I have waited and wasted so many nights for this moment. She is here. She wants to be here. Meg Giry is sitting on my sofa in my home, drinking tea and I am the one she turned to when she needed someone.

I do not know what to do or what to say. I have played this scenario so many times in my mind, in my dreams, but when it's here, in front of you, tangible, and I can touch it, I have no idea what to do.

I pace like a manic depressive. I cannot stop moving. She is on the sofa. She has not said a word since I offered her tea. She is not even looking at me.

"Is this what you wanted?" She asks, it takes me a minute to realize she is speaking.

"What do you mean?"

"When you accepted the offer, is this what you thought your life would be?"

Ah.

"I thought I would be able to take over the world. I had so many plans, so many dreams."

"What changed?"

"My wife and children died."

"Killed?"

"Age. I didn't think about that. They grew older and withered and I stayed 34 and they became dust. Losing my wife was hard enough, but my children? I couldn't attend the funerals."

"We're selfish people."

"Indeed."

"Do you want to know a secret? Something I've never told anyone?"

"Yes." I may have said much too eagerly.

"I lied about my age."

"What?"

She nods and laughs, it's sad, hollow, painful to hear. Not the joyous bubbly sounds I know so well.

"I told him I was eighteen."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen. I just turned sixteen."

I feel the world move.

"Did Christine lie?"

She shakes her head.

"Christine was 21."

"And you never told anyone? Does Christine know your real age?"

She shakes her head.

"Mama had to lie about my age, so I could dance. I just kept up with it. I have a young face and the proper documentation to support my age lie."

"Well, fuck."

I sit down on the sofa next to her.

"He's was the only man in my life at the time that paid any attention to me. He knew that. I thought he loved me, but I think it's vanity."

"He's the Devil."

Meg snorts.

"Did he tell you what he really is? He told me. I promised not to tell." She puts a finger to her lips.

"Since we're revealing secrets, why not keep it going."

She shakes her head smiling.

"It's more fun to figure it out on your own."

"But he's not human right? Which means RC isn't human, so is this then a kind of bestiality?"

Meg howls with laughter. She bends over, her breathing become impaired between fits of laughs.

"I needed that." She wipes tears from her eyes.

"Wait, or is it necrophilia?" I tap my chin, pondering. Her eyes sparkle.

"Wow."

"When he was a side show, the Living Corpse, right?"

"You're too much!"

"Sometimes I daydream that I throw garlic at him, and shout 'Nosferatu!'"

She giggles.

"Love it."

"Maybe I should get you garlic deodorant or a necklace. Just in case."

"I'll tattoo a crucifix on my wrist."

"Keep a flask of holy water."

"Dog biscuits, give those to Christine."

We enjoy the company of silence for a moment. This is what I wanted, to be with her, enjoy her company.

"It's Monday." She says. I nod.

"All day."

There is a mischievous glint in her eyes. It has been so long since I've seen that.

"You know what I've always wanted to do?"

"Dance on the moon,"

"French tourists."

"What?" I had not expected that.

"We play up being French tourists. Like, really play it up. Obnoxious levels. Wear berets, take pictures of sidewalks, speak with broken English accents. Dress like mimes."

"Why would we do this?"

"It's Monday."

I feel odd, I'm dressed in all black, found a stupid beret, no idea why I have one in my wardrobe, but I do. Meg comes out swinging. Black skirt, red scarf wrapped around her throat, black and white stripped shirt, and black combat boots. She going to war?

"And to complete the ensemble," she hangs a camera around my neck.

"Perfect!" She kisses her fingers.

"Is it?"

"Now let's practice accent."

"How this."

"This good."

We start by walking around towards Broadway and we stop, block foot traffic and I take casual pictures of construction that blocks sidewalk.

"Never seen this," I take the picture.

"What's this?" Meg poses, her face very severe. It's so out of character for her, I have to bite my lip from laughing, so I can keep up this façade. We hear the annoyed locals pass us, curse us, and glare.

We walk a few more blocks, Meg stops, she holds out her phone and signals for me to stand in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking traffic to take a picture. We do, and again this annoys the appropriate people.

"We take tour." She nods her head to one of those big red busses.

We pay the ticket and hop on the bus.

"This tour, fun. See city." Meg uses her phone and takes videos of random things.

"What an adorable accent," someone from behind us says.

"Where are you from?" Her friend asks.

"France." We both say.

"Oh! I spent the summer in Italy."

"That's not France." Meg says. She turns around and uses her phone to take a picture.

"I loved Spain."

It is my turn to address them.

"I spit on Spain." I turn my head and I spit off the side of the bus.

"They tried to take champagne. Only France has champagne."

"I thought champagne was just wine."

"I was told it was a marketing scheme."

"Ignorant, I set my rage on fire!" Meg turns around dramatically, crosses her arms. She is shaking, trying to keep her laughter quiet, and to look intimidating.

After the tour we find ourselves at the ferry.

"Big green lady." I take several unfocused pictures. Meg smokes dramatically, she doesn't really smoke, it's all an act. She looks so good.

"You can't smoke here." A crew member says. Meg puts it out.

I take several pictures of the crew member, he runs off, apparently afraid of my camera.

We ended making friends with a couple on the ferry, they claim to speak French. They do not, but we don't say that. They want to treat us to lunch, so they take us to a French restaurant. Meg, I, and the others come here frequently, and the staff knows us. They only like Meg for some reason.

The waiter comes to take our order, and our new entertainment begins.

"Ah yes, for the table would like ants, grass and of course the pencil." They say in French. The waiter, who is from the Normandy region like Erik, stares at them then looks at us for translation.

"I don't know what they're trying to order," Meg says in French.

"Mussels and oysters," I suggest.

The waiter nods and off he goes.

Throughout the entire meal, we must guess and translate for our waiter. Their awkward sentences offer much entertainment. I'm almost sad when the meal is over, and we part ways.

"This is the most fun I've had in a long time." Meg says. We're on our way back to mine. I forgot what it was like to just explore the city, to be with someone without having grand plans, intensity, danger.

"Same." I say.

"I've always wanted to do that. Play tourist. Be someone normal. My name is Mona, I love puggles, and I'm going to be a fireman when I grow up."

"I don't like Mona." I make a face. Shake my head.

"Mona is beautiful, she walks in the sun, bathed in the light of the stars at night. She's loved, and when you are loved, you're never alone."

"I like Meg."

"Meg is an all bread sandwich."

"Meg is rainbow cake."

"Rainbow cake," she pauses, and I stop with her.

"Yes."

"Hm."

She nods, perhaps in approval

We arrive at my door and I let her in first, ever the gentleman.

She just stands there, in the middle of the room. I do not know what to do, so I make slow work of locking up. She is still just standing there.

"Would you like tea? Glass of wine?"

She is shaking. I do not know what to do. I stand there for a minute. I walk over and hug her; she turns and cries into my chest.

"I'm such a fool."

I so my best to try to soothe her. I whisper words of love, rub her back and let her cry.

"I can't do this."

My heart drops to the floor, but I don't let her go.

"I-I want to, but, I need time."

"Take all the time you need, I'll wait."

She nods, she grabs the fabric of my shirt and turns her head.

"I got snot on your shirt. I'm sorry."

"Bitch."

She laughs, half cries. I hold onto her until her tears end.