Paper cups were stacked high beside the register at the cafe. It was one of those new age, granola places. Pay what you can into the donation jar at the door. Simultaneously the bane and the charm of the city.
A distant voice roused Mark from a bleak daydream.
"How about you?" the cashier asked. Her friendliness seemed genuine. Mark felt a faint warmth bravely traversing his numbness.
"I'll have the mint tea," he replied.
"Okay!" she nodded.
"Medium also?" the second barista asked.
The choice was meaningless. "Yeah."
The cashier smiled. "Go sit down. We'll be right there."
"Thank you," Johnny said and guided his best friend to a table by the window.
"Man, I'm so tired of girls' games," Mark began immediately.
"What happened now, Mark?" Johnny prompted.
Mark took a deep breath and pressed on. "Relationships never work, man. I don't know why I waste my time." He faltered. He knew he was a fraud: he never gave women any time to waste.
"What makes you say that?" Johnny offered, desperate to keep their exercise going. He could see that Mark's thoughts were drifting back to their shared grief.
Mark stared down at the table. "It's not that easy, Johnny." He couldn't just think about something else. Couldn't just change the subject. Peter's death had profoundly affected him. All of them were devastated– Denny, Lisa, Johnny– but they didn't know about Mark's secret shame. He now understood why Peter had forgiven him so easily: in a fit of marijuana-fueled rage, Mark had tried to hurl the gentle psychologist from the roof of his building. But Peter was just days away from expiry. He had accepted death.
Peter's limitless wisdom was what had enraged Mark so. He knew that Mark had been sleeping with Lisa, and this was extremely dangerous. Lisa's timer had never rolled back. Maybe Peter knew everything, and chose to take Mark's secret to the grave.
Johnny commiserated with Mark, but stressed that they needed to move on. "Well, you should be happy, Mark," he said delicately.
Mark sighed. "Yeah, I know. Life is too short."
Why didn't Peter ask for more time? Johnny had none left to give, but why not Denny? He felt the next inevitable thought pounce on him, sinking in its fangs.
Why not me?
He must have known. That beautiful man must have known.
Mark sat in reverent silence as their drinks arrived. The sunny cashier saw their solemn faces and offered cheesecake. They declined politely. This was no celebration.
The revelation of Peter's love inspired Mark to carry on. One day at a time.
"How was work today?" he asked.
Johnny acknowledged the effort. "Oh, pretty good. We got a new client at the bank. We'll make a lot of money."
A new Long-Lived had just been discovered: a man with a natural life span of 117 years. Presently a reckless 22-year-old, he relished the chance to contract with the Chronobank. In the weeks to come, he would extract vials of his essence to be stored in The Room– the grand vault buried deep beneath the bank. One by one they would be auctioned to the highest bidder and their contents plunged into the navels of the elite. After each rejuvenation he would age a little, and each time he would make a small fortune, less the fees from Johnny's bank. The nouveau riche.
"What client?" Mark asked resentfully.
"I cannot tell you. It's confidential!" Johnny replied. The identities of Long-Lived males were closely guarded. They lived in constant fear of being kidnapped to be milked like animals.
"Oh, come on. Why not?"
"No, I can't." Johnny took the natural segue. "Anyway, how is your sex life?"
Mark was seized by the familiar fear. He washed it out of his face and replaced it with a practiced confidence.
"I can't talk about it," he replied with a wry grin.
"Why not?"
Mark looked into his tea and performed a long, minty stonewall. He came up with nothing, but was saved by circumstance.
"Oh, God, I have to run." Johnny said.