Silver / clay

⊱ 4 ⊰

He'd thought about this moment, off and on, for the past few weeks. Snippets of conversation had periodically skipped through his mind, the particulars dependent on events that unfolded in his ordinary day-to-day life, where he imagined responses, and responses to responses, ultimately carrying out entire discussions with himself. It lifted his spirits above the drudgery of a life unimagined.

But now that she sat by his side he had nothing to say. Or perhaps he had everything to say all at once, and it log-jammed his defective brain.

"How's the drink?" he said, almost routinely.

"It tastes how it's meant to taste," she said.

In one of his day-dreams she'd licked her lips seductively after taking a sip, but now that she was in his presence, in the flesh, he realised she was too sophisticated, too sure of herself to expose her inner desires so readily.

"You know, I was hoping to bump into you again," said Caleb.

"Why?" she said, without a hint of accusation, her tone smooth, level. If anything, she seemed genuinely curious as to the answer.

"To give you the chance of getting to know me better," said Caleb, channelling his inner Kamil.

He was hoping for a smile. Instead, she surveyed him deliberately.

"You don't have to," she said, her voice creaking against the din.

He leant in subconsciously. "Don't have to what?" he said.

Her eyes, those emerald balls of bliss, locked onto his, drilling him into place. "You have my permission to be yourself," she said.

Now her smile returned, slowly, warmly, drawing a similar expression out of Caleb. It was as if she'd read his mind and he couldn't be happier at the thought. He suddenly wanted to sacrifice all of himself to her care.

Sonorous thumps of bass pulled the coloured lights and thick atmosphere of the club around him. It had been as if a cosy, silent, temporary room was placed around just the pair of them, and now it had fallen, replaced by throngs of bodies pushing and nudging, heaving and flowing.

"Oh," said Caleb, studying their surroundings. "Did you come with friends? Were you waiting for your boyfriend?"

She took a moment to respond, as had become the norm, saying only: "No."

"So you're here alone?"

"No," she said. "You're here with me."

Caleb let the words settle in his mind, a mind that raced with possibilities. "Your name," he said. "Do you think we know each other well enough, now?"

"No," she said, turning her torso to him, covered legs crossing delicately. "You're the small leaf who has just met the caterpillar."

He waited for more explanation, but it floated in the air, enigmatic; like her. He tried discerning the meaning himself, collating his feeble knowledge of larva, immediately discarding the obvious symbolism of transformation as too simplistic, settling on a single image of a caterpillar arching its back, bunching itself up into the shape of a key hole.

"I do like the way you move," he said, before looking away.

A brace of rowdy girls, dressed in short, tight dresses, stumbled past, distracting from Caleb's blushes. Their entire personalities protruded out, into the world, leaving nothing for themselves.

"You compare me to them," she said, without her eyes diverting.

Caleb's head rapidly coiled back. "Only in a good way," he said. "You're so much better than any one else."

But it seemed to disappoint her, and Caleb felt the loss acutely, as if the warm sun had just been stolen by dark clouds.

"Sorry," he said.

"I don't need your apologies. Remember?"

"Yes, Miss--" said Caleb, before he could stop himself. "It's a habit, I suppose. I'm used to it."

"Habits can be broken," she said. "Must be broken. You aren't a slave to your past, my sweet."

Her rays easily blasted through the exiguous clouds, settling on him in return for gratitude.

"You are free," she continued. "Isn't it wonderful?"

He wasn't completely sure what it meant, but yes, it truly was wonderful.

Her foot hovered above his. He liked the thought, the idea of this, as much as the reality. The only other fact he knew about caterpillars was their herbivorous diet. His leafy spine tingled at the thought.

"What would you like to do with your new-found freedom?" she said.

"What do you mean, like--" He gave her an incredulous smirk, tilting his head in unison. "I dunno. What do you do with freedom?"

"Anything you want," she said. "That's why it's called freedom."

He tried assembling his dreams, of work and life, his fantasies, but those that didn't hide themselves seemed suddenly insignificant, at least by comparison. "What would make you happy?" he said.

Her eyes glistened, as she gently pulled her lips unstuck. "Congratulations," she said, warmly. "You've made it."

He felt like he'd just passed some concealed test.

"It's time, my sweet," she continued. "My name is Amala."