped her hand for emphasis. “Yes, the ability to see the future.” Her heart skipped a beat. Was it possible that the woman could mean her dreams? She’d never told anyone besides her friends that they sometimes came true. Then remembering where she was, she dismissed it as simply another part of the fan fair and shrugged. “Everyone has déjà vu at some point or another. Could you just finish the reading as I asked? Tell me about my love life, or something.” “Very well,” Corissa replied, not sounding entirely pleased at her disbelief but reluctant to talk back to a paying customer. She lowered her gaze to her hand again and traced several more lines. “Your love lines are very rare. You have six, whereas most people only have one or two. One of them will be your child.” She pointed to an upside-down v below Ingren’s thumb. “Two of them are friends.” She indicated two sideways triangles on her middle finger. “And three of them will vie for your heart.” “Three?” Ingren frowned in confusion because the first two had to be Buck and Lucian, but... “Who’s the third?” “It does not tell me that.” Madame Corissa shook her head. The gold hoop earrings in her ears flickered in the dim lighting. She traced the three side-by-side lines down the bottom of her palm to where they ended in an x and her forehead furrowed. “I see death.” “What?” She blinked at the older woman, her heart skipping a beat. Yet it was as if the seer didn’t hear her. Her voice took on a strange, deep note. Her eyes rolled back in her head, leaving only the whites visible, and she gasped in a rattling breath. Her grip on Ingren’s hand tightened without warning, squeezing her fingers so hard it hurt, and trepidation flooded the younger girl’s veins against her will. Okay, that’s it. This whole thing just went from The Hunchback of Notre Dame to The Exorcist, and that’s far enough for me. She tried to pull her hand free, to get up and leave. Only she may as well have not moved at all. Corissa held on with seemingly no effort, her knuckles pale and her expression intent. “There will be a great battle. Many will die. I see so much death, so much sorrow. Oh.” She moaned, head rolling on her neck. Ingren could hear the bones pop. “It hurts .” “L...!” She turned toward the door, started to call his name, and bring him running to stop this whole stupid charade. With shocking speed, the madame leaned across the table and clapped a hand over her mouth. Ingren’s heart leaped into her throat as her eyes widened above the fingers touching her skin. “Beware the Dark!” she hissed insistently, her tongue pushing against the backs of her teeth as she stared unseeing at Ingren. Her pupils were no longer visible. Her eyes had gone completely black. Not brown-black like Ingren’s hair but true black, like crude oil. “It comes for you. It comes for your power. It will kill you if you let it!” Kill me? “That’s enough!” Wrenching away from the woman with all her strength, Ingren leaped to her feet, knocking her chair to the dirt floor with a crash . Chest heaving, she stared down at her angrily, breathing hard. “You can’t tell people this stuff. It’s crazy! And if you don’t let me go, I’m-I’m going to tell my teacher!” She shouted the last, her hands in fists at her sides, fully aware that she sounded like a petulant kid who hadn’t gotten their way but not particularly caring at the moment. Her heart was still racing like an out-of-control race car, threatening to suffocate her. She didn’t have to see her face to know it was a bright shade of red. For a minute, Madame Corissa stayed where she was, immobile as if she hadn’t heard the other girl’s words. Then she sat back with a sigh, her eyes returning to normal. She blinked up at her, looking bewildered at her less than happy appearance. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I must have dozed off. It happens sometimes, from the incense, you know.” “What?” Ingren’s voice came out in a high pitch of disbelief, ending with a squeak. “You mean you don’t remember what you just told me? But...” That’s impossible! Unless it was a real vision. Immediately, she scoffed at the thought, trying to regain her earlier skepticism. Yeah, right. This isn’t The Wolfman, and this lady is simply trying to make sure I don’t sue her for malpractice by covering her butt. “No, I’m afraid not.” Madame Corissa’s earrings jangled when she shook her head, dark eyebrows arching. “Why, did something happen?” “No.” Ingren said the word slowly, recognizing the futility of arguing further. Besides, she probably wasn’t even close to being the first unsuspecting person the woman had pulled this spooky, dark future crap on to make them come back for more readings. The charlatan. “Nothing happened.” “I see. Well then, if there is nothing else you wish for me to read, that will be five dollars.” “Fine.” Throwing the folded bill onto the table, Ingren crossed to the door as quickly as she could without running and stepped outside. The scent of fresh, popcorn-flavored air hit her lungs, and she took a deep breath, realizing she was shaking. Fake or not, her experience in the tent had been too freaky for words. The way the madame’s eyes had rolled back and her voice got lower. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she was having a seizure or something. Plus, beware the dark? Who said things like that outside of books? If she’d stayed any longer, the lady probably would have started drawing a pentagram on her hand while telling her she was a werewolf, and it wasn’t even a full moon. It was like the woman had been intentionally trying to scare her. Which, she realized belatedly, had probably been her fault for telling her that she was a skeptic. Still, there had been something about the whole experience that made her wonder if there hadn’t been a kernel of truth to the seer’s prophecy. Although how that was possible, she didn’t know. Mental note to self: never visit another fortune teller, not even the mechanical ones in the glass boxes at the stores. Lucian rose from where he was waiting on a nearby bench when she approached. “That didn’t take long. What did she say?” “Oh, you know, the usual junk that fortune-tellers tell girls.” She gave an awkward laugh, not sure why she was lying, only that she didn’t want to try and explain what had just happened when she wasn’t even sure she understood it fully. “That I’m going to marry a lawyer and live in a house with a white picket fence, two and a half kids, and a dog.” “Tell me something I do not know.” She punched him on the arm, earning her a rare laugh. “Hey!” “Forgive me, Ingren, I was only joking.” “Yeah, well, you better be. That lady’s a hoax anyway. Come on, forget about having your fortune told. Let’s go find the others so we can ride the roller coaster.” “All right,” he replied, and she gave him a grateful smile for not arguing. Still, she couldn’t help but shoot one last glance over her shoulder at the tent as they made their way back into the midway throng. Madame Corissa stood in the doorway watching them go, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite place. Scared? Menacing? Concerned? Her eyes darted from Ingren’s to Lucian’s retreating form. Pressing her lips tightly together, she flipped the small wooden sign advertising her talents around to read closed before disappearing back inside.


*Notice/Caution - I don’t want to seem like I am spoon-feeding anything, but I want to explain my tense and dialogue choice (in case my future self reads this and cringes at me for using bad technique). Please forgive me (and brace yourselves) for the confusing shifts between past and present tense that will occur. Everything is written from a retrospective perspective, but I just wanted to experiment with the contrasting effects the past and present tense can have on a story. When she remembers seeing and interacting with the character and having that epiphany, I wanted her to be so present in the past that the tense shifts. As for the reported speech: I cannot replicate Donna Tartt’s bone-chilling dialogue in the prologue of The Secret History , and what I wrote is far from perfect. But I wanted to highlight the subjectivity and unreliability involved in the retrospective narrator. So future me, take note and please don’t get mad. Plus, I welcome any feedback! -- He slumps on one foot while the other rocks back and forth like a pendulum, sending ripples through the fuzzy maroon rope which fenced up the paintings. I doubt that he is remotely aware that he is leaning dangerously close to the artwork, or that the security staff grimaces rhythmically at every forward swing of his foot, ready to pounce if he moves any closer. To his relief, the leg brushes against the fence one last time, steps away, and curls itself around an oak bench, a smoothed-out seat glistening from years of acquaintance with the rough, sandpaper texture of jeans. From my nearsighted eyes, it becomes all but a pointillist painting: the pixelated effect I imagine you’d arrive to if you take a transparent picture of the Earth from space, zoom in on this very art museum, ground floor, gallery 3, and circle to the wall opposite the man-sized boy mannequin that gives me the creeps. Trace the last bend of the waves reverberating down the fence; catch the dull, mustard-colored frame of the painting; glimpse the rings of halos from the light above his head; and finally him, camouflaged in the mundanity of it all. The soft curve of his curls distort into mosaic tiles; a rosy flush smears across his cheeks from blurred out pimples; shadows pool into the nook of his collarbone. Him, elbows on knees, frozen in the act of leaning forward like a trembling swimmer on the diving board seconds before exploding through the surface of the water. Looking into this blur, I feel an intolerable urge to sit by him and religiously echo his posture as he studies the painting. But with it follows the second wave of despair, dread, and terror from haunting clarity that even then, I might as well be hypnotised by the spin of a yo-yo and he rolling his eyes at a chemistry experiment. Nor is there any use following his thoughts--all the words in the world could not articulate the honesty of a silent stir in the mind. -- He stood up, and the momentary painting erupted into action. Time hurried to catch up with this accidental lapse as crowds swarmed around the paintings like flies around a rotting banana peel. Their headless movements interrupted my gaze, and he was engulfed by the humming wave of motion and crowds. It took me a while to find my footing--art museum, ground floor, gallery 3, behind that creepy statue. Absent-mindedly, I drifted over to the Landscape with the Fall of Icarus painting and glanced at the artist and description underneath. How could they still call an art theirs if it is reborn, repainted in a new mind every time an eye flickers upon them? If an artist knew all the meanings and interpretations their painting evoked in different people, they would probably be horrified enough to never pick up a paintbrush again, let alone hang it in a national gallery. I suppose Basil Howard had some sense hoarding his best art. The original meaning that he created behind it would not be watered down and diluted among the various interpretations of others. Only then, the artist can truly call an art their own, as it would exist in an universe where there is only one objective meaning behind the art, which is defined solely by the artist. Overwhelmed and slightly repulsed by this discovery, I stumbled through the entrance and sat on the top of the staircase. The last mechanical cool of the AC radiating off the marble tiles left me. Stranded among the heat and the croaking cicadas, I began to debate whether to go inside or not. But I suppose I liked it out here, on the edge of the stairs, surrounded by blurred leather shoes and swinging handbags, people-watching. People are most beautiful when they are not looking at me, which is why I hate Instagram pictures, whoever’s in it. They always lock eyes with you through the screen, deliberate, aware, tight-up, on their tip-toes, with their fight-or-flight mode on or whatever. But looking through the tinted windows in a car, or an ignored corner in a room, or a busy street, there’s always the protection of invisibility, and then you start to overromancise the mundane. A matching two piece. Ashes falling off a cigarette from a flickering hand hanging outside the driver seat window. The curve of her calf muscles when she sits cross legged. A fading pedicure. This is what I feel like now, on the edge of the staircase, dissolving into oblivion. -- A familiar voice pulls me back into existence--art gallery, top of the stairs. My heart throbs once, twice. Cooling down after seeing that Icarus painting? he says. Tendrils of smoke from his cigarette cradles his jaw, disturbed by his sudden motion of sitting down beside me. Hope you don’t mind it? he says, waving the tendrils of smoke that played with his hair away like an insect. I shake my head. The dull glow of his cigarette almost kisses his lips. A subdued grimace flashes across his face as he tries to bend his fractured finger to smudge the cigarette to ash. From my peripheral view, I became exceedingly aware that he was watching me. He had a pair of the most intense eyes, studded with a hot shimmer, like sunlight striking off the hood of a hearse. Dimmed by the soft curves of his eyelashes, the pupil often dissolved into the muddy darkness of the iris. Seeing my gaze fixed on the finger splint, he responds: Parkour. Always end up trying too hard. It’s not like I can help it. No. Didn’t think I would see you here, Dion. Neither did I, but I’ve already been surprised twice and it’s only late morning. Once by myself, and the other by seeing you. What brings you here? The paintings, I shrug. Do you draw? No, I say. Good. Why, so then I could be as ignorant as you are? No, so then you could be as privileged as I am. Never used to believe it, but this is where ignorance is bliss finally applies. Studying a painting from the perspective of an artist distracts you from seeking the truth of it. And when I say seeking, it’s not like there is an objective one. It’s something you have to create. When you draw, you analyse the techniques of the painting headfirst. The golden rule, parallelism, or whatever. And then get to the core, the emotional quality of it, or never even that part. By that time, you’ve already lost on the starting line. And as our parents say, never 输在起跑线上.So I say, we’re not bad art connoisseurs after all. I suppose so. The language of art is universal, because it is felt, not understood. You don’t get that much from STEM subjects. Exactly, though I might be wrong, because I don’t paint. My dad does, so I’m only explaining his thought process. Anyway, no worries, it’s just that I think we’re fine, as non-artists. It doesn’t make our opinion any less valid than an artist or in fact the artist of the painting. Your dad’s an artist? Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t really say--but yeah, I guess. He sketches, paints, although it’s not very precise, like those ancient Greek statues. Right. Rather abstract. He follows a visual arts textbook and explains his paintings in technical terms, though he can’t really articulate the meaning behind them. I think he missed the whole point of creating art. Can’t articulate it, or doesn’t want to? Well, I-uh, you know... -- As he rambled on, he looked up to the sun, but did not actually see it, for his eyes were lost in remembrance and confusion. A cloud shifted, and his jet black eyes and hair were set alight the same way in the sun. To this day, I still remember that striking image of him, scorched to the back of my eyelids. It’s the kind you get when you stare at a bright object for too long in the dark and it imprints onto your retina and haunts your vision for a while, but this time it’s temporary, eternal, immortal amongst the erratic shifts of my memory. 水急不流月.The still reflection of the moon upon the waters is undisturbed by the choppy waves. Remember when we gave the moon credit for its silky, ivory glow, when it was in fact only a reflection of the sun’s light? The composed countenance when he glanced towards the sun--no wrinkles rippling through his eyes, nor a hand shielding his face--probably succeeded to pull off the same illusion that the warm, gold sunlight radiated from him. It thrashed through his tumbling curls, swelling in the halo of the glow, and seeped into the dormant black eyes; the colors of amber and late autumn exploded like a volcano inside a snow globe. -- But I wished I could do something more than looking, like I was Nick Carraway or a writer of a biography: passive, distant, helplessly obsessed with a life I don’t lead. Somehow, this reminded me that we never really touched. I don’t mean in any sensual way--I curse my mind for even going there--, but the mere brush of a shoulder, an accidental step on a shoe, or my hair getting stuck on his coat buttons. I suppose it was one way to tear apart the shallow mirage I build for the people I think about excessively, and another way to be more involved in the lives of others. I looked down at his fingers, at the whites on his roughly clipped nails and hair sprouting out behind the silver ring. Then at his other hand, which stroked the accessory: the shadows they reflected, the pink spots on his open palm, and the three curves slicing through them. I traced the parabola of the longest one down to the copper green veins on his wrist--which disappeared into a darkened scar on his forearm, probably from some fall while playing sports. I remembered that I forgot what the first touch of anyone felt like, even my childhood crush. It was trivial, but why should it be? It suggested a new level of intimacy and comfort to be familiar with the touch of someone. The hard calluses on his fingers from playing guitar, the bounciness of his hair, the way my temple will probably line up with his collarbone when we hug and how comfortable or disagreeable that will be. He sat beside me but seemed so distant, and I couldn’t break the reserved, friendly, just-getting-to-know-you comfort that we slipped into, or risk putting ourselves in an awkward situation. In retrospect, I think it would surprise both of us if we touched, then. I would be surprised about how I managed to manifest any fantasy into action and reality, and both of us would be confused about why I did it. Even now, I don’t know why I had the sudden urge to do so then. But thankfully, I don’t act on my impulses.