Turmeric. Chili. Ginger. Cardamom. Coriander.

A warm medley of spices and herbs that explode on the tongue.

Dieter brought home dinner from the new Indian takeaway that opened near the park.

It’s jarring. How normal everything seems. I watched a person die last week … but life goes on, I guess.

The sun still shines through my window every morning. Birdsong still echoes in the park on my mid-day walks. I still have to go to work and meet deadlines, although I made use of my saved-up holiday to get two weeks off.

There’s this horrendous nauseous feeling, like a blockage in the back of my throat that refuses to go away for long. It comes back every time I think about going upstairs.

There’s nothing there now. I don’t know how, but Dieter cleaned everything. The splatter stains on the wall and ceiling were bleached out and then repainted over for good measure. The scarlet-soaked carpet was ripped out and replaced. Even the pajamas I had been wearing have been replaced with two new sets. I haven’t asked what he did with the body. Don’t think about that!

Take a deep breath. Count to ten. Ground yourself. Focus on the weight in your hands. Mull over the flavors of the curry. Listen to the echo of Blinding Lights playing quietly on the radio in the kitchen.

The vintage silverware set my grandmother gifted me when I moved out has a pattern of ridges along the handles of the cutlery. The edges of my favorite fork worn smooth and pale from hours of running my thumb along them. The lump in my throat drops and I can breathe freely without the nausea again.

Dieter is using a wooden-handled stainless-steel set they brought home the day after they arrived. They had refused to use any of mine, giving the excuse that they could only use such precious family heirlooms if they were part of the family. But I saw them flinch when a knife slid to the side along the plate when they were clearing the table once.

They keep sneaking glances at me as we eat. Quick little flicks of their head coupled with a hopeful expression.

For the past week, Dieter has been following the same old work routine and helping with the house chores, except they’ve been keeping their distance. There have been no requests for cuddles or hand-holding. They’ve been sleeping on the couch. Little piles of my favorite snacks have been left on the table for me like gifts. Blankets, freshly heated in the dryer, left neatly folded in my movie night spot. When I enter a room Dieter is in, if they can, they will stay on the other side of it or find an excuse to leave. But they never skip eating dinner together, sitting with me in relative silence; we haven’t really spoken to each other since …

“I think it’s time we talked.” The draw of air catches in my throat and I have to take a deep breath to get the next two words out. “About us.”

A harsh clink of a fork hitting ceramic hard cracks the calm mood. Dieter shifts, fixing that piercing silver gaze on me again. “What do you mean?”

A cold shiver runs down my spine. They get this look sometimes, completely blank. It’s unnerving.

The whirling thoughts running through my head don’t seem to want to be spoken aloud. “We, uh… This… I want to…” I take a deep breath, count to ten, and then try again. Swirling the grains of rice around my plate. “I don’t really know you. I mean, I know the you that’s pretending to be someone else, but I don’t know the you you.”

“You…don’t know me?” A frown pulls at their face. If this was before, that expression would have me scrambling to appease and backtrack, but now all I can feel is a primal sort-of relief at the return of expression.

I take another deep breath. “What I mean is … I feel like I should get to know you more.”

“Get to know me.”

I’ve noticed Dieter has a habit of echoing my words before they respond, especially when it looks like they weren’t expecting the question. I wait, taking a moment to chew another mouthful. The chicken has a kick to it, which is balanced out by the sweetness of the coconut rice and the warmth of the spinach.

“What do you want to know…exactly?”

That question could have a thousand answers. I have so many questions; fueled by the whirlwind of images and thoughts that have gone around and around in my head since the incident. But the two questions that ring out the loudest are…

“I need to know who you are and … what you are.”

“Okay.” Dieter shifts in their seat. Black bleeds into their eyes for just a moment, silver irises swimming in a void, but then it recedes again. “Well, you know I can copy people, their faces and their memories. I’ve been able to do this my whole life.”

The changes still unnerve me; the way their eyes turn black, the stretched-out smile they struggle to hide sometimes, the rippling of their skin when their face changes. Especially in the light, where I can clearly glimpse the muscles pulling back around their mouth or beneath the skin as it momentarily becomes translucent when they change their face. But it doesn’t make me want to run. There is something strangely beautiful about it.

What I’m more worried about are the things outside of Dieter, the other occurrences.

“Yes. I get that. But I do have a question about the, um …” I can’t help but glance at the doorway behind Dieter. “The voices and the face in the doorways. The one that always disappeared when I…” I turn my head a little for emphasis.

Dieter picks at their plate. Eyes downcast and fork swirling their rice around. “That was me. I … I had to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“That you weren’t going to run away.” Dieter’s eyes are watery again, but their expression goes blank. I’ve come to realize that the blank expressions are the real indicators of their emotions. The far-away gaze appears whenever they’re overwhelmed by what they feel or upset. “I can’t … please understand, I couldn’t risk losing you.”

“Okay.” I take a bite of naan.

They look surprised. I guess they weren’t expecting such a quick acceptance. It’s not that I’m okay with everything that’s happened, but I understand that I can’t change what’s already happened. I chose Dieter over Cameron, and I will live with that choice.

“Could we try something?”

Dieter somehow sits even taller in their seat. Voice pitching up into an eager-to-please tone. “Anything you want.”

I have the feeling Dieter is going to react positively to this suggestion. “It’s nothing big just…what if we…got to know each other by…going on a date?”

“A date?” Dieter’s eyes go big, those hearts appearing again. “With me?”

Their fork slips from their hands and Dieter scrambles to catch it. My heart jolts at the clattering sound as it hits the plate and flips off the table.

Dieter dives, before popping back up and carefully putting the fork on the table. The pink flush framing their grin is cute. The way they sound so hopeful sets my heart skipping another beat.

“I … I want that. To take you on a date … as myself.”

I nod. “Then it’s a date.”

That rumbling purr echoes around us again. Dieter is staring at their plate with unwavering focus. The blank expression is back, but their mouth keeps twitching like they’re fighting back a grin.

“I still have some questions.”

They glance up. The purr gets quieter but doesn’t disappear completely. “Of course.”

“How did you do it? Be in two places at once.” I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine as the purring stops. It feels like disappointment.

Dieter sighs, looking uncomfortable again. “I will show you, I promise. Maybe after a date But not right now, please, you’ve just eaten.”

That excuse sets something off in my brain, like a switch being flipped on an alarm. How terrifying is what they do that they feel they can’t show me straight after dinner?

The memory of that night flashes in my mind again, unbidden. The sound of cracking bone. The way their skin had rippled as they transformed from a monster to a man. The same memory that has replayed over and over again when I close my eyes, it feels like watching a body horror scene in a movie on loop.

“Promise me you won’t run.”

Their voice cuts through the memory. Swirls of scarlet and shadow give way to golden light and spiced smoke. That wasn’t the light honeyed tones I’ve grown used to, that was the deep distorted timbre of their real voice. The sound of it should set my teeth on edge, that would be the normal reaction, but it doesn’t. Instead, a new memory resurfaces at the sound, one full of warmth and words of assurance.

“I promise.”