“Still living out of your caravan?”
“Lunaris is still with me, yeah.”
“What are you doing for a living these days?”
“I’m a ceramic artist.”
“Oh … any money in that?”
“I’ve not starved yet.”
“What’s that on your face?”
“My mustache?”
Some comments were made in jest. Others hid passive-aggressive barbs I tried not to notice, but you only needed the barest touch for a nettle to sting, and I found myself sore and seeking out the bar sooner rather than later.
I pushed spilled salt around with my index finger, making a perfect ring while I waited for the barman to notice me.
Someone else did first. A voice at my ear said, “If I can guess your preferred drink, will you let me buy you one?”
I looked up. The man who’d spoken looked like he’d been assembled in a craft store, or by a fanciful teenage girl with good taste. I realized ifI’d said that out loud, it would sound like an insult, though I’d meant it positively.
He had hair down to his waist in a thick plait, dyed gradient shades of blue to match his eyes, and a spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks like stardust. Some sparkling makeup, perhaps. Though he’d dressed in dark colors for the funeral like everyone, his braces were embroidered with tiny flowers, a colorful reprieve in a dark cloud.
I’d learned over many years alone to take company where I could, but he was so beautiful I blushed. “You don’t have to guess right.”
“But the game’s the fun bit.”
“Not the only fun bit, I hope.”
He laughed, loud and without self-consciousness. “That should have been my line. Stop distracting me. Gin and tonic?”
I winced.
“Damn. All right. Whiskey sour?”
I tilted my head from side to side. “Close. I wouldn’t say no.”
“Surely you’re not a whiskey-on-the-rocks man?”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, three guesses isn’t bad. Oi, Travis! Whiskey on the rocks and a gin and tonic over here.”
I accepted, heart skipping. “Sorry for insulting your drink.”
“So long as your taste in men is better than your taste in booze.”
It might have been poor form to hit on a man at my grandfather’s wake, but it had been a long, anxious day of reintegrating myself with the estranged family I likely wouldn’t see again until the next funeral, and the relief of finding someone with whom conversation flowed easily was too great to check myself. “I have a type. Blue hair. Five three. Cheeky grin.”
He bit his lip and leaned in close. “I’m Kessian.”
“Tal.”
He tilted his head. “Tal … Tal. Have we met before?”
He felt familiar, like someone I’d known longer than ten minutes, but— “No. I’d remember you.” I hoped the deflection might hint to him that I’d rather not talk about my relation to the deceased.
