Tasteful Darkness

Chapter 22

Balendin - Now

The rain is not kind to Peter and I as we weave our way through the streets and alleyways. For a moment I think he's dragging me around with no end in mind, but suddenly he stops and pushes himself through a pair of tall, maroon doors. I slip inside after him.

The both of us are utterly soaked, but Peter got the brunt of it. I pull his coat tighter around me, savoring the feeling of it. It smells slightly of pine, strikingly different from the alcohol I expected it to smell like.

Peter is so drenched he might as well have jumped in a river. His clothes stick to his skin, revealing the curves of his muscles underneath. I look at the floor.

"Over here," he says with little indication of asking for his coat back.

I follow him to a wide staircase. We walk up the steps then down the hall until we reach another set of doors. Peter reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small needle, along with a long, thin piece of metal. I don't realize what he's doing until the lock clicks open.

I go to say something, but Peter raises his finger to his lips. I go quiet as he opens the doors and lets the two of us inside, quickly closing the door behind us.

The door led to a high, abandoned balcony. The world around me is a grand theatre, fit with hundreds of seats, filled with people of all kinds. All of their attention is on the stage where several people perform, their voices booming throughout the building.

I sink into a seat, my eyes still fixated on the performance.

"We're not supposed to be here, are we?" I manage to say.

Peter only smiles. "Just don't get caught."

We sit in silence for some time. The minutes tick by, only registered through booming laughters and rambunctious applause. In what felt like mere moments, intermission had begun.

I lean back in my chair, reminiscing on the play so far. But still, my attention can only go back to what Peter said in the bookstore.

"So," I say, "this mysterious suitor."

Peter shifts in his seat. "You haven't let go of that one, have you?"

"No, I have not. I don't think it really meant 'nothing' either."

"No," he says, looking away. "I suppose it didn't." Pain flickers in his eyes, and I frown in confusion.

"There isn't much to say, I assure you," he continues. "It's... a defect."

"A defect? How so?"

He suddenly starts fidgeting. "A temporary defect. What I am feeling means nothing."

"Why do you think that?" I ask, gently. There's pain in his voice, and I know acting judgmental would do him no good.

He swallows and clears his throat. "Feelings have gotten me nowhere. I don't like spending so much time on something and someone, only for it to be lost." He says it as if the very words cause him pain.

Maybe they do.

"I understand that," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. I understand the impermanence of human lives and human relationships because I've seen thousands of them come and go.

But mostly, I understand not wanting to get attached. For humans, attachments can last years—maybe their entire lifetimes, but even that is definite. If I grow attached to something, I know how much it will hurt to lose it.

Nothing good comes from being infinite in a bounded world.

This should be one-sided, I remind myself.