"Dante. Look what I found. Something for you?" Emile holds up a copy of Shelley's Prometheus Unbound.

We're on a date in a cute little bookshop tucked away between bigger stores. The books are piled up on the shelves and on tables and I can barely see the other side of the store. The typical paper scent that is inherent to places that collect books permeates the air. It reminds me of monastery libraries and long days studying or writing or reading.

I take the book Emile holds out. It's a second-hand edition in English, but still in excellent condition. "Why do you think it's something for me?"

Emile frowns. "It's a classic, isn't it? And Prometheus is Greek. My literary knowledge isn't that bad that I don't know who Shelley is. Both of them."

"But Shelley's interpretation of the story is very different from Aeschylus. As far as we know it, at least. We only have fragments of Aeschylus' Prometheus Unbound, unlike Prometheus Bound."

"That's new to me. But if you're not interested in adaptations, I can put it back." Emile's hand curls over mine on the cover.

I shake my head. "That's not what I meant. I was just ... surprised. Prometheus is my metaphor for myself. When I'm at my worst. Or Frankenstein's monster."

"I didn't think you had the ego to see yourself as the love child and character of two famous writers." Emile smirks and I narrow my eyes. I can't bear jokes that make it seem so light while it weighs down so heavily on my shoulders, but Emile sobers up quickly. "You're not a monster. Never. Why Prometheus, though?"

A shrill emotion peeks over the edge of the abyss. "We should postpone that discussion until after our date. I don't want to ruin it."

"Dante." Emile levels me with a stare. "The point of a date is intimacy. Learning your thoughts is intimate. I care."

As soon as it appeared, the emotion ducks away. "Let's ... go to the park then. Not here. Was there something you wanted to buy?"

"Just this for you, if you want it. What about you?"

I gesture at the Murakami on the table next to me. "You wanted to read that one, right? We can both read it."

"You gonna read to me?" Emile chuckles.

"We could. It might be nice." I imagine sitting on the couch or in bed, taking turns to read out loud.

Emile smiles at me. "You're such a romantic."

When we safely have our books in a bag we brought, we seek out a bench in the park, but it's hot and all the free ones are in the sun, so we settle for the grass under a large oak tree.

"So, Prometheus?" Emile starts.

"I thought of it when I was sick. Because it was a cycle, like Prometheus' liver."

"But you're not ill anymore. Aside from your vampire cancer. There is no cycle."

"It just ... stuck." I can't remember anymore why the metaphor was so perfect. When else I have used it.

"Does this have to do with the monster of Frankenstein?"

"Its subtitle is The modern Prometheus."

"Frankenstein is the scientist. Not the monster. You were the victim. And the monster is not inherently bad. His first kill was by accident and he was lonely. He regrets what he did." And he commits suicide, but Emile strategically leaves that out.

"I know he made me into what I am, but that doesn't change my responsibility for what I could do because of what I am."

"And haven't you done good things?"

I think back to my self-doubt in May. "I guess so."

"Prometheus did good things too, didn't he? He helped the humans. He gave them fire."

"Which was exactly why he was punished."

"And do you think he deserved that? Do you deserve to be punished? I thought you didn't feel so guilty anymore. That you realised you are worthy of good things, and have done good things. You're a good thing in my life." I don't react because I don't want to deflect what Emile has said. It's true; I am good, sometimes. Often enough. And Emile misses Aurélie when she's gone, so he's happy to not be alone. He likes me. I care.

I change the subject slightly. "Jupiter is the bad guy in Shelley's play. In Hesiod, and probably in Aeschylus, Zeus and Prometheus reconcile after Heracles frees him because Prometheus reveals the secret about Thetis. Shelley didn't like that, and Jupiter loses the support of the other gods and his position at the top of the hierarchy."

"Is Prometheus the good guy then? Can't you choose who you are? The proud scientist or the one who cared too much and suffered for it or the hero?" That question leaves me speechless. It's nothing new, but it never sank in that if I am Prometheus and Shelley wrote him as the hero ... Prometheus was the smart one. The inventor. I'm not stuck as one version of myself.

Emile drags me out of my realisation. "You think too much. You're not Prometheus, and you're free anyway. There's no Zeus or eagle or Heracles, just you and me. People who love you."

I sigh. "You're right." I mentally wrap those words in a blanket and cradle them in my heart.

"Of course I am." He chuckles.

I raise my eyebrows and laugh incredulously. "How did I not notice your awful ...?"

"Humour?"

"Your humour is okay. It's more your ... ego. Even if you're also more caring and forgiving than I deserve."

Emile grabs my hand. "Not true. I'm exactly as caring and forgiving as you deserve. A little more confidence, please. You have to match my ego, after all."

I laugh. "I'll try. I have you for that. To give me compliments."

"I'll give you all the compliments I want as long as you stay by my side." I don't reply, but I hope that is a long time. I want to compliment him too, and love him, and see Aurélie's wedding if she marries, and talk with Charles, and maybe Gitte. I want to be free of guilt, of sickness, of immortality, but not free of life yet. No, this life is free enough.