In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Thirteen

Somewhere, in the distance of an echoing, dripping cavern, someone hesitantly calls out for you. Your eyes flutter and you stir, your head and shoulder slipping from the wall and nearly dropping you to the floor, but your hands jerk out and just catch you. You swallow.

"Pascal? Are you in here?"

Oh, no. Oh no no no.

You swallow again, flex your lips and your tongue. First you just barely murmur, testing their strength to figure out how much you'll have to force to avoid slurring. You push yourself up, slide back again, and the loud thump of your shoulder against the wall calls his attention because now soft, clicking footsteps are coming your way.

"Pascal?" He pauses a few stalls away, carefully walking past, one by one. His feet stop at yours, beautiful, shiny black shoes, and he gently knocks at your door.

"Is that you?" he asks gently.

If the door weren't between you he would be looking into your eyes and you could touch his face, his shoulder, if he'd let you.

"Pascal," his voice is high now, tinged with not quite hysteria but something close. "If you're in there, please talk to me."

"Yeah," you croak. The door shifts slightly when he leans his weight on it, only held in place by the lock. "Sorry."

His feet shift and the door shifts again, and this time you rest your own shaking hand against it, too, like if you willed hard enough, you could sink through and reach him and reassure him that everything's okay.

"It's been almost ten minutes and you left your phone at the table. I panicked. After how badly it affected you that first time, I was afraid something terrible had happened or maybe you were injured somewhere." He's talking a little too fast and his accent and speech pattern is thicker, words slurred together in one long, lilting string of syllables, so much more awkward in English than in his native French.

"Ten minutes?" you mouth, but when he says, "Yes," you know you've said it out loud and that means you're nowhere near stable enough to leave this stall yet.

"What happened? he asks. "You're slurring."

You cover your mouth tightly, trying to form a seal with your palm. You're disgusting, an idiot, useless, and now he knows, straight into your first date without even having time to go anywhere. But at least you didn't have time to get any more attached.

There are only two things you can say, so you go with the one that doesn't involve illegal activity.

"I mean, you know how psych meds can be, right?" Your voice hitches, sharp and painful, and you lower your head.

"Yes, I do," he finally says, and your head darts up so fast you nearly knock yourself backward.

"What... what do you mean, yes?" The slur dragging your words together makes the stammer even more difficult to navigate. He gently raps on the door again and says,

"Let's go somewhere more private and we'll talk."

His shoes click on the bright tile twice more and you pull open the door and step out. He starts to reach for you, then hesitates, and the movement is slight but obvious when his hand curls back in on itself and his shoulder shifts back.

"Do you need to wash your hands, first?" he says softly.

"Probably." And even though you don't, really, you do it anyway, because it's obvious he needs you to and he's already done so much.

***

You end up deciding to go through the Mathematica exhibit while you talk, because for you, at least, talking is easier when it's done in a neutral place, a meeting place, a place where you both equally belong and can leave at any moment should you need to. On the walk to the floor, he doesn't bring it up, and you also keep quiet in case you get lucky enough for him to forget.