A Slow Turn Away From Alone

Shai lost her parents and her voice six years ago and has been on her own ever since, relocating to Midgar from the coast because a big city afforded her more opportunities. Her inheritance gave her the means to move and enough to live on until she found employment. She fell into being a domestic by happenstance. Sure, the hours could be long, and it was not always a Monday to Friday job, but she was her own boss. It allowed her to earn a substantial enough wage to live on the plate in a clean and safe neighbourhood and supply herself with the necessities of life such as food and clothing, with the occasional book or pencil set.

Though an affable person, Shai's mutism brings with it a sense of isolation and erects a communication barrier around her. She does not have a wide circle of friends outside of her relationships with her clients. Her neighbours are friendly, but otherwise keep to themselves. Her social interactions are limited to store clerks and her landlady. People see her sign and tend to shy away. But though she is alone, Shai tries not to think of herself as lonely. She has her books to escape in and her art to liberate her soul and chase away the demons. She's a survivor, in every sense of the word.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

If Professor Hojo had had his way, Sephiroth would have been raised in isolation with nothing but doctors, research assistants, and orderlies as his only human contact. Nothing, but needles, restraints, sterile surfaces, and tests. Nothing, but the sound-proofed enclosure of the specimen containment unit with its circular polycarbonate chamber and padded floor. But President Shinra was shrewd enough to realize that Hojo would fixate on the child's alien DNA, and neglect the boy's humanity.

So, he hired Dr. Sybelline Moreau to foster Sephiroth's human side, assigning her the final word in all matters concerning his mental and emotional welfare. Moreau became Sephiroth's link to a world outside of the 68th floor. She could not control what was being inflicted on him physically, and that pained her, but by the gods, she could control everything else and she devoted her life to making his as sane as she could. Despite her efforts, though, even taking accommodations in the same building to be close to him, Sephiroth has spent most of his life on his own.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Shai is seated at the island bar for lunch, crunching on her last pickle. Her nose is planted firmly between the pages of her Complete Guide to Fish cookbook, reviewing tonight's dinner recipe of bourbon pan seared halibut. She is doing her best not to take notice of the general wearing his kendo hakama without the gi, standing an arm's length away from her. He is guzzling down a bottle of water. Thin rivulets stream from his lips and down his chin, droplets cascade down the length of his throat to spread out on the smooth expanse of his chest. Shai buries her nose deeper to hide the flush in her cheeks from just glancing at his flexing bicep. She thought the peculiar feeling she had seeing him dressed in his kendo uniform was something she could manage, but the general shirtless? Given that she has read the same sentence more than once, forwards and backwards, is a sure sign she has no control whatsoever. On the plus side, she has his schedule and now knows when she can avoid such encounters.

Thankfully, he finishes satisfying his thirst and goes to his bedroom to bathe and dress for work. Shai can breathe normally now. She begins her new assignment today; dusting and vacuuming his bedroom. Strip away the feminine flourishes and masculine touches and a man's bedroom is no different than a woman's. Each has a place to sleep and a place to store their clothing. It shouldn't matter whose head lies on the pillow or whose shirts hang in the closet or who brushes their hair in front of the mirror. The general puts his pants on every morning no differently than anyone else.

He nods his goodbye as he passes by her on his way out the door. Shai grabs her cleaning supplies and steps into the general's bedroom for the first time. She turns on the lights, twelve bulbs recessed into the ceiling throughout the room and controlled with a dimmer switch. To her right, where Shai assumed there would be windows, is the general's bed. It is a king-size behemoth with an upholstered wing-back headboard patterned with diamond tufts and sewn in charcoal grey linen. The duvet, bedding, and pillows are accented in colours that compliment the dark shade of the headboard and the wood grain of the furniture. The bedroom set is designed of a contemporary rusticness and is constructed of the finest reclaimed wood. There are two nightstands, a chest of drawers, and a dresser with a matching mirror. The wall opposite the bed is lined with sliding doors of solid walnut, like the doors in the foyer. Open them and you will find an organized closet arranged with drawers, open adjustable shelving, shoe racks, and poles at varied heights to hang his clothing. It's another beautiful room in a beautiful residence. Shai looks at all the wood and goes back to the kitchen for the polish.

It takes her the better part of the afternoon to thoroughly clean his room, and Shai is thankful that tonight's light meal is not time consuming. By five thirty, she is stirring the bourbon and balsamic vinegar in with caramelized honey for the fish. Next, the vinaigrette for the salad. She chops, slices, and peels. She mixes, grates, and tosses. The front door opens promptly at six as Shai is sprinkling the sliced almonds on the salad. She notices he has brought no work home with him and her pesky butterflies begin to flutter nervously.

Good evening, general.

"Good evening, Shai."

He inspects the ingredients as he walks to his room and Shai wonders if this is going to become a nightly ritual. She forms beds of wilted spinach on their plates and places the fillets in the center, drizzling the bourbon sauce in a zigzag pattern on top of the fish. She spoons glazed carrots next to the halibut and garnishes them with dried parsley. It looks like a meal out of a culinary magazine. She only hopes it tastes as good as it looks. She puts the salad on the table and sets the water goblets to the right of the place setting, above the knife and spoon. For an added touch, Shai places her menu where he can see it.

She is in the kitchen retrieving the entrées when he steps out of his bedroom. She politely waits for him to sit before placing his dinner in front of him. Shai sees the same expression of subdued surprise that he wore yesterday, then he seems to shake it off. He reads over the menu as he unfolds his napkin. Shai sits down. Soon, the clinking of forks against porcelain and the occasional sounds of mastication are all that can be heard. Both parties pay far more attention to pulling apart flakes of fish or stabbing salad greens or drinking water than is necessary. Shai should have warned him before they sat down; it is extremely difficult for her to make dinner conversation and not end up eating cold food. In the past, her dinner partner had obligingly took the lead and entertained her with stories and anecdotes from their lives. If they wished to include her, they would limit conversation to questions with yes or no answers. She debates whether she should say something now, but feels too much time has passed to just blurt it out. They finish their meal with not a word passed between them.

"Thank you, Shai."

You are most welcome, general. She clears off the table and begins her work on the kitchen. The general has taken up his customary place on the couch in front of the fireplace, flames flickering behind the glass. His feet rest on the coffee table and his left arm is draped over the backrest. Held aloft in front of him with his right hand, is a leather bound book similar to the one he was reading the night of Shai's arrival. In less than an hour's time, Shai has finished wiping off the counters and shining the stove top. The dishwasher rumbles to life. She tops off the fruit bowl with some tangerines and bananas and hangs up the tea towel to dry. She moves to stand to the right of the couch and waits until she has the general's attention. His eyes rise to meet hers.

Anything else, general?

"No. Thank you, Shai." She gives him her signature smile.

Please let me know if you need something. He nods and returns to his reading.

Shai heads to the bathroom to wash the day from her face and brush her teeth. She undoes her French braid and brushes out her hair as she walks into her room to change into her pyjamas. Climbing onto her bed, she fluffs the pillows up behind her and she settles in with her book. She reads through two chapters before her concentration begins to wander from the page. Thoughts of preparing tomorrow's dinner of beef stew are normal; what size to slice the beef and vegetables, how long to let it simmer, and when to add the seasonings. Thinking about what laundry needs to be sent to the dry cleaner and what can be washed and dried here is necessary; is there a dry cleaner in the building, does he prefer his shirts folded or on a hanger, does he like scented or non-scented detergent?

But wondering about what the general is reading? Well, that is simple curiosity. Wondering whether he prefers traditional bound books to mass produced? OK, that is a little odd. Wondering if he finds the fire as hypnotic and relaxing as she does? That is distracting, to say the least. Wondering what it would be like to enjoy the fire sharing the same couch? That is unprofessional, and tugging at her thoughts the most.

Sephiroth is reading one of several books in a series on the three traditional divisions of philosophical inquiry: natural, moral, and metaphysical and their modern variations. He has finished the first volumes on the natural sciences and is now trying to broaden his knowledge of ethics: right and wrong, good and evil, vice and virtue. Throughout his career, Shinra has forced him to walk a fine ethical line. But Sephiroth prides himself on his integrity and the high expectations he elicits from the cadets, SOLDIERs, and officers under his command. It is what has made him so formidable. That, and his deadly aim.

He is no stranger to temptation, though. He is simply selective on which ones he chooses to succumb to. No grand falls that lead to universal upheaval. Subtle, harmless enticements that bring him pleasure, like occasionally giving in to Moreau's persistent invitations to dinner or giving a signature to a starry eyed cadet. Or asking a young woman he barely knows to join him in the living room because he is disquieted by her absence? No. That would be inappropriate. Certain civilities must be followed. A harmonious understanding must be preserved. And if you believe that, your reasoning is as silver as your hair.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

If Shai thinks her bathroom is spectacular, then the general's must be downright regal. The centerpiece is a rectangular slab of polished marble, the colour of cream, approximately twenty centimeters thick. Recessed in the center of the marble is an oval whirlpool bathtub made of a white synthetic material that resembles stone with the faucet and controls discreetly hidden under the rim. The design concept reminds Shai of an ancient thermal bath. But as marvelous as that is, there is the shower; a large, rectangular glass enclosure with an ergonomic teak chair to sit on, a rain shower like the one in Shai's bath, several hydromassage jets, and something called a steam generator. Off to the side, are two vessel sinks made of the same material as the tub, paired with two oval mirrors in black lacquered frames. A toilet and bidet are installed to their right. Folded plush towels are stacked on walnut wood shelving near the sinks. What she thought was going to take her the morning to do, now looks like it will be an all day affair.

Never let it be said that Shai Montgomery isn't prepared for eventualities when it comes to carefully laid plans. The bathroom takes her longer than she had planned and cuts into the preparation and cooking time for the stew. No worries. She shuffles her menu around: grilled balsamic chicken salad with spiced pecans. She throws some chicken breasts on the stovetop grill while lightly toasting some pecans in a mixture of sugar, butter, and hot sauce. She whisks together balsamic vinegar, garlic, and dijon mustard for the salad dressing. Once the chicken is golden and sliced, and the pecans have been coarsely chopped, she fills two plates with arugula, and tops it with the chicken, pecans, and fresh raspberries. She drizzles the dressing over the salad, giving a large serving to the general and a smaller one to herself. She is concerned a light salad will not be enough to sustain him, but given that his plate does not bear a crumb, berry, or leaf when he finishes, Shai is going to assume he is sated.

The rest of the evening falls into the shadows of the previous ones. Shai cleans the dishes and kitchen while the general retires to the couch to read and relax in front of the fire. When her work is done, she asks him if he needs anything, to which his answer is a polite no. She retreats to her bedroom and readies herself for sleep. She sinks into her pillows and tries to lose herself in her book. It is a psychological thriller. It should sink its claws into her and not let go, but Shai finds herself out of its reach. She feels something she has not felt since she first moved to Midgar. An absence of life. She looks around her room, searching for it in the darkened corners and the hidden nooks. But it is not there, only a beast Shai convinced herself she had vanquished long ago, and is confused why it has reared its monstrous head again: loneliness.

Sephiroth begins his evening lounging in the living room. He remembers insisting on having a couch long enough to accommodate a man of his height, and the designer had come through with favourable results. It is comfortable, durable, and visually pleasing, but tonight it might as well be constructed of pins and nails. He is constantly shifting his weight, readjusting his legs, and stretching his back. He has reread the same chapter on normative ethics with every repositioning of his body and each time his interest wanes from the subject matter a little more. The fire's calming nature seems to only add to his annoyance because he is far from feeling its effects. The worse part? Deep down he knows the root of this irritation and it has nothing to do with his furniture or the fire and everything to do with him and his inability to admit certain truths to himself. Ironic, then, that though he is studying philosophy, he's yet to clue in on its metaphysical teachings.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Shai's first break in routine comes on Thursday; the general's dinner engagement. No fancy recipe tonight. She's treating herself to takeaway. It's all she thinks about while cleaning her bathroom; eating deep dish pizza layered in pepperoni and cheesy goodness. Late afternoon arrives, and Shai is just stowing away the cleaning supplies in the storage closet, when the general storms through the door. He slams it behind him, briskly walks to his bedroom, and slams that door too, the percussive shock resounding throughout the condo. She stands frozen in place. She has never seen him express an emotion, any emotion, so strongly before, and her sight of it had been fleeting. Not that she wished to see him angry up close. The glimpse she had was plenty. She can't imagine who would be stupid enough to make that man mad. In time, Shai will come to learn there is only one person who can send Sephiroth into a rage and live to tell the tale.

Not knowing what to do with herself, Shai decides to sit at the island bar with her stack of cookbooks and plan next week's menu. Normally a task she reserves for Sundays, it seems a wiser, more sensible, option than her first instinct which was to hide under her bed until the general left. Who knows what mood he will be in when that bedroom door opens? Maybe if she hunches over, blends in with the surroundings, he will take no notice of her and walk by without incident.

She considers changing into a beige colour to camouflage with the neutral tone of the counter-top, when she hears the bedroom door open. Do I make eye contact with him? Don't apex predators see that as a challenge? Shai throws caution to the wind and turns in his direction. What she sees makes her freeze all over again, but for very, very different reasons. He is wearing a black merino wool turtleneck with black slim fit chinos and black leather whole cut shoes. Over the turtleneck, in contrast to the black, is a light grey double-breasted houndstooth blazer. Any other man tailored in this ensemble would be lauded with common compliments of handsome, dashing, or sophisticated. But covering his tall frame, draped from his broad shoulders, and crowned in silver? Words are failing Shai at the moment, and in her world that means her hands are motionless.

"Shai!"

Hmm?

"If you have finished gawking, I am leaving now. I will be home late."

OK. He strides past her and out the door, closing it with a quiet click rather than a sonic boom. Shai wants to disappear into the woodwork. How long had he been trying to get her attention before he was forced to shout her name? And, dear gods, what had her expression been like? Wide eyed, mouth agape, and drooling? She is mortified. She will apologize to him the moment she sees him tomorrow. He must know that this type of behaviour will no longer be an issue. Shai closes the cookbooks and notebook, grabs her phone, and dials for her dinner.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It is almost one thirty when Sephiroth comes home, his jacket off and slung over his shoulder. His breath smells of wine and spirits though he is not intoxicated. His body is incapable of it, his unique metabolism burning the alcohol out of his system. The unfortunate downside is the process makes him ravenous, which is why he seldom drinks. Tonight, though, given the dinner company and the conversation, he thought he would try to drown his sorrows in expensive wine and whiskey.

He's about to enter his bedroom, but stops. As has become his habit since her first week here, he looks down the hallway. A sliver of light peeks through her partially closed door. He releases a heavy, chest-dropping sigh, tosses his coat onto his bed, and walks to her room. The bed is a cluttered mess. Sketches of flowers from different angles, distances, and light exposures lie all around Shai's sleeping form. A sketchbook lies fallen over the side of the bed, a pencil still in her hand. She's in a seated position, leaning back against the upholstered headboard, propped up with her pillows. Her head has tilted slightly to the right and her mouth is parted enough to let out a soft purr.

His gaze falls on her: the pink shade blushing her cheeks; her long lashes, dark brown like the colour of her hair; the mass of thick curls falling length upon length over her shoulders and down her chest. She barely stirs when he eases the pencil from her grip or when he gathers the sketches and places them on her dresser with the sketchbook. He covers her legs with the duvet, and turns out the light. As he walks back to his room, he can feel the unpleasantness of the evening seeping from him like poison drawn from a wound, replaced by the warmth of a memory from the afternoon of wide ice blue eyes shining like glaciers in freezing seas.