Finding a person to drink from is similar to how certain animals lure in their prey. Or falling in love. It is all pheromones, chemical reactions in your body and brain, instinct, what nature considers a good match for you. My body knows it needs a new dose of blood and is sending out its enticing scents and the people with compatible blood types will flock to me, like flies to honey. Or cow dung.

New York is said to be the city that never sleeps, but in a way, that applies to every big city. While Brussels might be dreary on yet another cloudy day, it certainly never felt sleepy to me. After the sun has set, I wander through the streets. People pass me without seeing me. In a big city, even an albino like me isn't worth a second glance.

I lock eyes with a woman. She looks weary, her face marked by wrinkles more pronounced than mine. I smile and her steps falter.

"Are you okay, madam?"

"I... Yes. Why wouldn't I?" She stares at the paleness of my face and hair. Fortunately, the darkness veils my eyes and they'll seem more brown than red.

"I thought you seemed..." My voice dissolves. "Excuse me. I hope I didn't offend you. It was merely an enquiry."

Her laughter is light. "Don't worry, sir. It's true I had a tiring day, but it's nice to know that even a stranger can care."

"In that case, would you like some company on your way home?"

Her eyebrows go up and she takes a slight step back. "That is absolutely not necessary. Surely, it is not on your way and you wish to get home soon as well."

I smile. "I wouldn't offer if it was any trouble. I'm a teacher, so this is just my evening walk and I like to be surprised from time to time by a conversation with someone I will likely never meet again."

The woman relaxes her slightly defensive stance. "What do you teach?"

"Greek and Latin."

"Oh, you're one of those then." We start walking. "My brother did Latin for a year, but I was never smart enough for that."

"It is certainly not for everyone, but I grew up with it, so it has always come naturally to me."

"That's nice. As long as you like it, I guess."

We cross a road and I jump at the chance to steer our small talk in a direction I'm more comfortable with. "Tell me about your day. Why was it so tiring?" The woman doesn't hesitate to go off on a rant about how many houses she had to clean today and how they were dirtier than usual and how everyone seemed to have got out of bed on the wrong side. Friday blues? She has a nice voice and my chuckles at her dramatic pauses are sincere. How different she is now than when I first greeted her. My spit seems to taste bittersweet.

We stop at an apartment building that has known better times. Cigarette butts litter the ground in front of the door.

"Would you like a drink before you go?" I accept and follow her in. See? It is like flirting and falling in love: we both have the right pheromones, I show some kindness, and she trusts me already. It is easier when they do, but the guilt simmers and sloshes in the pit of my stomach.

I put a hand on her shoulder when we've entered her apartment. The years have taught me it feels less like an intrusion and a violation of their privacy when I know as little as possible about the people I feed on.

She turns around and looks up at me. This bares her neck. Good. Now we're hidden from prying eyes, there is no need to act like this is anything but business. If only my heart weren't so treacherous to care.

Her eyes are big and dark when my head comes near, but they flutter closed and she sighs when my lips touch her skin. I bite down on her artery and she flinches slightly. Her blood quenches my thirst immediately. She tastes unique, more distinguished than I've encountered before, but it's not a bad thing.

I have always found my thirst for blood strange. I call it 'thirst' only because it is a physical need for a fluid, but it is unlike ordinary thirst. There are no words for it. I assume it is like an ache or a pregnancy craving because the more I try to ignore it, the stronger it becomes and there's no way I can settle down without giving in, but since I have a much higher pain threshold than any normal person and I am not a woman, it is just that: an assumption, based on all those medical syllabi I read more than fifty years ago.

When I have drunk my fill, I lick my bite. I have never figured out how it works since it's too difficult to examine my own mouth and teeth, but I assume that, similar to a mosquito's bite, I release some kind of toxin, one that thwarts my victim's short-term memory. And of course, with the sudden blood loss, they might feel a little dizzy, so I lead her to the kitchen, pull out a chair for her and make a cup of coffee.

When she is peacefully sipping, but still a little out of it, I leave and whisper: "Thanks for the drink."

***

The streets are hollow. My steps echo those of the thousands of humans I have fed on. I try to be distant, in the way that nowadays people don't need to see how a cow is slaughtered and processed into their beef, but my approach forces me to interact, to learn about their lives, their quirks. Never in all my centuries of living have I been able to find another solution that wouldn't raise suspicion and as, to my knowledge, the only one of my species, I don't have access to an unlimited supply of blood bags.

When I arrive at a bigger street, I orient myself and drift home. My apartment somehow feels colder than it did two hours prior. The woman's apartment was cold too. I don't understand how someone so full of life like her can be alone. I think she's lonely. She was so happy with my company.

I begin the tedious task of cooking. Unfortunately, it won't occupy my mind, nor does the heat from the stove warm the room. The radio fills the silence while I eat. Schubert's second piano trio accompanies my concert for dishes and pots that are loaded into the dishwasher.

My evening is empty. I finish the second chapter of Hosseini's And the mountains echoed, but the words blur together and my thoughts cling to echoes that bounce against the walls of my apartment and my mind in much the same way, until it feels too big. Too small. I can't say. The music is spread out so thin that it's more nuisance than solace and emphasises the vastness of my solitude.

I often wish I could shake off those feelings like a dog the water droplets in its fur. Alas, this is the bitter aftertaste of every feeding.

When I go to bed, the sheets are cold. I don't know if the darkness of my room blankets or creates the void in me. I can only try to embrace it. After all, tomorrow, there's another day. I don't know either if that's a cause for hope or exhaustion.