Silver / clay

⊱ 1 ⊰

"I'm Caleb."

He'd spotted her, seated alone, through gaps in the crowd. Even under the shifting hues her form remained unchanged, neither hidden by the shadows nor highlighted by a spotlight. He'd patted the braided leather necklace beneath his buttoned collar before feeling his way to the bar.

"Hi," he added, as if by way of an apology.

She looked up at him. Not with scorn, or fear, or drunken lust, but a calm impassiveness. He tried to read more into her expression, her body language, and decided she may simply be reserved. It made sense given her low-key jacket and pants, which suited her intimately, but didn't fit with the stylised dresses and short skirts filling the remainder of the club.

The way she turned her entire body around to greet his, and examined every feature of his face, and beyond, clearly gave the indication she wasn't giving him an outright no. He held his disappointment at bay.

"Can I..." he said, nodding to the adjacent stool.

Her lips pursed ever so gently, followed by an almost imperceptible nod.

He struggled to get comfortable, rocking on the small base, until her bright emerald eyes screwed him to the spot.

She was assured, as if she owned the seat. As if anything that happened would be under her direction.

"Umm, sorry," he said, "I just, I saw you and had to come over. I don't normally do this."

She leant in gently. "You're doing very well," she said, almost at a whisper, measured in every word.

Her voice harboured a level of sincerity he'd hoped for but never dared expect.

He regained his composure, reeling in his slacked jaw and casting out a measured smile, as if impersonating her. "Can I buy you a drink?" he said, motioning to the lemon, lime and bitters in her hand. "I mean, another one."

"I'm leaving soon," she said, without harshness. There may have been a tinge of sadness, or he could have just been imagining it.

"That's too bad," he said, his confidence building. He was feeling more comfortable, and it was thanks to her. "What's your name?"

"I don't give my name to strangers," she said, earnestly, her voice creaking it was so quiet, and yet he heard it instinctively.

"There's one way to change that," he said, with a raise of his eyebrows. He quickly waved a hand in the air, shook his lowered head. "Sorry, sorry, that was lame."

When he looked up, her levelled response hadn't gone. Her calm demeanour hadn't gone. She hadn't gone.

"We have two minutes," she said. "Do you want to waste it apologising?"

He shook his head and blinked rapidly, his mind suddenly racing for a topic of conversation, for a way to extend the stay.

"Umm, what do you, what do you do? For a living, I mean."

She serenely surveyed his face in both constituency and as a whole. "That's not what you want to ask me," she said.

"It's not?" he said. "Why not?"

She brought her drink to her lips and took a delicate sip.

"All right, so what do I want to ask?" he said.

She shook her head, placing the glass back on the bar. Then replaced it with her handbag.

"Do you have something in mind?" he said.

She rose and leant into his ear, her lips a fleeting breath from his skin. "You need to be the one to ask it," she whispered, and walked away.

"Wait," he said, skipping to catch up. "Don't go yet."

Her strides were simple, relaxed, but she didn't stop.

He scampered in front. "I don't even--"

"We've had a wonderful time," she said. "I know you don't want to ruin this night."

His eyes bulged, and it was as if a spell of darkness had been broken. Shame and remorse painted his intentions. A tingle shot down his spine. He immediately stepped out the way, subconsciously caressing his wrist.

Instead of anger, she left him with a reserved kindness, along with a different magic that swirled around his psyche, consuming his thoughts, his very being, simultaneously lightening his soul of any burden.