Dante presses his lips together and nods. Christ, why did this have to happen right before closing?

"Alright, well, that really sucks, and I feel for you, but I'm not sure what kind of message the universe would be trying to send you by making you look like," he gestures to the man's entire general appearance, "that, and I don't really think I can help you out with deciphering it, either. We're not open for much longer and I am not loving the prospect of you getting all my merchandise soaking wet, so...." he shrugs and clasps his hands together, hoping the man will catch the not-so-subtle hint Dante is trying to drop.

"Right, yeah, totally, totally," the man nods, "That totally makes sense, I get you. I'll be quick, then. Where's your bathroom?" 

He does not, in fact, 'get' me, Dante thinks. 

"Don't you have a bathroom at home?" he asks, "You know, where its more comfortable?" 

"Yeah, but it's in Oakland," he responds, trying - and failing - not to sound pitiful, "and I dropped my phone in the puddle and it broke, so now I can't get to my clipper card, or call a Lift or an Oober, or a driver, or--"

"Alright, Alright, Mr.Sob Story, I get it." Dante pinches the bridge of his nose, "yeah, fine, come here, there's a bathroom in the back." He gestures to the man to follow him, and leads him to the small bathroom in the back. "You can clean up here. I'll grab an extra shirt for you, and there should be a towel in one of the cabinets for you to use. Sorry, there's no shower - you can just go hog wild in the sink," Dante says, nodding slightly. The man nods back slowly, and lets a beat pass awkwardly in silence. "Okay...." Dante begins, breaking the heavy pause, "I'll be right back with that shirt," and he turns to leave. 

The shopkeeper strides to the back of his store and unlocks an old dark-green door hidden between two bookshelves with a sign that says "KEEP OUT" in big, bold letters. Behind the door is a set of rickety stairs that lead to the second floor of this small building, where Dante's small but cozy apartment hides. Every inch of every wall is covered in some kind of shelf, trinket, poster, or memorabilia; he and Vivian had always been sentimental, despite never being willing to admit it. 

It's a mess in here, Dante thought, When was the last time I spent a minute in here to clean? He rubbed his face in exasperation and dismissed the thought. It didn't matter when, and he definitely didn't have the time right now. He had to find a shirt suitable for a stranger, that he didn't mind losing forever. He glances at his old, raggedy, brown leather couch, where he would often find most of his clean clothes, but everything there just had to be dirty this time around. It's alright - the apartment isn't that big. It only takes a few strides for him to go into his tiny room and grab some old high-school shirt out from the bottom of his shirt drawer. It's even more of a shitshow in his bedroom than it is in the rest of the apartment, so as he leaves, he makes a point to close the door despite knowing nobody else will end up seeing it, anyway. He glances at the other closed door next to his own and winces. It's still sad, after all these years, to look at the gap Vivian left in his life. He hasn't had the strength to go in there in ages. It's probably still the same as how she left it, give or take a few shirts The Aunties might have taken after the funeral. 

That's one of the main things Dante hated about grief. It seemed to hit whenever it wanted, however hard it wanted, and stayed for however long it wanted. Of course Dante missed her every day, but it was times like this, when it would feel like there was a croquet ball stuck in his throat, that he couldn't stand. Nothing had happened that reminded Dante of her. Not a sad thing happened at all today. So why was looking at her door so much harder now than it was this morning? 

"I like to think of Grief as kind of like.... a small box, with a button inside, that has a loose ball in there," Dante remembers the first Sex Worker Support Group he ever attended, about a half a year after Vivian's death. He had brought up how missing Vivian would affect him some times, but not affect him other times, and how frustrated he felt with that inconsistency. How shitty he felt for not feeling horrible all the time; how he felt like a bad kid for not drowning in grief every day. After the meeting, he had lit a cigarette and leaned against the outside wall of the church the meeting was held in. A woman approached him, lit her own cigarette, and said that sentence instead of introducing herself. 

"What?" Dante responded, exhaling the smoke with a bit of a small cough. The woman inhaled deeply, exhaled, and continued. 

"It's like... When the button is pressed, you feel grief. The ball rolls around in the box, hitting the button, making you feel bad. At first, when the box is small, the button is pressed all the time. You feel like shit. Constantly. As time goes on, the box gets bigger and bigger. The button's still there, and the ball's still there, and the button still gets pressed every now and then, but the space in the box just makes it happen less. Doesn't mean it changes how the button gets pressed, or how it feels. Just changes how often it happens. The only thing you can do is wait until the box gets bigger, and let yourself be okay with the box getting bigger; If you sit there pressing the button all the time, the box will never grow, and the pain won't stop. Give yourself a break," she hit the cigarette again, and stared off in front of her. 

Dante remembers standing there, not really knowing how to respond. He didn't know this lady, and he couldn't even really remember what she had said during her speaking time in the meeting. Clearly, though, she remembered him.

"I'm Jem," she continued, "You seem green. I just wanted you to know that I get it. That it sucks. That's what these meetings are for -" a gust of wind passes by, blowing the cigarette's light out, "god, damn it, fucking wind put it out, damn," she grumbled, grabbing her lighter to re-light her dead cigarette. 

"The wind'll do that, I guess," Dante postured, "I'm Dante."

"I know. You said it in the meeting," another inhale, then exhale, "some of us actually listen when others speak." 

Although it was snarky, Dante wasn't pissed. He remembered looking at her sly grin and grinning right back at her. She had a fire in her like Vivian did. "Thanks," he says finally, after a bit of a pause, "for saying that, I mean. Sounds like you know it well yourself."

Jem laughed a bit bitterly, "Yeah, well, when you get to be one-hundred-million years old like I am, you'll have been around the block a time or two. You pick things up." She took a long, finishing drag of her cigarette, and puts the cherry out on the bottom of her old sneaker. "Anyway, nice chatting with you kid. and remember - keep coming back. It works if you work it, so-"

"Work it 'cause you're worth it," he interrupted. 

The memory fades from Dante's mind as he snaps back to the present, one of his hands still resting forlornly on the doorknob of Vivian's unused bedroom. It seems that it's now one of those button-in-the-box days. What a pain in the ass. At least he'd be seeing Jem later this evening, and would be able to gripe about it with somebody who understands. 

He strides back down the rickety stairs quickly, purposefully hopping over a few steps to make up for the time he spent lollygagging down memory lane. As he makes it through the 'KEEP OUT' door and walks briskly back toward the bathroom, he starts hearing the faint sound of a voice speaking into a phone. 

"... I know, I know. I'll be home soon," the man's voice echoes from the bathroom, "I didn't run from Farley, I ... briskly walked out of his field of vision. Then I fell in a puddle. Listen, it was instant karma, I've already gotten my divine punishment for my misdeeds," Dante hears the man sigh, as if he meant what he said in earnest, but that's not even entirely where the bookshop owner's focus remains.

"Guess your phone is miraculously working again?" he says, turning the corner finally to face the now shirtless mystery man. Damn, Dante remarks, trying his best to keep his poker-face stern, he sure is fine, I'll give him that. 

The man freezes, before stuttering a quick "g-gotta go, bye, sorry! sorry!" and hanging up his phone. "No, I mean, well," the man gulps, "it was broken, for a second, but it got - it got better. I wiped it off and um...." he trails off. What a shit liar. 

"Man, c'mon." Dante sighs, "Okay, sure, whatever. I don't really care that much. Just take the shirt and get out, I gotta close up shop," he throws the ratty old tee at the stranger and rubs the side of his face with his hand. This guy is reminiscent of a cartoon character, but Dante can't put his finger on it. 

Quickly pulling the shirt over his bare chest, the stranger starts flailing, "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lie! It wasn't totally a lie, I mean, I did fall and I was soaking and I did drop my phone in it, but I guess technology really is amazing because it's only a little bit messed up. I just had been running for a while and I avoided so many puddles, that when I fell in that mini-lagoon outside it felt like," he takes a deep breath, trying to catch his breath after scrambling through words a mile a minute while he follows Dante around the store as he does his closing duties, "it felt like fate. Like I was supposed to come here. Matches my name, too, y'know, so it just seemed like it would be silly to pass it up!" As he finishes, his chest heaves as his lungs catch up, and he stands with a big smile in front of the door that Dante has led them back to. 

"...Okay," Dante pats the guy's shoulder, motioning for him to move aside so he could open the door. Once it swings open, he ushers at him again to exit properly, so that Dante can lock up behind the both of them. "Sure, okay. You can keep the shirt. Have a nice night," with a polite smile and a nod, he turns away from the stranger and starts walking toward the Circle of Compassion church for his Thursday night meeting. Not much time passes, though, before he hears the not-so-subtle pitter patter of footsteps behind him. 

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" The stranger asks, widening his strides to meet Dante's fast steps.

"Why?" It's cold, but San Francisco cold, so it's not that devastating, but Dante still shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he walks. He keeps his head forward, praying that his lack of eye contact will signal that he doesn't want to talk to this guy anymore. 

"Well, 'Cause I told you, it matches the store! Your store!" he glances at Dante expectantly, and while he feels his eyes on him, Dante still refuses to move his head. 

"I have a feeling you'll tell me anyway."

The stranger thinks for a bit, as if he is really pondering whether or not he'll spill the beans. "It's Virgil. Virgil Monroe. What's your name?"  

Dante groans. Of all the names in the world, it just had to be... fuck. He grabs his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one as he walks. This is turning into more of a stressful interaction than he wanted it to be. 

"Dante. My name is Dante."

Virgil stops in his tracks, "No fucking way." He stands, shocked, before he realizes that the other man in this conversation is not going to stop walking. Once he catches up, Virgil looks at Dante with an even wider grin than before, "That's definitely destiny, right? I mean, right?" he pesters, garnering no response aside from a puff of smoke and a silent eyeroll, "Think about it - Dante and Virgil. Virgil and Dante. In the Divine Comedy,  Virgil was Dante's guide through the inferno, all the way through to the garden of Eden. They were confidants, they saw everything together before Virgil disappeared in Purgatory. It's like we're linked, or something." 

Dante scoffs, "Linked, he says," he mumbles under his breath, "So you're destined to take me through hell? That's not the grand pick up line you think it is, kid." Dante takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales it almost forcefully. 

"Hey, I'm not a kid." Virgil blushes a bit, and pouts slightly, "I'm 23."

"Exactly. A kid."

"You can't be that much older," Virgil looks him up and down, "What are you, like, 24? 25?" 

"25," Dante shrugs, finishing his cigarette as he nears closer to the church, "but I have lived more in those two extra years than you could in fifteen." He tosses the butt into a nearby trash can and shoves his hand back into his jacket pocket. 

"Jesus, that's cliche," Virgil chides. Dante stops at the foot of the church stairs at those words, and turns to look at the man who made him practically sprint through San Francisco just to try to get some peace.  

"Yeah, fair enough. Whatever. Look, I'm glad I could help you out, and it's real cute that we have similar name origins, but I really don't have time for this right now. I'm busy. Plus - didn't you say you'd be home soon?"

"Oh, shoot," Virgil grabs his phone and glances at the time. It's only been about 15 minutes. When he looks back up, Dante is halfway up the steps to the front door of a Russian Orthodox church. "When are you free? When can I see you again?" Virgil yells after him, with no real abandon for decorum in public. 

"Never," Dante responds without turning around, "Now go home." He disappears behind the big white door, checking the sign standing at the entrance to see what basement room his group's been shoved into this time. A few girls follow quickly after him, and they exchange brief greetings. They rush down the stairs to find the room, despite being early. Dante follows behind, only to immediately turn into the men's bathroom on the ground floor. 

Fuck, he thinks, looking at his blushing face in the mirror. Tears begin to form on the waterline of his eyes, probably from the sudden temperature change. The blush had to be from the cold. It can't be from anything else. It had to be the cold. That kid didn't have any game, he didn't even necessarily flirt, he was just yapping. Yeah, his body is toned to the gods, and his namesake is identical to mine, but that's nothing. That's nothing. It doesn't mean anything. Pull it together. 

Dante sighs.

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.