It’s a title, not a name. Proof of ownership. He nods slowly and then stays completely still, not saying a word. The pain and suffering are written on his face.
I want to ask him his true name. I want to know more than anything, but I see him struggling. So I do the only thing I can think of.
“Is that food for me?” I ask.
The moment I speak, his body animates again, like a secret button I pushed. Then the dots finally connect for me.
“The apple. The stew. It was you, wasn’t it?” I ask.
He shrugs almost imperceptibly.
“Wait, did you cook?” I blurt out.
He looks at me shyly. “Was it truly terrible?”
“What? No! I mean, maybe a bit more salt, but…” I pause. “That was, uhm…”
What am I even doing? Just shut up and say thank you.
“Thank you.”
The way he looks at me at those words breaks my heart, as if this simple thank you was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him.
“Truly?” he asks.
“Yes, I really needed it.”
“I don’t eat,” he confesses. “I know nothing of cookery. I found a book, but the instructions were…lacking.”
“It was the best thing I’ve eaten all month.” And funnily enough, that’s not even a lie.
I reach toward the tray. He picks up an apple and slices it too quickly for human eyes to follow. When he’s done, he hands me a piece, two seeds sticking out of the core. I take them out, put them on the tray, and eat it in one bite. He grins as I try to chew the entire thing, puffing my cheeks out when I swallow. He hands me slice after slice, watching me eat every piece.
When I’m done, he leans toward me. The hairs on my neck stand up when his cold breath touches my skin.
“I call myself Lazarus,” he whispers, like it’s the biggest secret he’s told me yet.
“Lazarus,” I quietly mouth. “It’s beautiful!”
He looks at me, incredulous. “You really think so?”
“Yeah! It’s unique. It suits you.”
“You do not think it too…pointed?” he asks.
“ I don’t understand,” I reply.
“You know. Obvious. The Resurrection and so forth,” he says as if I know exactly what he means.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if it’s from a book or something, I don’t really read, so, uhm, how about some cheese?” I nudge my chin at him, and he hands me a wedge that looks way too large for my mouth. “Can I call you Lazarus?”
“I wish it,” he says quietly. He takes the cheese from my hand, splits it in two, and hands one piece back.
“You must think I’m so ignorant and inexperienced.”
“Why do you think that?” he asks, with concern in his voice.
I shrug. “I mean, I’m 34, and what do I know? I’ve seen nothing, lived nothing.” I grab the second piece of cheese out of his hand and swallow it quickly. “You, though…I mean, I can’t imagine what you’ve seen.”
