The Basilisk's Mouth

04: CONSTANT

 It was never formally agreed upon by either party, but after some time Johann supposes Gesa should be his girlfriend. And, while nobody can say what goes on in an unpredictable mind such as hers, she seems to have come to the same conclusion. It's the most bleak romance you can conceive of, but it's the best you'll find these days. An unspoken agreement as bland as soured milk, consummated only by warm smiles and tentative embraces.

 You may call me a dreamer, but sometimes I like to put down the shovel and place myself in Gesa's oversized shoes. I've had the misfortune of being chained to the most infuriating brain imaginable, and her assuring qualities seem like a welcome reprieve. So allow me to speak for her, for a moment, and look at the world through better eyes.

 If you were to ask Gesa what she saw in Johann, she'd mention the passion first. He seems a cold and quiet type at first, eyes downcast and smiles reserved, but if you look at him in the right light and he raises his head enough to look at you, there is a type of fever in his face. It's a sickness that only manifests in those who are clinging onto a sole reason to live. And with a passion like that, of course, comes the drink. At first Gesa thought that his friends would surely keep tabs on how much the idiot boy consumed, but after a while the truth began to dawn on her. Now she knows that if she doesn't snatch the bottle from his hands every once in a while, no one will.

 It's a terrible burden. She's far too wonderful to be wasted as a babysitter. But, unfortunately for her, they seem made for each other. After all, it's a match made in heaven; they are both physics students, both German, both toeing the line of attractiveness, both suitably socially inept, even if Gesa can pretend a little better than he can. Some things are just written in the stars.

 Anyway, I digress. It's a cold night and the bombs are falling again. They're just petty things, really, not meant to end the war but only meant to intimidate the resistant leaders and kill a few civilians that are stupid enough to live in poverty. If they were really trying to end the war, these lovestruck souls wouldn't be here to begin with. This story might never have existed. I can't decide which outcome would have been more fortunate.

 Gesa is lying inert along her bed, staring at the watery shadows stretched across the roof like a diaphanous web, and if I knew what was going on in her head I'd share it with you. Her boots have been kicked across the room and her hand lies abandoned along her stomach. I think she's trying to drown herself in silence, but the distant sounds of death and destruction keep interrupting her. If she listens hard enough, she might be able to hear screaming. Nobody really keeps their windows open these days just in case you catch it.

 In the meantime, a much more immediate sign of destruction tears through her concentration. She gives a great jerk, the baggy mustard jumper she wears rippling like water, as somebody gives her door three pertinent knocks. No nonsense and sharp as a knife. The look on her face, fear seeping into wide eyes, gives her away. There's only one person it could be.

 Gesa opens the door like there's a shotgun at the other side, smooth blue LED light escaping through the crack. At the other side, two dark barrels stare her down underneath a sheepish blond mop of hair. He gives her a small smile and shrugs his shoulders. The bottle his hands are attached to moves with him. Burning liquid sloshes violently against the glass.

 "You fucking moron," Gesa says in the way of welcome. "Really, you're bringing this? After what happened the other day?"

 "Hold on. It's a present." Johann pauses for a second before he holds the bottle out to her, hands opened like a pale flower. I don't think Gesa missed the hesitation. She's far too clever for that.

 She doesn't expect this. I don't know if she's ever seen romance from him before. It's understandable, therefore, that she narrows her eyes at him when she takes the bottle, looking about as thankful as if he had given her a kick in the shin instead.