At the alleyway entrance, a young woman paused, an unmanicured finger twirling a long brown curl in indecision. There was a doorway to her left, from which muted, sensual music escaped. To her right was the pub where she usually went, saw the usual people, who would make the usual comments. There was no room for growth, for change, in that world. No room for her.
She hadn't made her last concession to normalcy, she knew. She had promised to play along, to play nice. She would work for the Ministry, keep her head down, stay out of trouble.
But tonight, she just couldn't stomach it. The pulsing beat from the neighboring nightclub might just drown it all out. Tonight, she was just another Londoner.
It wasn't a disco, as she had thought, but a sort of posh alt-jazz club. The bar looked out over a small, polished dance floor, surrounded by clusters of people at mismatched wooden tables, perched on delicate scrollwork chairs. A row of booths, divided by lush-looking curtains, lined the walls. The stage was a mere step higher than the floor, and a three-piece combo was playing something vaguely bossa nova, the guitarist also singing smoothly, sotto voce.
After ordering a drink at the bar, she scanned the room for an open seat, finally spotting a place at one of the booths at the back. Her mood was definitely a solitary one. She watched the trio swaying with the music as she lowered herself into the chair.
Only then did she realize that darkest corner of the booth was already occupied. She made a small, startled noise, and began a swift apology. "I'm sorry, I thought it was empty." She fumbled her words as she stood suddenly, mortified that she'd not checked the secluded corner more thoroughly for any occupants.
The occupant didn't seem to have noticed her arrival until she spoke. "Where did you come from?" asked the man - an American, by his accent, a mild yet interested drawl. Now that she knew he was there, she could see him, but it was clear why she hadn't before. He sat back in his chair, out of the dim glow of the table's single candle, hair and skin respectively dark and tanned, dressed in similarly muted tones - his shirt was maroon, perhaps, or deep burgundy - which didn't stand out against the polished wood table or the wine-colored curtain.
"Sorry," the woman repeated, hand resting on the back of her chair. "You're obviously waiting on someone else. I'll find another seat."
"No," he said, quickly stretching out his hand. He stopped abruptly, then looked at his hand, turning it over once, and she saw it was covered in spotty scars, like a cook's or a chemist's. "I," he stammered, "I'm not expecting anyone. You can have the seat, if you want it." The hand ran back through the man's tousled hair, putting it into a even more extreme state of disarray.
The woman scanned the room again. The club had filled up even further since her arrival, and even the dance floor was occupied now. "Looks like there aren't any others," she sighed, sitting down again. "I shan't disturb you, though. I was looking for a little peace, myself."
"Peace," he echoed, somewhat distantly. "Yes, I'm...looking for that, too." He pulled his chair a bit closer to the table, until his face was no longer hidden in shadow. His olive skin was deeply tanned. The expression he wore was stolid, cautious, but inquisitive eyes peered out from it. She sat in quiet thought, unconsciously biting her lip.
She'd expected him to withdraw again to the corner, or fall into silence. But he sat, expression softening gradually, as unarticulated questions flickered across his face. The band came to the end of the set, and the two inhaled simultaneously. "How..." they said, chuckling nervously.
"You first," he said, motioning to her.
She started to demur, but curiosity overcame her. "How long are you in London?"
The man looked mildly chagrined. "How'd you figure out I wasn't a local?" A wry, lopsided smile played at the corners of his mouth. "The accent, right?"
"That," she replied, looking slightly pleased with herself, "but also your tan. If I had to guess, you've been in the tropics recently."
The wry smile threatened briefly to become a grin, but subsided into solemnity. He drew in a sharp breath. "Yes, I was," he said, without further exposition. "Okay, now it's my turn," he said. "How come you're here by yourself? You don't seem to be the loner type."
"It's...complicated," she said, letting out a bit of a sigh. "I needed some time...to think, I guess."
"Then you picked the right table," he replied, shaking his head bemusedly. "I'm not exactly the best conversationalist." He paused; whether for breath or courage, she couldn't tell. "But I didn't answer your first question, that wasn't fair of me," he continued after a moment. "I'm not sure how long I'll be here. I mean, I didn't know I'd still be here at all," he said, face crinkling into a sheepish look. "I...don't usually stay in one place for very long." His brow furrowed with the next thought. "But this is weird. I don't usually talk to people like this, either."
"Well," she breathed, "we don't really know each other, do we? Maybe there's some privacy in that?"
"Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "I kinda feel like if we break that, though, this will all disappear, like magic."
The woman bit back a defensive retort. The same sensation had been dogging her, throughout the entire conversation, and acknowledging it made it redouble its efforts. "These days," she replied instead, "it's easy to believe in the unusual, isn't it? All the stories that have been coming out, of people with strange powers, metal flying suits, raging giants - the world's been tossed on its head. Pretty soon, people might well start believing in magic: it'd seem positively normal, after all that."
"But that..." the man sputtered, "that's technology. That's rational. Cause and effect. Build a flying machine, fly in it. The theory is that these powers people are developing are an after-effect of nuclear fallout. Even if we don't know how these changes are occurring, or even what mechanisms are being affected, it's still a case of technology producing a result. There's nothing magical about it."
"Not to the layperson, it isn't," she retorted. "Anyone who's not a scientist, or at least familiar with some basic precepts, will not necessarily understand the link between those two events. It's inexplicable, so to the average mind, it may as well be magic."
The man blinked, then sighed. "That's the mob mentality for you, I guess. Treat anything unexplained as a threat."
It was the woman's turn to sigh. "They fear what they don't understand. I guess I hoped..."
The man peered at her. "So you don't think these...anomalies...are anything to be afraid of?"
She scrutinized him in return, as understanding dawned. "As it happens...I don't. People act like anyone different is an entirely other species, completely alien. But no matter what happens to people on the outside, we're all still human." He cocked an eyebrow at this, but she plunged ahead. "Maybe that's a bit limiting, but think how many times people have taken their fellow conscious beings and treated them inhumanely. If 'human' applies only to certain segments of Homo sapiens, then that's not enough. To be mistrustful of extraordinary people because of what they can do," she concluded, "is no better than any other form of bigotry."
"But people are bigoted," he countered. "They do fear the unfamiliar. Is it realistic to expect them to change just because it's a different brand of unfamiliar?"
"Some will," she replied. "Others will have a harder time of it. But don't you think we have a responsibility to...to help? Hiding from people only gives them something to mistrust. To understand someone, you have to see them for who they truly are."
"What if who they are is the giant rage-monster?" he muttered into his glass.
She reached across the table, gently taking his hand. "What you can do is not the same as who you are." His face, when he looked up at her, was a battlefield, utter despair warring against the incursion of hope. She'd seen that expression hundreds of times before. More often than not, in the mirror.
His hand gripped hers, desperate fingers clinging as he shook. "No," he rasped, breath ragged. "Not...not here."
Through the white-hot rage that was chafing at its confines, straining to be let loose, he felt the woman's hand.
He knew his grasp was strong - he had to be near to breaking her fingers - but she never wavered. Instead, to his astonishment, she wrapped her other hand around his, a delicate, soothing touch. He looked up, an awareness breaking through the fog. "What..." he stammered in a disbelieving half-growl, "you're still here?"
He read the answer in her steady gaze. There was no fear in it at all - only concern, and a steel-edged awareness that took none of this lightly. "Oh," he said, voice returning from the precipice, but still trembling. "You've really seen a lot, haven't you?"
The woman across from him nodded solemnly. "One does, in war." She continued before he could ask. "No, you wouldn't have heard of it. Or if you did, it was passed off as rioting, or pranks. It's been years since the fighting, but the damage takes decades to heal." Her expression grew distant with the past. "If it ever does."
He nodded, digesting this thought, while the gap between him and disaster broadened. Already, he felt less raw. It was the nearest he'd come to another...outburst, and still been able to back down. And this call, the thought with a shudder, had been really close.
"It doesn't matter," she said, hands still cupped around his. "You came here for solitude, and I invaded it. I'm sorry." His grip on her hand softened, loosened, but he didn't let go.
"Stay," he said, heart in his throat. His voice cracked. "I've had solitude, for a while. I could use...something else."
The music swelled again. The woman rose from her place, never releasing her grip on his hand. "How about a dance, then?"
Nodding mutely, he stood, letting her walk him out to the dance floor. The entire place was packed now, a jumble of bodies radiating heat and pheromones. They found a space for themselves in the press of swaying humanity, and moved in time with the music and each other, awkwardly at first, but relaxing as the rhythmic pulse of the guitar guided them, sultry strains infusing their movements.
They were so close now, hovering on the cusp of contact. He breathed deeply, and took in her full scent, and found it as intoxicating as the music. With the temporary reprieve from the confines of self-denial and solitary meanderings, he was awash in emotions - compounded desires for companionship and passion and belonging, which, for the moment, drowned out fear and rage. He felt his hand detach from hers - had he held it all this time? - and trace slowly up from wrist to shoulder, then graze his fingers down her spine. Her arms were about him, hands moving lightly over the back of his shirt. His hand curved around and came to rest on her waist, his arm draped around her slight frame, as her breath danced just below his ear.
And then, abruptly, the set was over, the spell broken, leaving them alone on the floor, as the other dancers went to rejoin their friends or refill their drinks.
The two of them stood in a daze, perspiration glistening on their brows, hair hanging limp on forehead and shoulder, fingers again intertwined, a lifeline in an empty sea.
It was she who first spoke. "I don't suppose," she said breathlessly, "that you'd fancy a curry or something?"
Somehow, they paid the bar tab, collected and donned their coats one-handed. Neither spoke as they went out from the club into the chill darkness. It was still a lively hour, streets teeming with people on their way to or from the disco or cinema or pub. They wended their way through the city, pausing to get takeaway from a nearby all-night Ethiopian place.
Up a short flight of stairs, and they were in a two-room flat, sitting cross-legged on the floor by a battered coffee table. Side by side they sat, scooping up mouthfuls of stewed chicken and spiced lentils out of a common dish with pieces of the spongy flatbread, he with his left, she with her right.
After the meal, they leaned their backs against the sofa, and sat talking of everything and nothing, fingertips tracing spirals in the other's palm, a lovers' cheiromancy.
In the end, the words ran out, and their hands danced on.
There was a piece of folded note-paper, flimsy and well-creased, in the pocket of her robe. She ran her fingers along its worn edges, but didn't retrieve it. Opening it had long been unnecessary; she'd always had a good memory.
I have to go. It's not safe.
I know I'm a coward. I wish I had your courage.
I don't know if there is any way out, but I have to try.
- B
As short as their acquaintance, and just as potent.
She'd managed to avoid considering the implications of those words for a few days. It had given her time for a little fond remembrance, at least. She'd lingered in the memory, indulging in the occasional momentary romantic notion that they'd somehow find each other, somewhere in the wide world, at a future time when they were both who they needed to be. And yet, being who they already were, they had understood each other, and it had been enough.
But past that short reprieve, she could no longer fool herself into believing that this was just a normal farewell, and not…that kind of note. She had seen how close he had been to breaking. She had known, definitively, when they parted that morning, that she would not see him again. But it had taken her a while to let herself accept why.
She had wept, a bit, for that. For the loss of naive delusion, as much as for the almost certain loss of life. Those unrealistic imaginings had been her last frivolous thoughts, but they had been beautiful.
And so she sat, secluded behind the sheaves of parchment littering her desk, not indulging in the luxury of tears, but sending a solemn thought into the world: that next time, if not this one, she would be able to help enough.