He supposed it all started with a lucky blue tie and a phone call.

A phone call placed by his insolent, pig-headed, smart-mouthed little brother Kadar, a man younger only by five years but seemed to still have the cheek and devil-may-care attitude of a teen, while simultaneously racing up the corporate ladder and leaving his older peers in the dust. A man who, although only twenty three, was already earning more money in a month than Malik did in a year.

The injustice of it continued, as always, to make him ground his teeth in silent but not hidden rage and deepen the scowl that had taken a permanent position on his face. Of course, he should be proud of Kadar and all his achievements, considering what Malik had been doing when he was twenty three. And what had that earnt him? A job as a taxi cab driver, with no end of the living hell in sight. Meanwhile, Kadar was making the big bucks in the courtroom, winning case by case until guilty men and women were practically on their knees and begging for his aid. Kadar had once even boasted after a night of drinking that a man had offered to suck his cock in exchange for his legal help, so desperate he had been.

Malik had a hard time believing that particular offer. His pride forbid it.

Kadar had, of course, offered to help him financially-"I could put in a good word somewhere, you know. Could help you land a better job than carting around drunkards in the early hours"-but this was another thing Malik's pride had forbid. He was his own man, and he could manage himself and his wallet perfectly fine.

This was not the argument he used during the phone call that lasted exactly two minutes, and predictably it did not end in his favour.

"I can't afford to taxi you around whenever you like, Kadar. When I taxi you around, I have to pay for it, out of my own pocket. Do you have any idea how much I earn? Barley enough to live on without me carting you around for free."

"I promise, ill pay you this time! All I need is for you to take me to my apartment, then the airport. I promise that once I get back-"

"You promised that last time, or do I have to remind you? You owe me thirty bucks, and that's been outstanding for over a month."

A slight pause. When sound returned, Kadar's voice had raised an octave. "I have cash in my apartment. If you give me a ride now, I can pay you back the thirty bucks and give you the rest of the money when I get back from Australia. Please, Malik? You now how important this is. Be merciful for once in your life."

Another pause, a longer pause, this time from Malik.

(a pause of consideration rather than in frustration. )

"Ill be there in ten minutes. And you had better pay me back, or this is the last time im ferrying you around."

( lie )

A sigh of relief from Kadar. "Oh, thank God. I was really starting to think-"

Malik hung up the phone before he had a chance to finish, fingers angrily stabbing at the button to end the call before he could listen to any more of Kadar's over-honeyed gratitude. Sometimes he was sick of just how well that kid worked with words.

Malik kicked off the wall he was leaning on, sliding the phone back into the pockets of his jacket and stepping back into the dwindling heat of the day. Late afternoon, the sun still strong enough to give the tourists on the beach sunburn but not quite enough to make wearing jeans uncomfortable. A Sunday. The day of church, the day of giving, the day of forgiveness. Malik never found the time nor interest to ever visit the House of God; while he would admit the building itself was impressive-it sat just across from him now, white marble gleaming softly, welcomingly in the sunlight and yet so cold and unforgiving to the touch with an ever constant flow of nuns, families, and homeless folk streaming in through its doors- it was more the ideals, endless sermons, the people who used religion as an excuse for their acts that drove him from the arms of Christianity or any other religion.

Yet curiously enough it was the concept of God, of religion, that lingered on his mind as he stepped off the curb and climbed into his cab. Perhaps it was the inane boredom that racked him through the day that clutched to that train of thought, desperate for any form of entertainment to drive away the creeping insanity. Or possibly it was the way the church stood that Sunday morning, imposing, glaring, shadows slowly creeping down its face like a furrowed brow, almost as if in warning or insult. But soon the radio cut through the pious thoughts and provided him with a new and much more comforting train of distractions; his fingers fumbled to change the channel from the current one that was blaring some new pop hit, undoubtedly sung by a young and 'dashing' rockstar that was drunk on money and fame, the hit that would eventually become the singers theme tune to his own spiral downwards as he gets done for drugs and DUI in a few years.

The afternoon sun was soon bright and glaring through the car windows as he drove and cleared his head from any negative thoughts-and there were plenty of them. The Sunday was a typical Sunday, a lazy Sunday, if you could call any Sunday in the city lazy. In the suburbs, women would be sitting in their Sunday best on their pristine white porches, tittering about how silly their husbands were while their children played Cops and Robbers barefoot in the backyard with the dog. Teens would be riding bikes up and down the street, hollering dirty innuendos to each other that only their generation could laugh at. Grandmothers and fathers would be sleeping in the old rocker chair that sat just off the side of the back porch with knitting or a magazine held loosely in hand. The Sunday in the city, this city, was almost the polar opposite.

The sun provided an excellent opportunity for the street artists; Malik drove past many a plaza packed to the brim with people admiring the chalk sketches that spanned the bricks, and hundreds of new graffiti tags would undoubtedly don the walls of buildings by nightfall. Girls walking the streets in skimpy clothing, eyeing the men without shirts that were returning from the beach or gym with the men doing likewise. The scent of stale croissants and poorly made espressos that weaved its way through the crowds and drifted in through his open window left a pleasant but not entirely welcome imprint on the whole city, luring customers and adding to the 'beach side city' vibe that oh too often drew the tourists here, hoping to show off their seaside body, get laid, and relax. Cars, aside from taxis (like his own) and buses were a rare sight; roller skaters and skate boarders often took up the space on the road in their board shorts, tank tops, backwards caps, and cheap sunglasses. Music blared from apartment windows and cafes alike, the mixture of blues and rock and roll pounding the pavement and sending vibrations through his cab as he drove.

Malik loved the city. It was so vibrant, so colourful, so confusing and muddled and yet so at peace. The city was small, the population too big for its home-but you could live here forever and still discover new nooks and crannies. Take a wrong left here or there and you could find yourself in a completely new and foreign world; with street lamps and gravel replaced in a heartbeat by colourful paper lanterns and hand painted patterns on bricks that would make your head dizzy, new sights and smells and sounds assaulting your senses as you stumble through only to find yourself back onto the gravel and streetlamps that had once seemed homely now seem boring, bland, lifeless. He took a right on the road and left the apartment block with its internet cafes and splashes of paint here and there, murals sprouting up like flowers, and entered the political side of the city with its tall and grand buildings that glared down upon him, all grey and white just like the minds and thoughts of the people who work and live here.

The city was alive, the whole place pulsed and beat and breathed like a living animal. And Malik loved it. It was one of the few things he loved in this world.

The business and political part of the city that Malik found himself in was, while not as exuberant as the others, still bustling with activity, but this was a different form of life. This part of the city held all of the parliamentary buildings-the courthouse, the woman's prison, lawyer firms sprouting here and there like weeds- and thus the minds and thoughts and lives of the people that lived and worked here were grey, slow, and empty. You saw it in their faces; not a shred of emotion or colour, just a woeful blankness or sadness as if marble statues in a museum had sprung to life and started to walk the streets with suits and fading hair. They walked with their heads and hearts heavy with bodies made of lead and thoughts of air. No dreams came true here, if they were ever lucky enough to be conceived. The buildings made him feel like he had gone back in time; tall and imposing, all cold white stone and marble pillars, polished granite stairs leading to metal doors and barred windows that shut off the outside and sneered at him as he drove past. Even the air had gained a greyish tint, the sky now seeming desolate and lonely when minutes before it was clear and the sun had shone with a smile.

Malik hated this place. He didn't know how Kadar could bear to stand it.

( But it wasn't the place that he hated, its inhabitants, the way the buildings made him fear; what he hated was that Kadar could end up like the others who worked and lived here. His fear was irrational, silly, a child's fear almost, but it was still there, niggling at the back of his mind, whispering and feeding his fear before he has a chance to crush it. He was afraid that Kadar would become like them, one of them; a mindless creature, devoid of all colour, emotion, love and hopes and dreams- he was afraid of losing his brother to his work. That was what, he told himself, kept his fear rational. He didn't want his brother to become a workaholic. That was what he told himself, though it was only part of the truth. )

The courthouse was suddenly looming, a familiar figure standing halfway up the grandiose stars clutching a briefcase and waving with an over-enthusiastic and almost cheesy grin. Match that with the loose tie, the ruffled hair, the blue eyes and chubby baby cheeks- you wouldn't think Kadar of a lawyer at all. He had more the look of a dishevelled door salesman who had just made the sale of a lifetime. Kadar knew about his look, had learnt to embrace it, accept it; it apparently came in handy during high level court cases. He said it 'gave him the look of an amateur, and therefor gives me an advantage. I love the look on their faces when I completely wreck their case. Its absolutely priceless.'

Malik still hadn't decided whether Door Salesman Kadar sold vacuum cleaners or life insurance. He was leaning towards the life insurance.

Kadar was already stumbling his way down the steps when Malik pulled up to the curb. He gave a small honk on the horn, to irritate Kadar he would say, but truthfully it was to see the look of surprise on the politicians faces as they turned towards the sound. Surprise was one of the few emotions that ever showed on their usual empty faces- the others known to him being sadness and envy. Envy was ugly, twisted their features into something hideous, and sadness was just pitiful so Malik usually didn't try to invoke them, but it was one of the few pleasures he gets out of coming into this district and right now he would take what he would get.

"You just had to honk the horn, didn't you? Do you get off on humiliating me?" The back door wrenched open with such a force the whole car tipped slightly to one side, and Kadars briefcase was thrown into the back before the door was slammed closed again. The same bone-jarring yank from the front door and Kadar threw himself into the cab. The brief rush of air from the outside was cold and stung his lungs, and he reached to turn the central heating on. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows growing darker and longer.
"Do you really want me to answer your question? Or are you going to apologise before I kick you out of this car and make you walk home?" Malik had played the trump card. The vengeful look that had broken out on Kadar's face was, in a blink, replaced with one of almost deathly terror. ( fake, of course. ) "Hey, look, I'm sorry, okay? Just, don't do that again, please? Its bad enough as it is being the youngest here, and having my brother pick me up isn't improving my rep."

Malik gave a snort as he pulled out of the curb. "Not improving your reputation? What reputation?" The quip earned him a jap in the ribs, but he could see a slow smile crack onto Kadars face. "Oh, just the reputation of me being possibly the most ass-kicking lawyer in the city. I might even work as an MP one day. Maybe lower a few taxes here and there. The public will love me." Said with a wink, the smile broad and bright now.

"The Public may, but the rest of the government won't. You'll be out within a month."

"They can't stop me."

"You're an idiot."

"Takes one to know one." Another wink, then it was Kadar's turn for an elbow to the ribs. The air conditioning was working quickly now, hot air blasting on Malik's knees and burning his face. Outside, he turned back into the apartment block, the streets quieter as the sun went down and the air turned frigid and turned the breath of whoever was still out there-clubbers, couples on dates, lost tourists- into a gust of mist that billowed out from their hands, pressed against their mouths to keep them warm.
That was another thing Malik loved about the city; the nights that arrive quickly, silently, unexpectedly, bringing cold air and winds to toss about long hair and numb fingers, winds to tease and trick and dance with the leaves that had dropped to the ground to show the first signs of autumn. The winds that blew away the clouds to reveal the stars, winds that made music in the chimes and powered the sailboats in the harbour, winds to churn the waves and spiral a pattern in the sand. Malik loved the nights in the city, loved the hot and lazy afternoons, loved the sunsets that took an age to die, loved his brother sitting beside him who was tapping away a tuneless beat on his leg with a pen, a bundle of nerves.

"Remind me again exactly why you have to fly all the way to Australia? I thought your court case was taking place here." At this, Kadar sighed, a sigh well practised and used many a time. "It is taking place here." He sat up straighter and with a frown quickly replacing his grin, a hint a contempt hidden well in the folds of his voice. "Problem is, while my oppositions client did commit his major crimes here and will take his trial here, he had been caught and taken into custody in Aussie." Hands making small deft movements, as if speaking to a crowd. Malik stifled a grin. " Therefore, because the client has also committed crimes in Australia, he'll face another trial there, too. It's a ridiculous policy."

"Must have broken some pretty serious laws."

"He's going down for murder, attempted murder, petty theft, resisting arrest, kidnapping and trespassing. So, yes, he has broken some pretty serious laws." The grin was back again. " Makes it a cakewalk for me, though. I've got all the evidence I need just from one of his crimes, and the rest is just a stroll in the park."

Malik let out a low whistle. "Almost makes It worth it going to Australia, I'm assuming."

"Going to another country for two weeks on a court case where I don't have to do anything, and still get paid for it? Most definitely." This caused maliks brow to furrow deeper. " Two weeks? I thought it was four."

"One of the witnesses got himself killed, so they had to cut down to half the time."

A small alarm bell went off in the corner of Maliks mind, a bell quickly smothered and forgotten, shoved aside because the very reason it was going off was ridiuclous. " How'd he manage that? Someone with enough cash to hire a contract killer?"

"Not as exciting as that, unfortanutely. Unless this contract killer pushed him in front of the car he got run over by."

"Its not unlikely. Watch yourself over there."

"You worry too much."

He pursed his lips. "I like to think I worry enough."

The 'lucky' blue tie turned out to be quite lucky after all.

It became evident the moment they walked into Kadar's flat that he hadn't the time nor thought to pack his bags for the trip. This resulted in a very rushed twenty minute bag packing session, consisting mainly of very near punches, a lot of confused and angry shouting, and an incredibly long list of curses from Kadar that even Malik was impressed with. The lucky tie itself was found, after ten minutes of searching-"You have four ties already Kadar, why the fuck do you need another?" "Its my lucky blue tie!" as if that explained anything-behind the couch and underneath four 'Woman's choice' magazines. Malik didn't have the time nor the patience to question his brothers magazine choice, but took Kadar's weak excuse of 'I like the recipes in them' well enough. This twenty minute delay ended in a very erratic drive to the hospital-in which Malik is positive he broke the speed limit at least twice-, Malik dropping and losing his phone somewhere on the way back to his car which was just fan fucking tastic, and Kadar being late for his flight.

The luck of the blue tie still held strong, however, because Kadar managed to make it in time and push out a hurried 'goodbye' before sprinting for the terminal, waving his ticket in the air like a madman. Malik barely had time to acknowledge his farewell before his brother swept through the gates and was gone.

That was how he found himself sitting on a barstool in the airport café, munching a chicken burrito that tasted more like cardboard and sad, wet, limp lettuce, wishing he was anywhere but here. Airports always made him feel so tiny and insignificant, always reminded him exactly what he wasn't doing with his life, always made him feel like a spectator to a movie about how great everyone else was doing except him. How everyone seemed to be happy except for him.

Suddenly desperate for something to capture and divert his attention from the dark thoughts that loomed over his mind, his eyes roamed the room, fliting over people and observing the minute and yet so very loud stories that were unfolding before him. How curious it was, each and every person having their own story, their own family, their own share of tragedy and happiness and their own dreams. There was a young girl, perhaps twenty or so, sitting hunched in the corner with a dark blue beanie and ripped jeans. Tattoos wove their way up her arm, settling onto her neck, the light from her phone she had pressed close to her face illuminating the nose piercing and the slight blush that still shone from her cheeks. A bushel of roses took up the seat next to her, tied in a dark red ribbon, two different coloured duffel bags sat at her feet with papers-papers that looked like college acceptance papers- spilling out of the pockets, A love letter tucked into her pocket.

A shrill cry of 'mommy!' echoed through the room, causing other heads aside than from Malik's to turn. A toddler in a bright pink plastic dress trundled over to woman with dark brown hair, arms open, wide and toothy grin plastered on her face. The woman grins back, sweeping the child into her arms, planting a kiss onto her forehead and causing the child to giggle. Another woman, blonde, makes her way over with two bags- a larger and a smaller, pink backpack, presumably the child's- and joins in on the hug, if only for a brief but sweet moment. When she pulls back, the brunette woman asks a question, one Malik's too far away to hear, but the answer the blonde woman gives is a bad one. The brunettes face crumples, tears shine in her eyes but refusing to fall, and she buries her head into the toddlers shoulder. Malik turns his head away.

Curiously enough, the next person Malik's eyes land on is rather unremarkable. A man, suit jacket slung over his arm with no tie to match and a pair of black sneakers underneath dress pants. Athletically built. Thick, dark blonde hair, scar on his upper lip, a scar to tell a story. Scars as curious as that always have a story to tell, a story to tell perhaps in the dark hours in the morning where almost everyone is at their most weak and vulnerable. The scar was, of course, curious, but Malik was more interested in his lips.

Soft, full, perhaps slightly chapped, they were the kind of lips fantasies were born from. They were the kind of lips that could build you up and destroy you in a single sentence, all while making you fall in desperate, wild, unforgiving love with the owner. They were the kind of lips that were good in a smirk, a sneer, not in a smile but oh so delicious in a frown. The kind of lips you wanted pressed against every inch of your being, whispering all sorts of things, dangerous things perhaps, unkind things, but oh, you wouldn't care because you would have those lips all to yourself, because whoever owned them was yours.

Malik tore himself away, telling himself that if he strayed too long, he would get noticed, he would go down in the man's mind as 'the guy who stared at me in the airport'. But no matter how much he tried to stop himself ( or how much he tried to hide it ) his gaze kept drifting back to the man with the scar on his lips and the suit jacket slung over his arm.

An old man taking a seat wearily beside him, reaching into his pocket for a newspaper with a crossword half finished. 'Cannibal' for number four, down. He puts down 'my wife.' as an answer.

How did he get the scar? Did he get into a barfight? Or perhaps something more serious, he served the military, he certainly has the body for it.

Two parents enter, swinging a young boy in between them, singing 'Under Pressure' off tune but with so much joy and laughter its impossible not to smile, until one of them stops and his face drops in belated shock. The father lets go of the child's hand, backpedals, checks behind him, and Maliks close enough to hear the hushed 'we forgot the bags' that he whisper-shrieks to his wife. Her face goes white, stark against her bright red curly hair that falls across her face, barely held back by a bright pink headband. The boy asks for a cookie.

What purpose could black sneakers serve, while wearing a suit? Was the man expecting to be running while still dressed in formal wear? The shoes would have stood out less if he had gone barefoot.

Malik gives up, allows himself to continue to steal longer glances at the man. All in all, he's thoroughly confused on why this man seems to have captured his devout attention. There's nothing special about him, nothing blindingly interesting, nothing to draw his attention to him at all and yet its there. The man, while reasonably attractive, was almost like the men and women who lived in the political side of his city; expression carved out of stone, his silence solemn, lonely, all dressed and living and breathing black, white, grey-except his eyes.

Malik now believes he has found what has captured his attention for so long, too long. A peculiar colour, but not unpleasant, in fact most extraordinary; a blend of brown, yellow, an almost golden honey colour, which in itself may not be extraordinary but it wasn't the colour, it was the way they shone and changed and weaved through different shades when the light differed. He leant one way, they changed to a dark, brooding, almost black where no light shone and secrets were held and dirty little things were kept hidden away. He leant another, they jumped into life; swirling amber that was almost transparent, translucent, cats eyes. Soft eyes that whsipered sweet promises with no intention of keeping them. Eyes with ridiculously long eyelashes. Eyes that could make someone fall in love with just a wink or a glance, eyes that have and will cause heartbreak. Eyes that were now studying him.

To say that he nearly leapt out of his seat in surprise would have been an understatement. He would have literally fallen off his stool if it hadn't been for his vicelike grip on the bars wooden pillar to his left. Malik didn't remember when he had grabbed the pillar, but sure as hell he's glad he had grabbed it now. He looked away as fast as he could, to as far as he could, but it was too late, the blush was already burning in his cheeks. He found himself aware of his mouth hanging slightly open and snapped it shut, swallowing the screech of embarrassment that was rising up his throat.

Bad idea.

Very, very, very bad idea.

He kept his eyes diverted, not moving his gaze from the hideous blue and green tiled floor, pretending-awfully-to study the seemingly random pattern placed there by the tiler. Every second seemed like an age. All of his senses were shut off, numbed, every fibre in his being shrieking at him and burning from the shame and embarrassment, so it was only when they were only four feet away that he registered the sound of sneakers squeaking on the tiles, sneakers coming steadily closer. He only dared look up, however, when the heavy thud of a duffel bag sounded in his ears-it seemed to echo, everything seemed to echo- and he felt a small tap on his shoulder.

Please don't be him oh fuck please don't be him, please

The man with the suit jacket slung over his arm and a scar on his lips was standing in front of him, arm retracting from reaching to tap him on the shoulder.

Oh fuck me

"Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but you're a taxi driver, yes?"

That was not what he was expecting to come out of that man's mouth.

( he was expecting something more along the lines of 'why the fuck were you staring at me, do I have something on my face or what' and having to go through the horrific process of having to explain that no, there is nothing on your face, I'm just in love with your eyes and lips, please press yours to mine )

This throat and mouth were to dry to answer, so he simply nodded. God knows how the man knew this, and he certainly wasn't going to ask.

"Good. I require your services. Can I hail your cab? After you've...finished your meal, of course." He nodded towards the long forgotten burrito, teetering dangerously on the edge of Malik's leg. He seemed to share Malik's doubt of whether it was edible or not.

"i..i..i'm sorry?" Malik was, put simply, struck dumb. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and he was sure he looked ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. This turn of events had ripped the rug from beneath his feet and he had landed hard on his ass.

"Oh, my apologies. You probably need my name. Its Altair. A pleasure, I'm sure."

Altair. The name was sharp and cold like his voiec, cut the tounge to say, brought the smell of foreign spices and images of pale sun-beat stone to Maliks mind. "Altair." He repeated. "Its…yes. It's a pleasure. I'm Malik. You need a taxi?" Short, quick fired setences were about all he could manage to spit out. The blush was still afire on his cheeks, showing no signs of retreating any time soon, but Altair had the good enough grace to pretend not to notice. " Yes. Not very far, just the block of flats called-" he paused a moment, a slight frown glancing across his face- the only sign that he was capable of emotion at all- before reachig into one of his pants pockets and bringing out an old, weather beaten and dog eared leather notebook. He flipped through the pages quickly-Malik catching glances of scribbled notes and checked off lists in black ink-before stopping on a page and pressing his index finger to an address near the bottom of the yellowed paper. "-Harbor lights. Can you take me there?"

Harbor lights was an apartment block that sat by the docks, seven stories high, constantly lit up like a casino, and nail bitingly expensive. The rumours of nightly prices that had reached Maliks ears were, in the least, four digits, but the view of the harbor and the flats themselves were apparently priceless. They also happened to be a good hours drive away, an hour that Malik could spend asleep on his couch while trying to watch another dreary soap opera.

Perhaps, if Malik hadn't lost his phone, he wouldn't have convinced himself he needed the extra fare money for a replacement.

Perhaps, if Kadar had packed his bag, Malik wouldn't have happened to chance apon Altair.

Perhaps.

"Of course." Malik found his tounge again. " Its an hours drive away, so we should get going now. If that's alright with you, of course." The snide remark slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, a natural reaction imprinted on his brain from years of quick comebacks and sarcasm-learnt from dealing with shitheads and drunkards that chose his cab to hire. A frown slunk its way on to Altairs face ( and oh those eyes grew hard, so dark and delicious ) as he caught the remark, registered it, confirmed It was mockery. For a while he said nothing, and for a while Malik waslike a mouse being examined by a bird of prey, and for a while Malik felt the fear only prey could feel in the eyes of a predator.

"Fine." Altair said, turned on his heel, picked up his duffel and made his way to the exit.

Malik had never been so happy to throw away a meal before.

The silence in the cab was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.

He had turned off the radio, per request of his passenger. His request had been the only words he had spoken since they had left the airport, and Malik should have been relieved that he wasn't talking. Being a driver of a cab meant he got his fair share of strange and unwanted conversation; parents chattering on about daughters at university, slimy men in cheap suits and gelled back hair trying to sell him into a pyramid scheme, drunk teens on their way home from a party testing out pick up lines on him. It was always a relief to have a passenger that kept to themselves, made the car ride almost pleasant.

But the silence in this car was almost as painful as dragging nails down a chalkboard.

His gaze flickered to the rear view mirror. Altair was leaning against the window with his face pressed to the glass, those cursed eyes of his catching and reflecting the streetlamps light. Each moment that remained in quiet was another nail in Maliks coffin, another moment to stretch the tension to almost past breaking point, and Malik required sound- some noise, some voice to cut through the stillness that was filling his lungs and drowning him in the dark.

"Youre not from around here, are you?"

The defult line, a question he asked to almost every tourist that entered his cab, the only words his lips could form. Altairs gaze shifted from the window to his, and he simply nodded, a silent no.

"Figured as much, with the suit and all. Not many tourists come here all dressed up like theyre ready for a fancy dress party."

"Im not a tourist." First words from the backseat of the cab. Words spoken with a tone of utter blankness and devoid form of all emotion, words that chilled the air and made the cab cold even with the heating at full.

A forced chuckle from Malik. "Oh, here on work buissness, I see. What sort of work requires sports shoes with dress pants?"

"The kind of work whos concerns are over your paygrade."

Altairs tounge was as sharp as his name, his intent as clear as the night they drove under.

The cab ride fell into silence, and remained in silence.

"They're just up here."

Malik was pulling up to the side of the road when Altair stopped him, hand on his shoulder. "No. Im only visiting a friend, so ill need you to wait for me. It wont be long, then I'll need you to take me to a hotel. You can pick one. I don't care."

Truly a generous man.

He made sure to say to check Maliks response, see it was favourable, then climbed out of the car-taking his duffel with him. He waited until he was buzzed up and out of his sight before he started the car again, not to leave but to park in the alleyway beside the flats. A silent protest against Altairs demand for him to stay put. If he was smart enough, he would figure out where he had gone.

The alleyway was dark and dangerous, and Malik reached over to click on the locks to the doors. No good getting this extra fare if he got robbed and beaten to a pulb in the meantime. Glancing at his watch-five minutes since Altair had gone into the building- his feet rose to the dashboard and he settled back into his seat in wait, fingers linked behind his head and a yawn creeping to the back of his throat.

The position of his cab provided a perfect view of the resteraunt Al Fresco, well known for its authentic itallian food, open roof, and local hotspot for first and fifiteith dates. Malik could see them now; the young on first dates casting shy little smiles, hands flitting over the others, all nervous giggles and lies and too much makeup. The married couples with their laughter bright and truthfull, flirting like they were teens again, shooting dirty looks when the waiter leaves and sure of coming home to a warm bed and a pair of arms wrapped around them. The mish mash of speed daters, midde aged men and women acoustomed to a life of regection and only there for the food and potential for sex, with phone numbers staying on phones and never exchanged.

Ten minutes since Altair had entered the building.

Malik couldn't remember the last time he had been to Al frescos, couldn't remember if he had been alone or with another. Couldn't remember, even, the last time he had a date, regardless of whether it was at Al Frescos or some dingy bar somewhere.

( because that was a trend he had recognized through his many, if short and not so sweet relationships- none were memorable, none stood the test of time, none still left him with a pang of heartbreak when he thought about them. They were all the same, all the dates and all the faces and lovers blended together until there was no singularity, just a smudge left of the memory with brown hair there, freckles with him, first date at an amusement park with another. They were remembered in the shadowy light of a cheap pubs bathroom, remembered with the smell of limes, remembered at the sight of El Frescos but never felt, all the same. )

A year without a date-unless you counted numerous one night stands dates, which Malik didn't- had left him forced to resign to a brutal if honest realisation-That he was undateable, undesireable, unloveable. Two years of singularity had taken him off the saddle and pushed him away from so much as accepting a compliment or taking the time and effort to flirt back. Three years of being single had solidified the conclusion ( and almost a motto now ) that continued to rule over his love life.

That if love was going to eventually find him-and he was beginning to believe it wouldn't- then love would have to get up off its ass and come find him, because he wouldn't come looking for it any time soon.

Of course, Malik had no way of knowing that love had already sighted him in its crosshairs.

Love had aimed with a lucky blue tie and a well placed phone call.

Love had shot him with a half eaten burrito and a pair of eyes across the room.

Love struck him in the face with a piece of glass as the body of the man, who had previously lived in the apartment 32b of Harbor lights was pushed out of his third story window and landed-and shattered- on the windsheild of Maliks cab.

Headshot.