"You know, Wayne," MeLaan murmured as they ducked into the old pub. "I realized something."
"Ah, finally!" Wayne raised his arms as if in triumph. "You figured out the true identity of the man what runs the pickle stand on Market Way. Always been somethin' off about him."
They slid onto the bench near a corner table, littered with old beer stains and crumbling nutshells.
MeLaan sighed, tilting her head to rest it on her hand. "Not exactly."
Wayne raised an eyebrow at her. "Gettin' introspective, are we? Are you sure you're MeLaan? I know there've been instances of kandra takin' the place of other kandra."
He shook his head.
"Now that's scary — nothin' is sacred, not even the bones of a poor unsuspectin' pawn in the cosmere's grand game, what ended up shaping the body of an eldritch servant fulla spikes."
She managed a small smile. "Oh, I'm MeLaan, alright. That's the problem."
Wayne chuckled. "Don't I know it. Bein' yourself is the worst."
MeLaan sighed again, leaning forward to look into his eyes. "That's the other thing, Wayne. You understand me too well. Hell, you practically are me. Dating you is like dating myself."
Wayne blinked. "And? I don't see the issue. Ain't that what all the advice columns in the broadsheets sayin' anyway? 'Ya gotta date yourself first before you can date someone else,' or some such nonsense?"
MeLaan took a moment before she answered. "That's just it, Wayne." She took his hand. "I'm… bored, now. I've had centuries to get to know myself already, and I feel like I'm… not getting anywhere with you."
Wayne jerked back a little and sucked in a breath. "Well…" he started but trailed off. "Well," he tried again, pasting on a smile. "Who said relationships had to be about progress, MeLaan? Why can't it just be enjoyin' the ride?"
"Part of it is about that," MeLaan said softly. "But there has to be more to it."
Wayne felt a little lightheaded — whether from the noxious beer or the words that seemed to be stabbing his chest, he wasn't certain.
Rusts. Being with MeLaan was supposed to take away the pain and responsibility he ran from, not add to it.
He cleared his throat and stared at her, right in the eyes. "What do you say we make a trade, then? You stay with me for a bit longer — as long as you can stand it…"
His gaze dropped to the table and he noted that an edge of bitterness had crept into his words. So much for the neutrality of the trade.
He couldn't see MeLaan's pained look, and that was all the better when he continued, "And I'll be … different. The typa Wayne that ain't always got a disguise or a trick up his sleeve. It'll be like you're meetin' someone new."
MeLaan squeezed Wayne's hand, prompting him to face her again. "Don't change yourself again for me, Wayne," she whispered.
Wayne cleared his throat and gave her a dazzling smile. "Too late."