I’m not hungry, but not eating would make things even more awkward than they already are.

For some reason, just the word ‘ravioli’ is ridiculously stupid right now. I have a strong urge to ignore the waiter and order nothing - but I force the words out - a stronger urge to overturn my plate, shove it onto the floor, or throw it against the wall like a spoiled toddler - but instead I rub my hand over my bare knees and wish, vaguely, that I’d worn stockings.

This chill is unbearable.

I can’t even think what to say, and Kattar is no help - sitting dazedly with his hand on his head. 

Today, at the very least, I know whatever is going on has little to do with strangers. There’s no one else in the restaurant but the staff and an elderly couple, more or less in the same state of nervous decay as the two of us. The husband with a walker - the woman with trembling hands.

The two of them didn’t even bat an eye when we entered.

But that only makes this silence that much harder to comprehend.

I try my best to search out root causes - so I can find cures - find something to help him.

And I’m more than tempted to just suggest we go home, but I know he’d hate that.

So I draw another blank and my demons scrawl ‘useless’ in the empty - white space - ringing like feedback - electrically helpless. My skin burns and ripples with chills-

It’s so subtle. 

Insidious.

If I don’t think about it he seems more or less like his normal self - just in shades of gray - or maybe this is it and this whole mess of an “almost-Kattar existence” is the new ‘normal’ - our old normal draped in a haze of abstract fatigue-

My thoughts become murky water - hogwash and small talk - 

I age eons in one breath.

Faded is the new black…

Just say something.

“My…agent and I are looking at me teaching a workshop,” I begin feebly.

He looks up at me almost blankly.

I’m boring. I know. But I have to say something…just bear with me.

“I’m still trying to work out details for the curriculum since I just started brainstorming it today, but…you know. It’s always a process...”

He nods at the right intervals, but I’m sure he doesn't care. I hardly care myself.

For a minute it looks like he’s actually dozing off. His fork picks at his dinner amidst unnatural pauses that remind me of stop-motion animation but he doesn’t eat anything.

Now seems like a good time for an eros-estential crisis - 

Every part of my brain starts to question why he asked me out to dinner at all when I hear his voice ask:

“What friend were you sending that picture to?”

“Hm?”

When he looks at me now, I see that the haze has cleared a little, and his gaze actually seems to meet mine, though the words still slip out wearily. “The um…selfie you sent me earlier that you said you meant to send a friend?”

“Oh,” I smile a little, more out of relief than amusement. “That was for Melissa. She’s head of communications for The Foundation, but we got to talking about shoes and now she texts me all the time for random nonsense about fashion. We’re almost the same height actually, so it works out pretty well. She’s just a little shorter than me.”

He scoffs fake discreetly behind his fist at those words, and for the first time in my life, I’m relieved to hear him laughing at me.

“Well, if that hobbit can teach you how to dress I’ll appreciate it. Since my years of effort seem to have gone in one ear and out the other." He smiles, just slightly, but it’s better than nothing.

I cup the firefly in both hands…

“I don’t need to care about fashion because I’m pretty enough to pull off anything.” I laugh teasingly, flipping my hair over one shoulder, and he flushes slightly, though no other part of his expression alters at all.

“Fair enough,” he nods twice - and I imagine just the faintest amount of light is showing in his eyes.

If only he would just tell me what…

But he seems to be more or less back to our old normal - except for the flush - a slight ruby-like hue in both cheeks like he’s been running a Boston - which seems to last much longer than any embarrassment should.

“So,” he squints as he looks up, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, “You had your first day working with the dress-up doll today. Did you enjoy yourself?”

For a second the memory of Emelia is almost invisible in the face of my current confusion.

I can’t make out what exactly is…

“Not particularly, but it was fine,” I sigh a bit more audibly than intended. “She’s not a lot of fun, but it’s just work, so I guess she doesn’t have to be.”

He nods mildly, taking another sip of water, but he doesn’t look back up as he sets the cup down again. One thin hand remains wrapped around the vessel, his gaze locked on profound reflections buried somewhere deep in the glass. When he looks up again he realizes I’m staring.

I’m jealous.

I know there’s a song about that.

He flushes redder but it looks like a wince.

“Is…something wrong?” He smiles, embarrassed.

“No…” I reply slowly. 

And he nods but he doesn’t seem to believe me.

I don’t believe me either.

Picking back up his fork, he takes his first bite of cold tortellini as I shake my head trying to regather my thoughts.

I’m so done talking about the stupid job and all this ridiculous nonsense…

But there’s nothing else for me to say - not without risking my nerves or more awkwardness.

“Anyway, I’m still trying to work out the housing situation too…”

With a slow breath, I brace myself to voice the idea that’s been ping-ponging around in my head, as I smack it down to earth - attempting to ground it-

“I’m considering just buying all four apartments myself.”

He stares at me dumbfounded.

“You’re considering what?” The mouth says - echoing the look in his eyes - as the eyebrows knit themselves into two ebony cobras in the slight line of his forehead. “You don’t think you have enough space to make a mess in one?”

“I wasn’t planning to live in all of them,” I reply curtly, a little defensively, though I know my irritation is unfounded. “I was thinking I could rent them out.”

He still looks doubtful, the cobras unrelenting -

“Your landlord has been trying that since you moved in. What makes you think you’ll do a better job at it than he did?”

I mean ouch.

But it’s a fair point.

“Well, I was thinking I could decorate them like a crazy whimsical art-museum-house thing with my artwork actually painted onto the walls, and do a vacation rental sort of deal. It could work if people’s interest in my work keeps growing.” 

I say it all a lot more confidently than I feel, but the more I talk the more the idea begins to take root in my psyche. 

“I could go with a consistent theme that progresses from apartment to apartment, like the shades of the rainbow or something like that.”

“You don’t have nearly enough apartments for the rainbow. Even buying four apartments is a crazy serious undertaking,” he shakes his head disbelievingly.

“I know,” I sigh again, feeling deflated as I rest my cheek on the palm of my hand and try to remember how it felt to be excited about the idea - 0.2 seconds ago. “But The Foundation says my popularity is at an all-time high right now, so if I was ever going to make an investment, now is probably the best time.”

He sighs before he answers, but for the life of me, I don’t know what part of my statement he’s sighing about or if it’s everything.

Everything about me?

“Well, I don’t know a lot about business,” he says, his tone like a vapor, “but if you think it’s a good idea then go for it, I guess. Maybe you could ask my mom…”

His sentence trails off suddenly and his eyes get lost in the maze of threads on the red tablecloth, suddenly teleported somewhere into the depth of his thoughts-

I can’t get into.

I’m not allowed in.

And I’m afraid knocking will just drive him further into the recesses…

I resist the urge to dive in and try instead to pry him back out, asking hesitantly, as I wrap my fingers around my foggy glass.

“On a different note, I was wondering…”

He tilts his head and looks up slightly from beneath the dark brows, but there’s a micro-grimace - there and gone in a flash - that nearly stops me dead in my tracks as he does-

Don’t mention it-

Kat…

When was the last time he took his pain medication?

I make myself smile like there’s not an ounce of worry in my heart, but my mind is anywhere but in my body even as the mouth asks with a coquettish smile.

“What do you want more than anything else for your birthday?”

He seems caught off guard for a minute and reddens-

And for one instant I see myself standing on the shore, trying to keep the ocean from receding, willing his ebbing feelings to be still-

“Anything you like,” he says more like a breath than anything else, “Whatever you want to give me is good. I’m sure you’ll think of something nice.”

And I wish there was something I could read in that expression - but it’s rinsed from his face like scrolling text pouring down the screen - and in its place, I see the pain leaking in bit by bit-

And maybe it’s not my place…

It’s doubtful if I even have that much hold on his emotions, but….

If I begged him, could I get him to listen to the doctor’s orders?

At the same time, a voice argues that I’m not supposed to play that card.

Maybe it’s playing dirty.

But it’s not like he didn’t do it first.