Silver / clay

⊱ 22 ⊰

Caleb stumbled into the club, his eyes scanning the scene. The blurred bouncer had stepped aside after a perfunctory inquiry into the state of his inebriation, perhaps on instruction to not turn money away.

The bar was where it always was, and he floated in that direction, vaguely aware of shifting bodies either side of him, colours swirling into rainbows of insignificance.

He'd managed to lose the others, deliberately or not, and had naturally gravitated to this holy site, praying that she might be here, a birthday surprise beyond reckoning. But the seat, oh, the seat stood stark, a shadow cloaking hope. He leant on it to keep his balance before pulling away sharply from the inevitable desecration.

The alcohol from gifted wallets mixed badly with Amala's missing manifestation, weighing heavily on his spirits, and his body drooped as a physical representation. He hadn't expected it, but the dream was alive up until he saw the emptiness with his own eyes, and now it was as if demons were wrapping their tendons around his soul, pulling and yanking in a jerky descent.

Until, that is, a pair of legs filled the space, not covered in thorns but, instead, smooth tights. The claws from below withdrew, one by one, as Caleb's heart inflated, his eyes leading up the short skirt, the pink sparkly top, the low v-neck. Even before reaching the face he knew what to expect. Or, more accurately, what he wouldn't get.

"Get off," said Caleb.

She ignored his cheery suggestion.

"You can't sit there," said Caleb.

The woman who wasn't Amala turned an incredulous expression his way. "Huh?"

"Someone else is sitting there, you can't sit there," said Caleb.

She looked both sides of her own body, then down to her feet, before opening her wings. "No one else is sitting here, jerk."

"You got a problem, mate?" said a male face, up close, too close.

"She can't sit there," said Caleb.

"Looks like she can," said the boyfriend. "Now fuck off."

It wasn't right. They couldn't just take her seat like that, the seat she always chose, the seat that was hers. What if she came in now, to wish him a happy birthday, what then? Even if her appearance was unlikely, he couldn't let this one go.

Caleb shook his head.

"Get lost, schitzo," said the woman, from behind her large boyfriend, who sat his drink on the bar before returning his attention to the strange man.

Caleb turned his cheek, already making peace with the impending sacrifice for Amala's honour. The bar was in a ring formation, and, on the other side, he spotted an apparition. Her resting beauty, her hidden smile, her unrelenting eyes. His guardian angel had arrived to bear witness, or to demonstrate her prowess as his saviour in flesh.

He'd got mixed up on the way in. Amala's chair was on the far side of the bar.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, into the dank air, as he realised the deeper error he'd made.

"What?" said the boyfriend.

"I'm so, so sorry." Caleb's voice quivered. He'd doubted her, for the first and last time, failing to recognise her innate grace.

"Uh, righto," said the boyfriend.

"Punch him out!" said the girlfriend.

"He's just some...weirdo," said the boyfriend. "Whatever."

To the sounds of the girlfriend's continued protestations, Caleb peeled his feet from the sticky floor and waded around the bar. Before he was halfway there, he stopped to admire the way Amala always kept control of her movements, the delicate way she brought the glass to her lips, the deliberate turn of her head, liberating her poise toward the fortunate patrons nearby, how her mouth barely opened when she spo--

Caleb jerked to a stop. It wasn't the sticky surface that held him firm. A man had approached her, possibly using a dodgy pick-up line. No, there was an ease to their body language -- although there always was from Amala.

The clawing returned, this time in the pit of Caleb's stomach, squeezing and prodding until he could barely stand. The demons brought with them an empty cold, like a crisp autumn evening once the sun sets, and he shivered on the spot. He clutched himself and, with fierce effort, raised his eyes to the pair.

The imposer was younger than Caleb and wore glasses that almost matched a shimmering grey shirt. He was still standing, Amala still sitting, which barely helped to withstand the onslaught inside Caleb, still far from repelling those miscreants. The man peered away, defying his earlier bravado, wilting beneath the warmth of Amala's presence, giving her the chance to collect her handbag, her phone, to ascend from the seat and make her way to the exit.

Caleb smiled as the man tried to catch up. He smiled further when she stopped to speak to him. This was going to end here, just as it had when he first beheld just a portion of all she was, at day zero. In fact she turned, in her own inimitable way, and left him in his wake.

A chuckle escaped from Caleb's mouth. His eyes sparkled. Until...

The man followed Amala out the door.

Caleb clutched his fears and, bumping through heavy traffic, ignoring complaints and threats, made it to the very precipice of the world outside when he spotted them both, facing each other, close, but not too close, a friendly discussion, or not. It was dark and his vision still hadn't replaced the alcohol in his system.

"In or out?"

The man had his phone out, sharing his attention, somehow sharing it with Amala, before holding the screen up for her pleasure, an inquiring tilt of his head.

"In or out?!" repeated the friendly bouncer by Caleb's side. "You're in the way."

A couple energetic bodies pushed through, knocking Caleb aside and making him miss some of the conversation. Or, at least, some of the body language from the conversation. He didn't miss the most important part: they were still there, still talking, still together.

"Out it is," said the bouncer, stringing Caleb by the nape and flinging him onto the footpath.

He rose with a covered face, his spying eyes immediately on Amala, feeling suddenly vulnerable, as if his clandestine actions were wronging her in some way. Thankfully, she hadn't seen him. But only because she wasn't there.

His eyes swivelled each direction, a panic settling in, but instead of spotting the pair his only discovery was the feeling of nausea rising up his throat. It took a moment to push it back down.

A man and woman strode leisurely across the busy thin road and he leaped after them. As he got closer, it was clear the woman wasn't his Amala. Her clothing choices were similar, but she owned nothing else in her mannerisms that could come close. Beyond them, a glint caught his eye. Caleb followed it down the street and, as it turned the corner, he could see a bespectacled face rising from within the metallic shirt.

He was alone, this usurper. Amala must have severed from him outside the club. Caleb stared back in that direction, as if he could catch a glimpse of her still. Then, resolute, he continued following the silver slug, down another street until sliding onto a bus. Caleb sat behind, a few rows back, his eyes firmly fixed on the shining collar.

They disembarked after a short journey in suburbia, and walked down a quiet tree-lined street, Caleb keeping in the shadows of the sporadic street lights. The man walked up to a grand bluestone home, fumbling for his keys at the door.

Caleb took note of the house number and then left, sensing the burden of affluence surrounding him.