This is sure turning out to be a long one shot. js
Long I Lay In The Ground
Chapter 7
The city's Museum of Ancient History is, contrarily, housed in a modern building. Hard planes and angles define it, shiny glass clads it and exposed steel girders lift the roof skywards. It is stark and imposing, and splits popular opinion just as it cleaves its own rude place amongst the older, softer, less brash architecture of its neighbors.
I have decided now that I am in love with these times, and I love the angularity and asymmetry of this arrogant structure which in the scheme of things, has only been here for an instant. Classicists bound by a Golden Mean could never have conceived it, though Daedalus would have had the scope. My last evening in the city will be spent here, immersed in antiquity until the doors close at ten o'clock.
Tomorrow morning I have a plane to catch. Between the museum's closure, and my appointed time of departure for the airport, I will make my farewells to the city, visiting my favorite haunts, and walking the night away. And I will need to slake my thirst.
Great heavy wooden doors at the Museum's entrance admit me this final time, and the scent of aged things is all around, soothing and contrasting with outside. Here, pollution has no presence. Carbon dioxide fumes are not permitted air space, neither are odors of trash in the street, or mingled cuisine signature aromas from the splendid mix of restaurants. Here is a haven of hushed voices, occasional staccato footsteps sending reverberations bouncing from the walls and high ceilings, and the greatest peace this city can furnish.
You are offered guides when you come in - not actual people to take you around, but devices that play recorded voices explaining what you are looking at, and little earbuds so that visitors can have the information input directly, without it being broadcast to those who might find it an intrusion.
I elect not to be fed the information, as I want to take in what my senses tell me. Though I don't recognize all the items in here, the un-knowing sits easily with me. I have always been more interested in knowledge that is not reliant on facts and measurements and details. Wandering at my leisure without following prescribed steps is by far preferable to me than what is called the "Virtual Tour".
And of course, I don't tire. I could easily spend hours walking slowly from exhibit to exhibit without having to sit or rest. Particular things capture my imagination though, and if there is an empty seat situated in proximity to something I wish to spend time by, I take it.
I have spent many evenings in this fashion. Galleries and museums are as temples to me - places of worship. Humanity has carved and painted its dreams, and I find myself in near-endless reveries over them. Old bones do not warrant my attention, but anything hand-made, or later, industrially made, I am keen to explore. I wish we were allowed to touch - but everywhere there are signs warning the public against it. Some artifacts are too fragile, and most are vulnerable to damage that can be caused by oils and acids in human skin. I would almost hold up my fingers for analysis, let a team of curators cut off the whorls of my pads and run them through laboratory testing to prove my touch is more sterile than a newly unwrapped latex glove, just to feel the vibrations that would still be present on an object created five hundred, or one thousand, or fifteen hundred years ago. The vibrations that would tell me of past hands and long-ago touches. I am a kinesthete, but here my hands are bound to my sides as securely by rules as they would be by chains or rope. More securely in fact, as I could snap physical bindings.
Opening hours are nearing their end, and I am one of the last to leave. The doors close behind me and outside the building I turn back to face it, inclining my head in thanks.
I am not alone. Next to me on the pavement is a man I had observed inside. He had been in some of the same rooms as me but apart from noticing him, I had spared him no thought. Now he smiles.
"Excuse me," he says casually. "Didn't I just see you in Byzantium?"
I could shrug and walk past, or I could respond. On a whim, I choose the latter. "Yes, I was there for a while."
"And then somewhere along the Euphrates?"
I offer the suggestion of a return smile.
"There, too," I acknowledge.
"So - you're a history buff?" he persists.
It isn't casual, he is trying to start a conversation. Perhaps I need to look no further for tonight's repast. But I don't know yet how to play him, and I will need to contrive to get him to come with me to somewhere secluded.
"Not as such," I answer slowly, as if I'm considering. "It's more that I go into the museum to escape for a while. Out here - " I gesture airily, "is so accelerated, so fast. In there, there's a feeling of suspension."
I await his response, knowing if I get anything wrong I'll simply change my approach. He's already interested and I don't want him to lose that interest.
But I haven't gotten anything wrong. "I know what you mean," he nods. "Look, this is going to sound very forward of me, but we're right outside a cafe. May I buy you a coffee?"
I consider again. He has a lovely voice, and he's tall. I avoid staring directly at him, but I've seen high cheekbones and full lips. Straight dark brows, thick shortish hair haloed in the glow from the streetlight behind him. Perhaps it's a shame that I only take the handsome ones, because it means they're not passing their genes on. But then I feed infrequently, really, and I don't touch women. The thousands and thousands of beautiful girls worldwide can have beautiful babies with none of my interference. The world's supply of handsome men is under a negligible threat of diminishment.
"Coffee would be nice," I respond.
"Good. Shall we?"
We don't swap names. I don't know why he doesn't tell me his or ask for mine, until it occurs to me that perhaps he is married, and looking for a dalliance. Not single, as I had assumed, and looking for a girlfriend. I wouldn't want to leave a child half-orphaned, so I'll need to devise an artful way of asking. Coming straight out with it would be crude.
Coffee is tolerable to me, but only just. I can't retch anyway, and I am adept at masking expressions. I almost choke on the foul concoction, while paying attention to him and cloaking my discomfort.
"Would you mind getting me a paper napkin?" I ask eventually, and when he is gone from the table I pour half the cupful into the nearest pot plant.
"So - Friday night and you're visiting a museum - " he says, trailing off.
"As are you," I point out.
"Stop me if I'm being too personal, but why don't you have a date?"
"I recently came out of a long relationship. This seems to be a good opportunity to evaluate a few things."
"Mm-hmm. Like world history."
"Precisely."
"Have you drawn any conclusions?"
"All empires eventually fall."
"The historical record certainly bears testament to that. Why do you think it is?"
"Sometimes it's due to the triumph of a greater power. Other times it's the price of folly and over-reach. Sometimes it's arbitrary."
"Do you think the collapse of empire is an inevitable absolute?"
Again, he's not being casual. If he's looking for someone to cheat on his wife with, he doesn't need to get into the theory of Imperialism and its consequences and aftermath. Maybe this is how he flirts. Or seduces. He doesn't need to seduce me, since my acceptance is already a given. If it could be called acceptance.
"I'm not sure. Humanity is an empire. Life itself could be said to be an empire. Humanity has colonized all of earth's surface and exists in an uneasy relationship with the environment, as well as atmospheric and planetary forces. If humanity falls, either due to environmental failure, or self-destruction, we won't know about it. If the light of life itself dies out, we won't know that either."
He leans forward. "That's very fatalistic. Are you one of these people who support sending bacteria on interstellar trips to attempt the introduction of life to other solar systems?"
"I hardly think it matters."
He shakes his head then with a rueful grin and says, "This is a hell of an introductory conversation. I'm happy to continue it, but not on an empty stomach. I'm forgetting my manners - I haven't even offered to get you something to eat."
No, but you will. "I'm not hungry."
"I am. You don't have to rush off, do you? I don't have anywhere else I have to be, and this is - well - I'm enjoying your company."
I'm enjoying his, too, as well as the view, and the talking. It's surprisingly stimulating. My usual methods of attracting victims haven't involved much more than glances and murmurs, and once they're in striking distance, arm-stroking and neck-kissing. My gossamer thread has them stuck by then, not realizing they're caught, and in deadly peril. They do suspect they're in for something, and I give them all the signals, subtle and unsubtle, that pleasure awaits, the like of which they've never known before and will never know again. It's too early for that with this one. The way we're talking to one another gives no indication that either of us has seduction as a motive.
"I don't have to go anywhere," I admit candidly, and he smiles and peruses a menu, ordering steak, rare. An appetite for blood?
If I were a normal girl, I probably wouldn't be doing this - taking a perfect stranger up on his offer of coffee, and sitting across a table from him as the night grows later. Or would I? I don't know. While his agenda is unclear, I'm reasonably confident he's not a psycho killer. It takes one to know one. He seems intense until he smiles, and then his face is clear and untroubled. If I were a normal girl, I think I would trust him.
"So, what else? Tell me something," he says easily, throwing the floor wide open.
"For the last few months I've watched a movie every day. Frequently more than one. I - somehow missed out on seeing films for years, and now I'm making up for lost time."
"Do you have a favorite genre?"
"I am impressed by everything. I couldn't begin to understand the process - the initial idea, the nurturing of it into a whole story, the writing of that story in a format that will translate to the visual, the conceptualization, the search for locations and cast, the plotting of scenes, the shooting of it all, the editing of it into something that reflects the director's intentions - everything. It all awes me."
He nods, expectant, and I continue. "I like foreign language films especially, as even when they're fantastical they have such a ring of authenticity. The actors don't appear as though they're acting. I like science fiction, when you can believe that anything is possible. Comedies challenge me, though. My Heart - the partner I used to live with - always found me somewhat serious. It's true I don't laugh a lot."
My companion shrugs. "Does that bother you?"
"It didn't until it was said."
"I'm sure it was an observation and not a criticism."
"That is probably the case, but still I found I didn't quite like to be considered humorless."
"Certainly gravity is one thing and levity quite another."
Why on earth I should be being honest and telling him something personal was beyond my understanding. Many ages ago people laughed for different reasons than they do now. Back then, humor was visually-based, or bawdy. Over generations, changes took place and life became more complicated as people became more sophisticated, and vice-versa. While those things still caused hilarity, a new humor was emerging that was word-based, and intellectual. The parlance of the day referred to it as wit. Since my last awakening with Al-ys, I had discovered wit was even more prevalent, though there were vastly differing degrees of it. I loved to hear verbal cleverness and was impressed by its exponents, but seemed to lag well behind my Heart in being able to make witty declarations.
Having said that, I am fairly sure my companion has said something mildly funny. Not laughable, but an example of something I'd heard of called wordplay. My vocabulary is extensive, and I decide to experiment, having nothing to lose.
"And brevity is something else again."
I am rewarded. "In fact, the soul of wit," he says, raising an eyebrow. "What about depravity?"
"To be depraved is misbehaved."
I am rewarded again. He snorts a laugh. "That sounded faintly saintly."
My lips stretch, baring my teeth. It may have been a hundred years since I last smiled. I'm only halfway there, but he responds to me, and his grin takes over his whole face. It's glorious. I beam back, surprising myself.
"You have an infectious condition," I tell him. "A contagious smile."
"If you had a humor deficit, it's just been proven reversible," he answers, and we maintain eye contact. I could look at him without blinking for a year, but apropos of nothing I recall there is a human personality disorder called Aspergers Syndrome where people behave in ways considered socially inappropriate, and staring is one of them. I look away.
Relief floods me when someone sits at a piano I hadn't even noticed in the corner by the bar, and starts playing. My nameless comrade and I talk about music, and it's desultory now. Do you like - ? Have you heard of - ? I've had a crash course thanks to multimedia, and I haven't heard of half the artists he mentions, which by the same token means I have heard of half of them. The voices and material that have made an impression on me are names he knows - Nina Simone, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley. He likes them. Leonard Cohen.
"Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone," he says softly. "Let me see you moving like they do in Babylon."
He doesn't know what he's asking.
By now it's after midnight, and I decide the time has come. "I think it's getting late," I say, regretfully. "I really should go."
He looks regretful, too. "Where do you live? Could we share a cab?"
"Oh, I'm just across the river from here. It's only a fifteen minute walk. I don't need a cab."
"You shouldn't walk by yourself at this time of night. I'll see you home."
And thus we pretend we've discussed it, although I knew he'd be walking me home, and he must have already known it, too. There is a park on the other side of the river, with plenty of quiet and private spots. It's reknowned as a beat where gay men meet for sex. Teenagers go there for illicit hook-ups. Presumably married people who are so desperate for extra-marital thrills that they will engage in plein-air after-hours entertainment make use of it as well. He may think this constitutes an offer, but he doesn't look smug or anticipatory as we leave the cafe.
The lights over the bridge, and the lights of the city and their reflections in the water are frequently described in newspaper and magazine articles as romantic. Kissing scenes from popular films have been shot here. He and I traverse the span with no mention of any of this, and no pause to bask in it.
Beyond us lies the park, and through the park, and a couple of streets beyond is where I have been accommodated. I just need to get him halfway there. Tonight I watched his pulse beat at the base of his throat. I heard him, and smelt him. Regardless of size, human males have about twelve pints of blood and I've been dizzy with the thought of his. He's big and strong and healthy and my getting hold of him is only minutes away.
We take one of the paths and we don't speak, though leaves whisper overhead and the sound of traffic, muffled by walls and foliage, reaches us from a distance.
"Could we - just sit down a while?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence, and this is perfect. Because the park was seemingly designed by some town planning deviant to enable clandestine encounters, most of the seats are off the main thoroughfares, and located discreetly. He follows my lead without hesitation, and we find a bench.
"You're not what I expected," he says straightaway. "I knew I was going to speak to you. I left the museum before you and waited for you outside - have you realized that? I don't know what I thought you'd be like - but whatever it was, you're different."
"So are you," I murmur, honestly, and my hand is on his knee. He doesn't take any notice until I slide it up his thigh.
"Wait," he says, but I don't. I can't. My hand is at the front of his pants, and I feel what is lying there, soft and unawake.
"What are you doing?"
It's obvious what I'm doing. Why would he even ask? Life stirs beneath my questing fingers, and surges. The little soft thing lengthens as it fills. He groans and slings an arm around my shoulder, not knowing if he wants to push me away or pull me closer. Neither option wins out, and he groans again. I'm stroking him carefully through the denim of his jeans, but with enough pressure to get results. Soon he'll be uncomfortable, so I bring up my other hand and start undoing his belt.
"Hey," he mutters, and puts both his hands over both of mine. "Stop."
I do, though my hands stay where they are. He is hardening, I can feel the pulsing as the blood flows in.
"Please," I say.
"Why?" he counters. "You don't know my name. You haven't even kissed me."
"Do those things have to happen?" I ask.
"With you, for me - yes they do," he answers.
"This isn't a love story," I say, but I say it without conviction.
"It could be," he replies.
.
.
.
Was anybody expecting that?
And my Hearts, all of you - though I wouldn't implore you for reviews, may I most humbly mention that ... oh, never mind. Forget it. No, really. Mumble. Well, all right - let's see, 20 reviews for nearly 20,000 words. Youdothemath I'lldothespelling js