I am not certain at what point either of us fell asleep. But when I awaken, I know that I have slept for quite a long time. The rest of the bed is cool, which means Meshani has been awake for some time. I yawn mightily, my jaws creaking, and stretch languidly.  It feels good to be rested.

At length, I rouse enough to wonder what time of day it is. I look about, seeking the small battery powered timepiece we keep upon the dresser. The numbers glow faintly red as I discover that it is almost midday once more. Which means I have most likely slept for more than 12 hours at this point, and Meshani will be away at work. 

With a sigh, I roll out of bed to take care of bodily necessities. After urinating and splashing some water upon my face, I draw on smallclothes and pants then wander out idly to the kitchen to find something to satisfy the howling of my stomach. The house is quiet and still, shrouded in darkness. It feels like a crypt, and I embrace that sensation. 

A covered plate rests upon the table, along with a small scrap of parchment. It is too dark to read the lettering, but I read the emotion with which the note was scribed. Care, concern, and affection are imprinted there, overlaid with a faint color of regret, and that tells me everything I need to know. I expect that Meshani did not even write words, but drew a small scribble with which he could convey his meaning better than actual lettering. A smile tugs my mouth into a bow as I seat myself at the table and draw the plate to me.

Removing the cloth covering, I discover Meshani has made boiled greens and roots over sauteed mushrooms, with a light sauce. It has grown cold, but I am unconcerned and hungrily shovel it all into my mouth as fast as I can chew and swallow each bite. I want to slow down, to savor each bite, but I am once more ravenous after such a long slumber. 

When the meal is gone, I quickly wash the plate and wipe off the table before folding the towel and placing it next to the sink. Chores are important to keep pests from obtaining any more of a foothold than they already have. They cannot get in through the solid stone of the home's walls or foundation, but every time the front door opens it introduces a possibility for infestation. And eradicating an infestation is a problem, since insecticides are tightly controlled to minimize the chance of introducing pollutants into the water and air systems.

With nothing else to do and 10 more hours to do it in, I wander out into the sitting room to pass time until Meshani returns home. I consider sleeping again. But for the moment, I am wide awake. This is going to disturb my sleep schedule, as I ordinarily rest from late morning to early evening while Meshani is away at work. And it has been some years since I have had any length of leisure time to myself, so I find myself wanting to relish this time I have for myself.

From the writing desk, I draw out the small red light globe. I switch it on and place it atop the desk, then draw out the chair and fold myself into it with my legs drawn up under the rest of me. The front of the desk drops down to form a writing table. Behind that panel, various cubbies and drawers hold all manner of writing supplies. I pull out a sheet of vellum, a rare treasure in itself, and take up my sketching pencils.

And for the next three hours, I draw. It is something I do not get to indulge in often. Most people do not even know of this hobby of mine. But it absorbs my time as nothing else is able. 

I hum softly as I work, infusing each line with a bit of feeling, but not working a major crafting of it. First is the basic sketch, all rough lines and messy strokes of graphite. I lay down the foundation of both the art itself and the feeling I wish to convey. When I am done with the sketching, the blocky shapes bear little resemblance yet to the memory I am using as my reference.

The coarse strokes of the pencil do not look like much until I bring out the box of pastel sticks. Then, I add the colors. The soft medium smears easily and I use this to best effect to blend out the sharp lines of the piece. My fingers become colored with the residue of the pastels as I smudge the streaks into blended smears of vibrancy. Orange and yellow are the primary shades of the piece, with some tan and brown. Hints of green and blue seem like they want to propagate but are yet stunted. A bit of charcoal provides a dusty shadow here and there. 

I sketch and color and create with single minded focus, replicating what is in my mind’s eye onto the vellum, fiddling with a line or a hue until I am satisfied. The cloth I keep tucked into the desk for tidying up my art messes becomes a mess unto itself as I wipe various colors off my fingertips. It would not do to have a stray color where it is not desired. I indulge my perfectionist tendencies, modifying very slight details until I am entirely satisfied with the creation.

Finally, when I am content with the precision of accuracy, I mark my initials in the lower corner. It is hubris, I know. But I have always been encouraged to place my personalization upon artwork. My sire, and especially my grandmatron, would always impress upon me the idea that one should have pride in what one creates. And so I mark the few pieces that are truly, uniquely mine.

Once done, I draw out a small jar of liquid in a pump sprayer. Aerosol propellants are banned for health and flammability reasons, not to mention the impact upon air quality. But this small device uses no such technology. This is a simple thing: depress the plunger with one’s thumb and liquid is drawn up to be dispensed in a fine mist of spray. In this case, a fixative to prevent the pastels from further smudging. Carefully, I ensure my bit of art is evenly coated with the fixative. While it dries, I return my art supplies meticulously to their places. 

A faint click of the front door handle warns me that Meshani is about to enter. He is thoughtful, and always pauses between working the mechanism and pushing open the door to allow me time to prepare for the light that will enter with him. I shut my eyes and after a brief moment, I hear the door open. A whistled pair of notes float upon the air. It is imperfect, this Denzani greeting, as Meshani does not have the appropriate vocal structures to reproduce the language. But it is an approximation that he can manage.

I sing the reply as the door closes once more, those three downward sliding notes that signify all is well and welcomes him home. It also alerts him to my location. I hear him remove his shoes and then the faint slap of his bare feet sounds upon the floor as he comes to the sitting room. 

As I finish up putting my supplies away, Meshani slides his hands down my shoulders and crosses his arms about my chest. I feel his breath upon my scalp as he buries his nose into my hair. Reaching up, I awkwardly return his embrace before tilting my head back to brush a kiss upon his forehead. 

“How was work?” I ask him quietly, resting my hands upon his crossed arms.

“Dull,” he replies emphatically, leaning his forehead upon mine. “I would far rather have been here with you. Did you sleep well?”

I smile. “I have not felt this rested in quite some time.”

“You found the meal I left for you?”

“I did,” I confirm. “And I wished I had found it while it was still warm. It was still perfectly delicious, though.”

“Good. I am glad.” Meshani sighs, and I hear wistful longing mixed in with his contentment.

I caress his arms soothingly. “We will be able to share supper,” I remind him. “Shall I prepare something for a change?”

“Noodles,” Meshani returns immediately. “There are ingredients for pesto, which is something you make well.”

I offer a soft chuckle. “Not willing to brave a repeat of the Great Eggplant Disaster, hmm?”

“The only thing you are allowed to do with eggplant is eat it,” Meshani scolds with mock severity, drawing back to look me in the eyes. 

I take his hands in mine to keep him from pulling away entirely and offer an unapologetic grin. “Clearly I did not inherit my sire’s abilities in the kitchen,” I tease. 

Meshani’s attention is drawn to the writing desk. “What amazing vista have you recreated this time?”

I merely shrug. “Just a memory.”

“Where is this?” Meshani frees his hand from mine and reaches over me to take up my drawing.

“The surface, looking out south over the ruins toward the river, about half an hour past sunrise.”

I feel his muscles tense. “When were you on the surface?”

Oops. Damn. “Most recently? Last week.” Apparently, it is time for this truth to come out.

“Most recently?” Meshani echoes. I hear deep concern in his voice.

“I usually find time to make it to the surface about once a week,” I admit. 

Again, he latches on to the key words. “Find time? You are not going for work?”

I sigh and slip from the chair to face Meshani, taking his free hand into mine. “I go because I can,” I tell him honestly. “Because the blood of my heritage is still enough to protect me from it. I go because the light is dim and the air is thick. It feels almost like walking in the tunnels. So yes, I walk out on the surface for a short time. And then I come home, because you are here.” I lift his hand to my cheek and press into his palm, shutting my eyes to block out the horrified concern he is projecting.

He is silent for a long time. So long that I start to feel anxiety curl into my belly. I know he is thinking, working through all the thoughts and feelings I have surprised him with. But the old fears are trying to sink their claws into me again like barbed hooks. 

When he moves at long last, I feel a jolt of panic. He takes his hand from my cheek. But then he wraps both arms around me, and I feel him sigh into my shoulder as he pulls me close. “Tarriq, I worry for you,” he whispers into my ear. “You have no sense of fear when it comes to your physical self. I know I cannot stop you from these visits. But what if something happens to you while you are there? What if the radiation is slowly poisoning you?”

I wrap him in a return embrace. “Meshani, I will always come back to you,” I promise him. “If the radiation were a concern, I would already be suffering ill effects. This is not some new excursion. I have been making trips to the surface since I could walk. My sire took me as a child. And I am careful. I do not stay long, usually only about 10 minutes. Would it help if I told you beforehand when I am planning to make a surface visit?” He nods into my shoulder. “I will do so, then, my love.”

“Thank you.”

He hugs me tight, clutching, and I let him just take comfort in that simple thing. And I begin to understand that maybe, just maybe, he needs me as much as I need him.