"You didn't think I'd give up that easy, did you?"
She was already sitting on the bed in his hotel room in Germany when he unlocked the door for the first time. The thought of meeting her once more honestly had not occurred to him during the duration of his journey here by train, but he was still somewhat relieved to find she appeared to have been more amused than angered by his attempt to shake her.
"I think I would have," he shrugged, tossing his bag carelessly into the closet. No one around anymore to admonish him like a parent. No one around to care if his things were on the floor or neatly arranged elsewhere. If he was pleased at all to once again see the only familiar face available, she would not have known just by looking at him.
She stood, then, smiled at him like she was someone else, and perhaps as though he was also someone entirely different. He could still see the quiet devastation behind her eyes, but somehow it managed not to make the facade seem pathetic. He nodded, slowly, agreeing to her unspoken proposition: Let's get out of here, tonight. It's too late to search for any barely-legible addresses now. Let's pretend you're not you, and I'm not me, and this is home.
She walked directly past him, out the door without looking back. And for lack of anything better to do, or because he felt like speaking his native language, or out of concern for her safety (no, probably not that one), or driven by curiosity about the change in her mood from murderous to hostile to disappointed to delusional, he followed.
Across from her at a nondescript table that might as well have been located in Liverpool, in Paris, in New York, anywhere, he realized: not adversaries, not allies, there was no conversation to be had with this particular companion. Pretending to be strangers was not a game that could last very long here. No impassioned questions, no threats, no grudging agreements, no small talk, no apologies. It would be better to skip a meal and head straight for alcohol.
If she perceived his discomfort, she said nothing; he did not imagine she cared much about his comfort, to be certain.
She followed his lead when he ordered a drink, and then another, and after an hour she was the first to finish the last of their rounds. "Ready?" And without waiting for an answer, she was off, not even walking slowly to allow him to catch up.
Again he was powerless to stay behind.
"What happened?" he finally asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with the steady rhythm of her heels.
"Hmm?" She didn't look at him, instead scanning the mostly-closed row of shops beside them.
"Come on," he said, working hard not to slur any vowels. "Normal yesterday, this today. What happened?"
She paused. "What you did--you did it to protect me from her, didn't you?"
He could hardly tell her the opposite was true.
"It wasn't my only motive," he said carefully.
She nodded shortly. "I know." Another pause, then softly: "But that's what happened."
He decided not to ask any more questions.
She did not continue on her previous trajectory then; instead she glanced at the rare, brightly lit window in front of which they'd suddenly found themselves. Her mouth bent in a smile that did not reach her eyes, but still appeared genuine. He tagged along after her like a put-upon older brother forced to chaperon a trouble-prone younger sister.
"Let's do it," she announced, as the large, bearded man beside the cash register flicked a disinterested glance in their direction. "You want to do it?"
"No."
"I do."
"Okay."
When it was his turn, she brought him a small bottle of vodka--remembering, perhaps, their previous encounter--and he felt an odd twinge of guilt for not having been so thoughtful when she was in his position.
She watched the process with fascination, although when it had been her own skin under the needle she had closed her eyes tightly, as if she were unaccustomed to pain. Perhaps whatever character she had chosen to play tonight really was.
Later, in the tangled layers of hotel blankets and sheets, waiting for darkness to descend, she idly tapped her fingernails against the small white bandage square taped across the small image now embedded on his shoulder. Curious fingertips, fueled by the influence of foreign substances in her blood, traveled tentatively in a pattern around the square as he pretended to sleep.
He was tempted to stop her before it happened, but perhaps it was inevitable that she would find the first of a thousand scars, raised pink slices, each connected to a memory; this had been the first sign of a mother's love. (Not his, not really hers either.) It was just as well; the absurd juxtaposition of old and new and then and now jarred him out the complacency into which he had briefly (blissfully?) been willingly lulled. He waited until her fingers withdrew and her body stilled.
And if he paused a moment longer than necessary, later he could blame that on external factors more powerful than sentimentality, certainly.
He found the paper easily, neatly folded into sixths and stuffed down into an obscure pocket inside her bag. Her handwriting was neat and careful; in Liverpool, it appeared, she had taken the opportunity while he slept to faithfully copy even the addresses he or they already had visited. He kept the paper and left her bag as if it had never been touched by foreign hands.
The coldness of leaving her behind and thoroughly adrift felt dissatisfying, although he could not explain why this should bother him; after all, it was not as though he would reconsider and allow her to accompany him on the next leg of his journey. Clearly, she needed to be stopped, and this would be an effective way of doing it. Was it his fault she had let down her guard, however briefly? Was it his fault she had decided to almost sort of trust the only person she still knew, however tenuous their connection might be? No. He was doing her a favor. But something was still wrong.
The shadow of a smile passed over his lips as one final thought occurred to him. Five minutes later, he disappeared from the room, then the hotel, then the country.
As sunlight bled through the curtains several hours later, Sydney yawned and tried to stretch, unsurprised to find herself alone. It was a chase, after all; what would be the challenge if one or the other of them decided to surrender? Her eyes were reluctant to open, wet from the night before, and her head throbbed slightly, politely, as if to say: I've decided not to split open this morning, but, you know, you can't indulge yourself like that and expect there to be no ill effects. The face she'd tried on and discarded the night before had apparently decided to leave a permanent reminder of its brief existence; the small symbol embedded in her arm was predictably sore.
It took her several minutes to register that the sore arm was free and the good arm was not. Rather, it was bound to the nearest bedpost with something she couldn't yet see. She rubbed her eyes pitilessly with the free hand in order to make out the trouble with the other; it appeared to be a necktie.
She was still clothed. She would remember if something happened, right? He wouldn't have... she wouldn't. No.
He'd actually left her with a joke.
She freed herself and quickly set about cleaning up. She'd have to move fast if she wanted to catch up again; there was no telling how much time had passed since his departure.
She was already sitting on the bed in his hotel room in Germany when he unlocked the door for the first time. The thought of meeting her once more honestly had not occurred to him during the duration of his journey here by train, but he was still somewhat relieved to find she appeared to have been more amused than angered by his attempt to shake her.
"I think I would have," he shrugged, tossing his bag carelessly into the closet. No one around anymore to admonish him like a parent. No one around to care if his things were on the floor or neatly arranged elsewhere. If he was pleased at all to once again see the only familiar face available, she would not have known just by looking at him.
She stood, then, smiled at him like she was someone else, and perhaps as though he was also someone entirely different. He could still see the quiet devastation behind her eyes, but somehow it managed not to make the facade seem pathetic. He nodded, slowly, agreeing to her unspoken proposition: Let's get out of here, tonight. It's too late to search for any barely-legible addresses now. Let's pretend you're not you, and I'm not me, and this is home.
She walked directly past him, out the door without looking back. And for lack of anything better to do, or because he felt like speaking his native language, or out of concern for her safety (no, probably not that one), or driven by curiosity about the change in her mood from murderous to hostile to disappointed to delusional, he followed.
Across from her at a nondescript table that might as well have been located in Liverpool, in Paris, in New York, anywhere, he realized: not adversaries, not allies, there was no conversation to be had with this particular companion. Pretending to be strangers was not a game that could last very long here. No impassioned questions, no threats, no grudging agreements, no small talk, no apologies. It would be better to skip a meal and head straight for alcohol.
If she perceived his discomfort, she said nothing; he did not imagine she cared much about his comfort, to be certain.
She followed his lead when he ordered a drink, and then another, and after an hour she was the first to finish the last of their rounds. "Ready?" And without waiting for an answer, she was off, not even walking slowly to allow him to catch up.
Again he was powerless to stay behind.
"What happened?" he finally asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with the steady rhythm of her heels.
"Hmm?" She didn't look at him, instead scanning the mostly-closed row of shops beside them.
"Come on," he said, working hard not to slur any vowels. "Normal yesterday, this today. What happened?"
She paused. "What you did--you did it to protect me from her, didn't you?"
He could hardly tell her the opposite was true.
"It wasn't my only motive," he said carefully.
She nodded shortly. "I know." Another pause, then softly: "But that's what happened."
He decided not to ask any more questions.
She did not continue on her previous trajectory then; instead she glanced at the rare, brightly lit window in front of which they'd suddenly found themselves. Her mouth bent in a smile that did not reach her eyes, but still appeared genuine. He tagged along after her like a put-upon older brother forced to chaperon a trouble-prone younger sister.
"Let's do it," she announced, as the large, bearded man beside the cash register flicked a disinterested glance in their direction. "You want to do it?"
"No."
"I do."
"Okay."
When it was his turn, she brought him a small bottle of vodka--remembering, perhaps, their previous encounter--and he felt an odd twinge of guilt for not having been so thoughtful when she was in his position.
She watched the process with fascination, although when it had been her own skin under the needle she had closed her eyes tightly, as if she were unaccustomed to pain. Perhaps whatever character she had chosen to play tonight really was.
Later, in the tangled layers of hotel blankets and sheets, waiting for darkness to descend, she idly tapped her fingernails against the small white bandage square taped across the small image now embedded on his shoulder. Curious fingertips, fueled by the influence of foreign substances in her blood, traveled tentatively in a pattern around the square as he pretended to sleep.
He was tempted to stop her before it happened, but perhaps it was inevitable that she would find the first of a thousand scars, raised pink slices, each connected to a memory; this had been the first sign of a mother's love. (Not his, not really hers either.) It was just as well; the absurd juxtaposition of old and new and then and now jarred him out the complacency into which he had briefly (blissfully?) been willingly lulled. He waited until her fingers withdrew and her body stilled.
And if he paused a moment longer than necessary, later he could blame that on external factors more powerful than sentimentality, certainly.
He found the paper easily, neatly folded into sixths and stuffed down into an obscure pocket inside her bag. Her handwriting was neat and careful; in Liverpool, it appeared, she had taken the opportunity while he slept to faithfully copy even the addresses he or they already had visited. He kept the paper and left her bag as if it had never been touched by foreign hands.
The coldness of leaving her behind and thoroughly adrift felt dissatisfying, although he could not explain why this should bother him; after all, it was not as though he would reconsider and allow her to accompany him on the next leg of his journey. Clearly, she needed to be stopped, and this would be an effective way of doing it. Was it his fault she had let down her guard, however briefly? Was it his fault she had decided to almost sort of trust the only person she still knew, however tenuous their connection might be? No. He was doing her a favor. But something was still wrong.
The shadow of a smile passed over his lips as one final thought occurred to him. Five minutes later, he disappeared from the room, then the hotel, then the country.
As sunlight bled through the curtains several hours later, Sydney yawned and tried to stretch, unsurprised to find herself alone. It was a chase, after all; what would be the challenge if one or the other of them decided to surrender? Her eyes were reluctant to open, wet from the night before, and her head throbbed slightly, politely, as if to say: I've decided not to split open this morning, but, you know, you can't indulge yourself like that and expect there to be no ill effects. The face she'd tried on and discarded the night before had apparently decided to leave a permanent reminder of its brief existence; the small symbol embedded in her arm was predictably sore.
It took her several minutes to register that the sore arm was free and the good arm was not. Rather, it was bound to the nearest bedpost with something she couldn't yet see. She rubbed her eyes pitilessly with the free hand in order to make out the trouble with the other; it appeared to be a necktie.
She was still clothed. She would remember if something happened, right? He wouldn't have... she wouldn't. No.
He'd actually left her with a joke.
She freed herself and quickly set about cleaning up. She'd have to move fast if she wanted to catch up again; there was no telling how much time had passed since his departure.