A/T: Hope you're enjoying the story, folks! (And maybe soaking in some classical poetry as well. This is really one of those "have-fun-while-unintentionally-learning" gigs. Eggs can be thrown later.)

Disclaimer: Not mine! Le sigh.

Undeserved in Four Movements
Movement 3: Interlude and Trio

It was still light out.

Even if the sun hadn't been glaring against the ocean water, Miami was never dark anyway. There was always a party, a celebration, a reason for the beautiful citizens to gather together and celebrate their wealth while mothers in the Sudan fed their children tree leaves in order to keep them from starving to death.

(where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing)

Ryan walked. He had taken a cab but he didn't feel like riding; he wanted to stretch and absorb the sun. He craved air. But more than anything, he needed to correlate his thoughts. That's what he always did in situations like these; made sure his thoughts were all together so he could understand (there is no end, but addition) a situation and then respond to it. Eric stood him up. But that was fine, because there were a dozen different reasons as to why he couldn't make it.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard his cell phone ring. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? He mentally slapped himself; moping never got anyone anywhere. Despite the fact that it could have been Eric on the other end of the line with an excuse and a promise to meet him later, Ryan knew it wasn't.

He sighed and flipped it open.

"Wolfe," he answered.

"How's it going? Am I interrupting something?" It was the excited voice of one Calleigh Duquesne. "Are you talking it out? Are you at the restaurant?"

Ryan had to give her points for enthusiasm and he fought back a small smile. He could lie (the past has another pattern and ceases to be a mere sequence) but then she might bring it up again in front of Eric and that could only lead to more complications.

"I was."

"Was? Where are you guys now? Your place? Should I hang up?"

Ryan shook his head despite the fact that she wasn't there to see it. "No. No, I left."

"What? You left him at the Thai place?"

Ryan was going to reply and make it as blameless as possible. After all, he seriously doubted he would meet himself for dinner either.

The next words were dreaded but expected. She did, after all, have a keen women's intuition. It never took her long to solve the mystery when it came to non-existent love lives and those who lived them. "Oh. Oh, Ryan. I'm sorry." Her voice was soft and genuinely pained. He grimaced (a means of disowning the past) and swore under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for Calleigh to lead a campaign against Eric.

"It's nothing, Cal," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Traffic's terrible and work probably called. There's a lot of things that could have happened."

"Yeah," she replied, no longer bright, chipper; her normal, sparkling self had all but vanished. "He probably had his reasons."

"Definitely."

"You should head home and get some rest."

"Sounds like a great idea."

"See you Monday?"

"Of course. I'll be there."

"Okay." Her voice seemed (lying awake, calculating the future) uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether to leave the conversation as it was. "Have a great weekend."

"You too. And don't worry, Cal."

"Worried? Who said I was worried?"

"You always worry."

He could almost see her leaning against a wall in her apartment or curling up in a chair, wondering (we had the experience but missed the meaning) how she could solve this mess for them. "Guilty as charged. Hey, maybe tomorrow we can go to a club or something! I haven't been out in ages. Have you?"

"Call me up," he agreed even though he hated clubs. He knew this was her way of trying to cheer him up; a way to make him forget for a few hours. He could dance, drink, meet other people who might possibly spike his interest in a place where the music was too loud and the smoke was too heavy and where it was too dark to see anything. "I'll be there."

So she said goodbye.

And he headed home.

The sun finally set.

Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus.

The Dry Salvages (Quartet #3), T.S. Eliot