With that, every topic of conversation that ever existed, now and in the past, drops out of my head. I sit at the table in silence as Branson clears the dishes. I watch, wordlessly, as he opens overhead cupboards and selects the largest glass he can find, filling it to the top with water and handing it to me as I make my way to the sofa.
I know what he’s doing and why. It’s a clear and deliberate attempt to dilute aspects of my personality.
Honestly, I can’t say I judge him.
He fusses with the fire, tossing a few more logs on, and sits on the floor near it, legs stretched out, with his back against the wall.
“You don’t have to sit there,” I say. “You can sit on the sofa. I’m fine.”
He waves me off. “Nah, it’s no biggie. I like being near the fire.”
I wonder dimly whether I’ve frightened him, and whether there’s anything I can do about it if I have. As I grapple with that, I sip my water and stare at the space where the TV should be. I find a slight bulge in the plaster that casts a semi-circular shadow on the wall and fix my gaze on it.
I do it until my eyes threaten to water, and then finally, let them drift down to Branson.
His legs are crossed at the ankles. Feet snug in gray mohair socks. Now and again, he rubs one over the other in a relaxed gesture that gives me hope that even though it’s clear I’ve traumatized him, he’s strong. Resilient. Chances are, he’ll make a full recovery. Or at least a partial one.
When I finish my water, he gets up quickly and fills my glass again. It’s obvious he has concerns about my sobriety, and though I’d love to educate him on the matter, I think I’ve done enough educating for one day.
I’m here for three days plus ’bout a week. I have to save something to talk about for the rest of the time I’m here.
I focus on the shadow on the wall and my new glass of water. It’s a cool weight in my hands, slightly precarious, as I raise it to my lips and take a sip.
I try not to look at Branson.
The trouble is, now that I’ve stopped talking, I’ve become aware of his ink. Notawareof it. That’s the wrongword. Obviously, I know he has tattoos. He has them all over. They cover his arms and peek out of the V on his neck where his shirt collar opens. They’re one of the first things you notice about him.
Not the first thing, but the second or third.
The first thing is his height. And the second is his cutting bone structure and amber eyes. Then it’s his musculature. Then it’s his broad shoulders and thick facial hair.
You know what? I don’t know the exact order of things people notice about Branson. I don’t spend my time thinking about things like that. It’s just that his tattoos are all but impossible to miss.
Burning flames and vibrant swirls of color. Flowers and feathers.
I’ve seen them before. Lots of times. The trouble is that right now, I feel deeply compelled to point out to him that he’s heavily inked, but at the same time, I’m aware that it would be the stupidest, most inane, most absurd thing a human being has ever said to another.
It would be right up there with telling someone the sky is blue.
Or that snow is cold.
No. Whatever else happens while I’m up here, I mustn’t mention his tattoos. And for the avoidance of doubt, I don’t think I should look at them very much either.
And maybe—not for any major reason, but just because I feel like it—I’ll take a double dose of my Suppressetine tonight.
3
Lucien
Mytongueisstuckto the roof of my mouth, and so far, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to detach it. I claw my way out from under my bedding, head spinning as I attempt to sit up. The air in the room is close. Heavy and dense and so stifling it makes me want to heave.
The heater must be on the blink.
God.
The fucking middle of nowhere.
I’ve said it time and time again, nothing works when you set foot outside of the city. It’s not like I want to be right about it—I wish I was wrong—but shit like this just keeps happening and proving me right.
