Prometheus (LGBT+) ✔

8. Φίλοι (Friends)

"Do you want to come inside?"

Yes. "No, thanks. I still have to eat."

"Alright. Until next time!" Emile lifts his hand in goodbye.

Yes. Next time. I should really stop these regular encounters. If I don't need more pills, I don't need to see Emile. Better for him, better for me, better for everyone.

I wander through the neighbourhood until I come across a homeless man in a secluded corner of a church portal.

"Everything alright?"

"What do you want?" His eyes are pits of shadows deep in their sockets, even though the sun hasn't set yet.

"Nothing. Company."

"You're not a cop?"

"No. I'm a teacher."

"And what would a nice bloke like you find on the streets that he can't find elsewhere?"

I huff. "More people than in my home, at least."

The man assesses me and relaxes. "Alright."

He stinks, but his pheromones must be compatible or I wouldn't be attracted to him. I lean over and he doesn't react. Under my spell already, like Eve fell under the spell of the serpent. When I've drunk my fill, I leave the man with fifty euro in his pocket. The aftertaste is still bitter, but at least I haven't stolen from him. It would be easier if I could reward Emile like I can a homeless man. Easier if he was not so nice, if he didn't have a daughter, if I didn't have to risk my secrets to keep them, if I didn't have to hide from both him and a fresh stream of nameless people. I've never drunk twice from the same person and now ... Twice the risk, twice the guilt and I can't escape.

The apartment is emptier than ever. I listen to Pärt and fall into a familiar void. It's better than nothingness. How deep have I sunk when the cold itself has become my blanket?

***

It's a good day. I've been writing for a few hours and I've almost finished the poem I'm working on. It's only the first draft, but I'm still euphoric from one perfect find that encapsulates the meaning of the verse as succinct as in Greek while keeping the alliteration. I wish it wasn't weekend, so I could go down to the station and meet Emile and tell him. And then he'd ask about the poem and I'd cite my favourite verses in Greek, just to hear him say: "That's all Greek to me." Maybe I'd even let him read my translation. Gitte knows about my translation and as a classicist, she'd be a better beta-reader, but I've never considered to send her my work, nor anyone else.

Is this what it means to be friends and not colleagues or strangers? I haven't had friends since the beginning of the Plague and papà's death. I was a boy then and friends meant you played on the streets and you shared your sweets and you went to each other's house to look at your parents working. If you fought, you forgot it by the next day and you were happy to see one another. I don't even know their names anymore. There was one boy whose mother was a seamstress, and one whose parents sold the fish his father caught. He had an older sister, I think. She hugged me once. I remember faces, with dark eyes and hair like dry or wet sand or a raven feather, and how we traded shells and everyone was jealous of a conch I found. It was white and pink and it sparkled in the sun.

I have a friend, the first one since the fourteenth century. Christ, am I such a monster that my first friend has to be the person I have most wronged, the one I have stolen blood and pills from?

***

"Dante! Long time no see."

I force the corners of my mouth up. "It's only been ten days."