To Expect

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Welcoming bells chimed a second time as the door closed behind him. He looked at his dim reflection in the window to shuffle his brown hair into place, then looked beyond the glass to verify that his motorcycle was still there, assaulted by the rain. When the waitress enjoined him to pick any table he wanted - Sunday evenings were slow at the diner - he settled for one that would allow him to see both the empty street and the entrance at once and ordered a large coffee, hopeful that he would need it until... as many hours as possible. One could hope, even with one as predictable as Mai Valentine. Especially with one as unpredictable as Mai Valentine.

Valon glanced at the clock. Bold squared digits, rotating fork and knife for hands. Ten to.

He'd found it highly unusual that she'd arrange for them to meet in a place where people could actually sit; whisper and not shout; see each other's faces clearly. But that display of unusual behavior was only the first one in a string of startling discoveries.

Namely, that Mai Valentine was back - had apparently settled - in Domino City. That she had a landline (a madly lovesick Valon hadn't had any hopes when, ten months and a half after having last seen her, he decided, on a whim, to skim through the Yellow Pages). That she'd picked up the phone a little too quickly when he finally dared dialing her number. That she didn't sound remorseful, upset or bothered. Merely a little distant. She had sounded genuinely happy to hear his voice. But not overly so.

Valon turned his head when a motorcycle engine purred in front of the café, then rolled away. It wasn't Mai. He allowed his eyes to follow the vehicle until it was out of sight.

The waitress had somehow materialized next to him and was laying out a saucer, spoon and cup for him to enjoy. "It's hot," she warned before walking away. He actually welcomed the heat, the burning sensation against his palms; the unexpected autumn rain had soaked through his jacket and chilled him down to his bones. He was glad he had chosen a seat that wasn't too close to the door and the wet drafts that would brush by him if a customer entered. It was one of those classic diner booths whose tables had a white top and a bright red rim on the side, the seats cushions were of that dark turquoise that was so in fashion when the place opened. A minivan passed by. Definitely no Mai Valentine.

Another glance at the clock. Five to.

Back in the day they wouldn't keep track of the time; while their contemporaries, unaware of the imminent end of the-world-as-we-know-it, liked to think of their existence as slipping away from their humble beginnings, Valon's routine was partitioned differently. In amounts of souls - the more they collected, the closer they came to their own grandiose objective. Mai might have been the rookie in their quatuor but she was the fiercest one. And until Joey Wheeler entered the equation (she'd somehow find ways to avoid his gaze and remain silent when Valon tried to probe information out of her), she'd kept her mind set on productivity. Dates and days did not matter. Only victories.

And so, still now Valon didn't know exactly how many days he'd spent trying to sleep in roadside motels but in vain because he had to have restless Rafael for a bedmate because Mai would only share her bed with estrogen proof Alistair. His seventeen year old self would merely gaze at the sleeping form of the blonde and the steady rise and fall of her chest, trying to match his breathing to hers. He had been wondering how he'd ended up being attracted to the woman despite the numbing spell of the Orichalcos, but when 'that morning' came, it became clear. He was plain crazy for her.

Outside the café, a sedan. Followed by another sedan. The latter stopped; someone got off and crossed the street hurriedly, shielding their head with a bag. Still no Mai Valentine. Valon took a sip of his lukewarm drink, winced, picked a pack of sugar from the stand on the table, worked it between his index and his thumb. He'd forgotten to ask for milk. The almost adult had only ever been a coffee drinker because he had had to, and the habit stuck.

Now the ticking fork and knife were perfectly aligned.

'That morning', Valon had woken up in his own bed. And Mai had woken up in her own bed. And there was nobody else in the room but the sunshine and the ocean visible through the window. And this time, for the first time, she was returning his gaze. He felt incredibly light and... sunny; no imminent feeling of doom or duty plagued him, and when he confirmed that the stone wasn't around his neck anymore, and that there was none around hers, he knew it was over.

They were free.

And without a word, they celebrated that newfound freedom.

He remembered her playful laugh when his hands ventured gauchely on her and the metallic taste of an earring when he took her earlobe in his mouth. He remembered his meek offer to close the blinds and how she refused, deftly stealing from him any potential protests - and something that felt like a first kiss.

The act ended as spontaneously as it had begun, and when the new man he'd become woke again, her head no longer rested on the soft skin where his shoulder joined his chest.

Instead, the image of a ghastly creature on a foil card and nearly a year of silence.

The roaring of not one, but two bikes drew him from his recollections. They halted on the side of the road, engines purring and exhaling gray clouds in the chill air. Behind them came a taxi. He tried to recollect the conversation he had with Mai earlier today; something about having a lot of free time, about wanting to catch up, but not about coming accompanied. He started worrying; what if Wheeler had found a way to worm himself into her life? The two riders took off. No Mai Valentine. Fortunately.

He looked up. Ten after.

The taxi drove off in the distance; at the door, a familiar chime of bells. Someone burdened by an inelegant raincoat and a baby carrier. Valon took a sip of his chilled coffee, glanced at the clock again without registering what time it was, and then she was standing in front of him.

He wanted to say something but he couldn't come up with anything smarter than "you're here" or "it's raining", so he just kept fiddling with the sugar packet, waiting for her to undress and settle, to make the first move.

She ever so carefully laid the basket on the seat and proceeded to take her raincoat off. Still that very revealing top, that attention grabbing lipstick, those beckoning curls in which he had loved to let his fingers roam. The boy fidgeted; she had never been one for greetings, but now it felt like she was actively avoiding him, lifting the light pink plastic sheet that covered the baby carrier.

It was her, Mai Valentine, the woman least likely to end up in that situation, but also the woman most likely to hide it, and then -

- and then his mouth dried up, the hairs at his neck bristled, and just like when he wore the sacred seal on his forehead, Valon found himself unable to think in any other way than in numbers.

Fifteen after. Eighteen years old. Ten months and a half - six weeks? Too late, too early, just right. Just right.

Valon felt the urge to stand up and demand that she look at him, that she explain or announce, but he froze, mesmerized by the the way her curls rose and fell on her chest as she breathed, at the remanent roundness around her hips that he decided he very much liked.

She stroked the sleeping child's forehead, tucking in a blond bang under the hem of her little hat. Neither could speak; neither could look at each other. Both set of eyes were riveted on the baby girl, and Valon found himself wishing she'd wake, just so he could see whether her eyes were blue or brown -

- when the unlikely mother finally spoke up, with finality, but softly so that she wouldn't wake her daughter or maybe because she had fallen prey again to that inner demon she called shame; when she finally spoke up, not quite looking up to the boy, it was to give the wrong answer to the right question:

"He doesn't know."