"Again?" Emile laughs.

I fall in step with him. "How was your day?"

"Good, actually. The students were in a good mood. Asked questions, answered questions. You know how it is. What about you?"

I draw a blank. This is why I had better followed him to his house or rung the bell – anything but talked to him. "I decided it'd be better for my health to take some time off."

"Your health? You shouldn't go out if you're ill!"

"Uhm ... Mental health?"

Emile draws out a moment of silence. "So ... What do you do then, if you're not teaching?"

"Mostly my Bacchylides translation."

"Right. You mentioned that already. He was a poet, you said?"

"Yes. Sixth century BC. He wrote choral songs."

"Songs? But you just said he was a poet."

"Most genres were poetry back then. We know they were meant to be performed with music. That's why it's called lyrical poetry – they were accompanied by a lyre. We just don't have the music anymore, only accents."

"What do accents have to do with music? I'm sorry; I'm not a musician."

"I'm not one either; only a former choir boy. But in Greek, there were accents for different pitches."

"I remember that! It's clearly been too long since I even thought about Greek."

We keep chatting about Greek and Latin and Emile's school-time and arrive at Emile's house way too soon. It'd be suspicious to ask for the bathroom again and I already feel guilty for what I'm going to do. When he turns to face me, I step up and bite and drink, but every swallow has to pass through a block in my throat. I'll never get used to this. I don't want to because if I do, it means I truly have become a monster. The guilt often feels like the last thread of my humanity, so I cling to it even when it hollows me out from the inside.

Emile slumps and I fish his keys out of his pocket and drag him inside. I'm not strong enough to do better. I leave him on the couch in his living room and look for the pills. There is a full bottle. Dammit. I'll have to take less and come back sooner, so they don't notice the bottle is too empty.

Should I pour in a glass of water for Emile?

I leave Emile on the couch, no water. The fewer traces that I've been inside, the better.

***

"Hello, Dante. In need of a conversation partner again?" Emile smiles at me and the familiarity of his wrinkles is like a stab in my heart. My victims should be just faces in the shadows and the taste of blood. The only one who wasn't, turned into a recurring nightmare. I don't want Emile to be another nightmare.

"How are you doing? Have you been working on your translation?"

"I have. What about you?"

"I went to see a play yesterday. Best I've seen all year."

"What did you see?"

We're several streets farther when Emile finishes talking about the actors and the text and the music and the décor. He's so ... enthusiastic. He always asks questions, but he never tells something about himself. Neither do I – at least not spontaneously – but I've got more reason to be secretive.

When we're at Emile's door, he asks: "Do you want to come in for a moment?"

An invisible fist squeezes my heart. Such trust. "I'd like that."

"Do you want a drink?"

"Some water, please." He leads me to the living room and we sit on the couch and chat about Hosseini and Kader Abdolah.

When do I bite him? I can't just interrupt him or not answer. Now? I should have declined and bitten him like last time. Now I can't leave after I've fed and taken another dozen pills. I'm pretty sure he'll remember his invitation and he'll know something strange is going on if he wakes up alone.

And then, there's the lull I've been waiting for. Emile drains his glass and sets it on the table and I lean over and bite. I feed, not too fast nor too slow, and I slip away to get the pills and I sit down again. I shake his shoulder.

"Emile?"

"What? Excuse me, I'm a bit dizzy." He closes his eyes again and presses the side of his head against the cool leather of the couch.

"Can I get you something?"

"A glass of coke? Bottle's in the fridge." I grab his glass from the coffee table and go fill it. Emile sits up to sip. "Jesus Christ. This is like the third or fourth this month where I'm just ... away for a bit. Should go and see a doctor if this keeps happening. Sorry you have to deal with this, by the way."

My bile burns, but I have to form it into words: "It's no bother at all. Maybe you should eat as well?"

"Right. Still have to cook." He leans back his head and sighs.

"I'd better go home and cook dinner, too."

"Of course. Let me show you out." He stands up but doesn't move for a second, his hand hovering above the couch's backrest.

I swallow bile the whole way home and it bites. I can't do this.

***

I take the second last pill and roll it in myhand before I toss it in my mouth. I swallow it together with the familiar taste of bile. I'm not sure it's really bile, but it churns in my gut and leaves a bitter aftertaste and is always there.

I have to go back tonight. I've waited too long already. I hope he arrives at the same time on Fridays and if not, I'll have to go to his house. Even more privacy invasion.

My day clumps together with all other days this week. I don't know what I read, what I translate, what music I listen to. I wish I could go back to school. Teenagers are never dull. I'm pretty sure the pills work because my cold has disappeared, but I don't want to risk it as long as the school is willing to believe I have a serious viral infection – which is technically true.

I mash my potatoes, but they end up soggy. It's early, but these days, I often get up at five and consequently eat lunch before 12 am, so dinner before six is not actually that early.

It's pouring and I hold tight onto my umbrella that sways in the breeze. Drops are blown in my face, but there's no protection from life. The entrance to the train station is thrumming with people waiting for the rain to lessen. I don't see Emile. Inside, I can still hear the rain ticking, but no Emile. I'm a little early and wander around for ten minutes, but he's not here. My guts coil around themselves.

I ring the bell and hold my breath. This is not an accidental encounter anymore. I tried to rehearse what to say while walking, but nothing stuck. The door opens, but I'm face to face with a girl. Her russet hair is cut short and she wears big glasses, not unlike Emile's.

"Hello?" she says.

"Uhm ... Is Emile there?"

"Dad! You have a visitor!" Shit. His daughter. That complicates matters.Should have guessed she'd be home from university on a Friday, though.

"Who is it?"

"Don't know him."

"Dante," I say.

"Dante!"

"I'm coming!" Emile enters the hall drying his hands on his apron. "Hey, Dante. I didn't expect you."

"No ... It was just a whim. I can leave."

Emile's daughter shakes her head. "Come in. It's raining and you're here already. No reason to send you away. Go back to your dishes, dad. I'll ..." She takes my jacket and spreads it over the coat rack. "Leave your umbrella here. I'll just get a mop." She opens a wall cabinet. "You've been here before?" She follows me to the sitting room.

"Twice."

"You're the one that just approached him in the station, right?"

"Yes?"

"He told me about that, but I wasn't sure about the name. Are you Italian?"

While we talk, Emile bustles in the kitchen and butts in from time to time. "Have you eaten?" he asks. "Because I didn't count on an extra mouth to feed, but we can make do."

"I have. I eat early these days."

"Alright. Aurélie, can you set the table?"

I sit at the round kitchen table while Emile and Aurélie eat and I focus on the glass of water in my hands, cool to the touch, instead of the awkwardness that slivers down my back. Aurélie talks about her week. She's doing her Master in Art History and she jumps from anecdotes about professors and students, to what she learned this week, to what she learned last year.

"Have you ever seen Frida Kahlo, Dante?" she asks out of the blue.

"I'm afraid not. I must admit that I have a bias for the great Italian masters and I find it ... difficult to appreciate modern art."

"Raphael and Tintoretto?"

"Tintoretto, in particular, is one of my favourites because he was from Venice." I lived in a monastery in southern Italy back then, I think.

"I'd love to visit Venice someday. See the canals and the bridges and the palazzi and the churches."

"If you get the chance, you should."

"How long has it been since you left Venice?" Emile asks.

"I was nineteen."

"To study?"

" ... Among other reasons."

We talk some more and Aurélie jokes around and I laugh. I laugh. Emile has such a dry sense of humour that I even snort.

I empty my glass and lean back. Emile is talking to Aurélie, but he catches my gaze and smiles. I smile and my face feels lighter, as if I took off a skin-tight mask.

Then Aurélie goes to the toilet and Emile to the bathroom to fetch a fresh kitchen towel and suddenly I'm alone. For a few seconds, I enjoy the silence, till I remember why I'm here. I jump up and dash to the counter with the pill bottle and paper towels. I spill a bit more on the paper than I meant to, but there's no time to put them back in the bottle. Fold, fold, quick, in the pocket of my trousers, and sit down again. I twirl my glass around and tap it.

"No playing with your glass, Dante." I jerk up. Emile grins. "So jumpy." I smile, but the mask is back on.

Emile and I move to the living room while Aurélie cleans up. I gesture at the book on the coffee table: "Pfeijffer?"

"It's Aurélie's, but I was going to read it next. Have you read him?"

The curtains are closed already, but I know it must be dark by now. When I hear a distant church bell strike nine, I sit up straighter. I didn't plan to stay so long because I still need to ... hunt.

"I should go."

"Alright."

"One second," Aurélie yells from the kitchen. "It was lovely to meet you. You should come around more often. If I have time, we can talk about Italian painters."

I pinch my lips into a smile. "It was lovely to meet you too."

Emile opens the door for me. "Thanks for your company. Be safe." I don't answer, but I lift my hand in greeting when I turn down the street.