Art was dead on his feet. The regular hustle and bustle of a Monday morning went on around him, but he felt as if he was crawling through mud. He should have called in sick. And he couldn’t let go of his overwhelmingly blue dreams lately. What had gotten into him?

He made idle chatter with co-workers as he filled his first cup of coffee. Apparently, a group of them were hitting up a local bar after work. He figured he’d rather do that than go home and keep running his thoughts in circles.

Back at his desk, coffee in hand, Art stared at his blank laptop screen, still thinking about his call from Evander. He knew he didn’t have the privilege to know details, but goddammit, now he was just concerned and on edge. He pulled out his phone.

A: In case you’re wondering, nothing weird here in the lone star state. Gonna tell me what I should be worried about?

He stared at the “delivered” notification.

Should he mention the dream? That might get his attention, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk about it, or if he could handle Evander’s swift rejection. Though the blue dreams were driving him crazy since the weekend, he also wasn’t ready for confirmation that they were nothing. He had spent so much time attempting to attribute meaning to them that it would almost be a disappointment to learn they were nothing but vague associations.

Also, a bird flew just a bit too close to him on his walk to work this morning, and he didn’t feel like admitting or reliving the fact that he visibly flinched to avoid it.

The vibration of his phone caused him to jump, almost covering himself in coffee.

E: I said not to worry. So, no.

“Asshole.” Art grumbled.

The rest of the day passed by in a fog. Art made little progress on anything work related, and made even less progress trying to figure out what Evander was concerned about.

A: Oh come on. Just tell me.

A: Why did you even bother giving me a heads up if you weren’t going to give me details?

A: This is bullshit and you know it.

A: If it’s serious, you should tell me. I could be in danger.

He knew Evander wouldn’t answer, but he couldn’t stop himself. Then, his phone buzzed.

E: I’ll tell you when you’re in danger.

Before he knew it, evening had seeped in through his office windows, and he was packing up to leave.

The bar was gloomy, but he didn't mind. It matched his mood. He was pissed at Evander, pissed at himself for not being able to get his mind off birds, pissed at work for giving him jetlag, pissed to be spending even more time with his co-workers.

But, he had to admit it was better company than being by himself at his apartment. For the time being.

It wasn’t that Art disliked the guys he worked with, they were fine. Definitely not friends by any means, but they weren’t awful people. He was just distracted. He had been distracted his entire life. Even before meeting Evander, something inside him knew he was different, knew there was a reason for his isolation. He never fought it. He never tried to make friends or find a community. Art resigned himself to a life lived in solitude, with the occasional superficial social gathering. He had no pets, no family, hardly any belongings. But he had his mind. His mind that was always in overdrive, always looking around the corner. His mind that caused these insane dreams that were absolutely going to drive him mad one day....if he wasn’t already.

A loud burst of laughter from around him knocked Art out of his self reflection as he smiled, joining in. Realizing his drink was empty, he glanced over to the bar to see if there was a line for the bartender’s attention. He just barely prevented himself from dropping his glass when he noticed her.

The crowd partially obscured her from his line of sight, but it was impossible not to see her. She almost glowed. In fact, he was pretty certain she was glowing. He could see the faintest glimmer of blue surrounding her, like a fine mist. He had seen stranger things, of course, but he had never felt like this before. He felt inexplicably drawn to her. He had to know her.

And then he was seeing his dreams. And the blue light. And the bird.

His coworkers joined in another round of raucous laughter, forcing him to take his eyes off the girl’s back. When he shifted his gaze back to the bar, his eyes met hers—honey-brown, wide, sad. The faint blue around her pulsed slightly, and Art could have sworn he felt something like static shock his bones when their gaze connected.

Without a plan, he rose from his seat and headed toward the bar.