"Do you want to come inside?"

Yes. "No, thanks. I still have to eat."

"Alright. Until next time!" Emile lifts his hand in goodbye.

Yes. Next time. I should really stop these regular encounters. If I don't need more pills, I don't need to see Emile. Better for him, better for me, better for everyone.

I wander through the neighbourhood until I come across a homeless man in a secluded corner of a church portal.

"Everything alright?"

"What do you want?" His eyes are pits of shadows deep in their sockets, even though the sun hasn't set yet.

"Nothing. Company."

"You're not a cop?"

"No. I'm a teacher."

"And what would a nice bloke like you find on the streets that he can't find elsewhere?"

I huff. "More people than in my home, at least."

The man assesses me and relaxes. "Alright."

He stinks, but his pheromones must be compatible or I wouldn't be attracted to him. I lean over and he doesn't react. Under my spell already, like Eve fell under the spell of the serpent. When I've drunk my fill, I leave the man with fifty euro in his pocket. The aftertaste is still bitter, but at least I haven't stolen from him. It would be easier if I could reward Emile like I can a homeless man. Easier if he was not so nice, if he didn't have a daughter, if I didn't have to risk my secrets to keep them, if I didn't have to hide from both him and a fresh stream of nameless people. I've never drunk twice from the same person and now ... Twice the risk, twice the guilt and I can't escape.

The apartment is emptier than ever. I listen to Pärt and fall into a familiar void. It's better than nothingness. How deep have I sunk when the cold itself has become my blanket?

***

It's a good day. I've been writing for a few hours and I've almost finished the poem I'm working on. It's only the first draft, but I'm still euphoric from one perfect find that encapsulates the meaning of the verse as succinct as in Greek while keeping the alliteration. I wish it wasn't weekend, so I could go down to the station and meet Emile and tell him. And then he'd ask about the poem and I'd cite my favourite verses in Greek, just to hear him say: "That's all Greek to me." Maybe I'd even let him read my translation. Gitte knows about my translation and as a classicist, she'd be a better beta-reader, but I've never considered to send her my work, nor anyone else.

Is this what it means to be friends and not colleagues or strangers? I haven't had friends since the beginning of the Plague and papà's death. I was a boy then and friends meant you played on the streets and you shared your sweets and you went to each other's house to look at your parents working. If you fought, you forgot it by the next day and you were happy to see one another. I don't even know their names anymore. There was one boy whose mother was a seamstress, and one whose parents sold the fish his father caught. He had an older sister, I think. She hugged me once. I remember faces, with dark eyes and hair like dry or wet sand or a raven feather, and how we traded shells and everyone was jealous of a conch I found. It was white and pink and it sparkled in the sun.

I have a friend, the first one since the fourteenth century. Christ, am I such a monster that my first friend has to be the person I have most wronged, the one I have stolen blood and pills from?

***

"Dante! Long time no see."

I force the corners of my mouth up. "It's only been ten days."

"You been counting?" Emile laughs. I have, but I don't tell him that.

"How have you been?"

"The usual. How about you?" Shit. I had hoped to let him talk a little.

"The usual." I grin. Emile laughs. I continue: "No success with your Aids antidote?"

"No. That virus is like water. You can't kill it. It evaporates and it condenses and you're back to start."

"Why do you keep trying then?"

"For the same reason everyone keeps trying, I assume. In the hope that things will one day change for the better."

"That's worth it? Hope?"

"And the good moments, but yes. Are you such a pessimist?"

"I've never thought of myself as one."

"Of course not. You're realist, right? Because all the suffering is real and you don't pretend not to see it."

It is real, and how can I ignore it when I've only ever seen happiness as smoke and mirrors, as a polish to make the pain look nicer, less like pain, as a bandage that allows you to pretend the wound didn't cut to the bone and isn't oozing pus? I saw people smile through wars and hunger and illness only to die. I saw them love their children, their parents, their lovers, their friends, only to exchange that love for pain because it couldn't keep their loved ones alive, couldn't protect either of them from pain. Papà blessed me when we were all cursed and I became the most cursed of all. I may have fled whenever I sensed unrest or feared war, but I've seen children on the streets, people on the run like me, farmers after the bloodshed. How can those fleeting moments where they smiled and loved and hoped, ever be worth that pain?

"I've seen a lot. Too much to be anything else."

"Sure." Emile doesn't press on, perhaps picking up on the depths behind those words.

When we turn into his street, he offers: "Do you want to come inside? I'll make you tea, so you don't just have to look at me eating."

Emile presents me a cup of ginger-lemon tea while he cooks. Eventually, he prepares a plate of biscuits that we share.

"So, how come you always end up at the train station? I thought you didn't always take the same route."

"I don't." I swallow a gulp of tea. "I haven't been close to the station for more than a week."

"No? But we sure encounter each other an awful lot." I stare back as if he'll tell me what to say. "I have a guess, but I can be wrong." I swallow. "We're not talking about coincidence here, are we?"

I shake my head. "No." You'd think that all these years would have made me a good liar and I am. I have social skills. Why is this different? Can't I stomach another lie, more guilt? Emile's my friend. My friend. There's no harm in this truth, save for admitting that I'm more of a stalker than a friend, but isn't that better than a friendship solely built on lies? Can we ever be anything more than a house built on sand when I've only offered sand? Can we ever be a house built on stone?

"Do you truly approach people on your evening walks? Or just me? For some reason." Emile's voice dips lower, darker, and I clench my hands around my cup. I shouldn't have come inside. I knew it could happen.

"I do, if they seem approachable. But most of them, I don't see twice."

"Most of them? Or do you mean, all of them except for me?" I lower my eyes. "Well? Are you going to explain what you wanted to achieve by winning my trust?"

Breathe, Dante. In, out. He's your friend. Trust him. "Will you listen?"

Emile leans back. "I will." He smiles slightly. "I have my suspicions, you know, and if they're true, I have no reason to reproach you."

I unclench my fingers. "There are very few people I talk to. My colleagues, my students, strangers. No family, no friends." I fall silent. No friends. Or not.

"Don't you call your family? Or visit?"

"They're all dead. My mother died in childbirth and my father got sick in my early teens. No-one that I know of is still alive."

"That must've been hard. I'm sorry." Emile reaches out but he doesn't touch me. "Haven't you got friends in Italy? Or here? You've been here since you were nineteen."

"I left Italy when I was nineteen. Travelled a lot. I've been here for about twenty years."

"That's still a lot of time."

I draw a blank because what could I say? I don't have friends because I'm a vampire and I haven't had friends for over 600 years? I'm a monster and I might kill any friends I make? I have too many secrets? I change course. "I don't like talking about myself. Small talk is easy because I can ask questions and most people are happy to talk about their day. They don't ask difficult questions. But you asked more."

Emile smiles. "Sorry, asking and caring is my default. Is that why you sought me out?"

"Yeah. I came back to the station in the hope to cross you again."

"I hope you know you don't need the excuse of an accidental encounter if you want company. You can just come over. And it might be time to exchange numbers and e-mail."

"Thank you."

We move to the couch and I ask about the new book on the coffee table. After a while, Emile resumes: "So you really have no-one?"

I deliberate my answer. "This is the closest I've come since I was young."

"Seriously? Not even a partner?"

"Never felt a spark. And a romantic relationship isn't required for a fulfilling life."

"Of course! I didn't want to imply differently. I know loneliness isn't about being alone. I was lonely for a long time and I had Aurélie."

I think about how that's true, even though for me, alone and lonely are almost synonyms. But my apartment is both my hell and my haven and conversations highlight the ones I don't have. And Emile has also known loss. He understands, at least a little.

"Do your parents still live?"

Emile startles. "My mother does, but she's in a retirement home. My dad died from prostate cancer sixteen years ago."

"You were quite young then."

"I'm not that much of an exception, losing my father in my thirties. But you're right, it was hard because my wife passed away the year before." I squeeze his shoulder because it says more than any words I can think of.

Later in the evening, the ticking of the clock is more calming than unnerving and I've been staring at the plants on the window sill when Emile stirs again. "Do you like theatre?"

"I do."

"There's a Shakespeare adaptation over a month. You can come."

Going to the theatre together? Is that something that friends do? "I'd love to."