“Sure you’ll be alright? Don’t need me to come with?” I asked, aware of his rush to the door, to get out before the clock struck an ill time. He was running just a bit behind, not as attentive to the clock as we should have been, “Have the card?”

“I’m fine—I’ve got the damn card—Jesus Christ,” sentence fragments stumbled from his throat, scratchy with fall allergies, and perhaps a minor cold, “I’m not a child—I can take care of myself.”

Maybe I was being excessively possessive, though I’d rather he be completely sure of himself. Change is hard, directions are harder—at least he knows where he’s off to, killed that bird earlier in the week. We’re hardly adults, there’s nothing short of a daily proclamation—hell, I’d still consider the both of us children, really, “Fine, fine—take care of yourself, don’t fall asleep in transit.”

“That only happened once, don’t be ridiculous!” harsh words barked in a playful tone, his peacoat’s final button slipping into place—it took some shoving, but he managed to make it through. A deep, audible breath. He stood by the door, myself atop the landing, too lazy to slip on my slippers and step down towards him. Fumbling with the lock—so many steps to it, a lower lock we’re not quite accustomed to, “I’ll be back later? Maybe around eighteen hundred hours, something like that—evening, just, expect me then—that sounds about right, yeah!”

“Sure—I’ll lock the door behind you.”

I nodded, he nodded, everything in place—and then, he was out the door. An old silence, though not unfamiliar, after all these years. A red thread suspended in time, trapped in the crevice of that sealed wood. Pausing, breathing, I stepped down to fasten all the locks again, the metal clicks echoing through my head, the empty entryway behind me. An invited stillness, I think that’s the right thing to call it—when a life partner is willingly let out the door, any everything around stands at a halt, unmoving until their return. Yet I wasn’t dependant, quite the opposite, really. In Aiden’s absence, I moved off, seated myself at the table within conjoined kitchen and living spaces. We hadn’t the most comfortable of chairs, needing new covers for them—we had purchased them solely to accompany this room, still need to order some neutral cushions to compliment. It’d likely have been better to nestle into the sofa, though I liked having a table to rest my elbows on.

I sat, considered the day. Winter was fast approaching, it wouldn’t be much longer until my unfortunately seasonal career went on a few months’ hold. However, there’s always something else to bide the time. Everything was hatched and in the air, a proper trap would likely snare a few preys before the ground froze over.

All my work materials had been stuffed away in one of the spares on this floor. Most of it still remained tucked away in cardboard, with the exception of desks and piles of shadowboxes. Yes, it’d be a good idea to get everything set up, do what I can before time runs out, but my mind had been clouded with other issues—no, I thought, maybe doing just that would get these invasive thoughts of elsewhere off my mind. After listening to the clock’s skinniest hand run for some time, I figured I may as well take care of business, however little there is.

Getting up, with a crack in my hips, I carefully walked over to that side room. The curtains were drawn shut, lights off, all but furniture hidden in boxes taped shit with pounds of adhesive. One labelled “netting” caught my eye, and further drew me to its otherwise plain body. A bundle of keys in my pocket, I drew the sharpest point across the off-white material holding everything together. It was harder to achieve that satisfying pop that anticipated, piercing layers of cheap plastic more difficult that I could recall—maybe, I was a bit too tired to be doing something like this, roused unfairly from my sleep. But, I didn’t feel all too exhausted, a wholly physical ailment. Cracking it open, pulling major flaps apart, revealing the tangled white mess of mesh inside.

They’re maybe a meter long, each wrapped in a way that keeps them in a cylindrical form, a few strands for fixing it to different things. It’s morally challenging just to own death traps like these, but the payoff is typically worth the price. Little dishes hang from the open bottoms, meant to be filled with bait—sugar, usually. Maybe I’d put in a drop of honey, if in a mood of generosity. May as well allow a pleasant final meal to those attracted, no? Even death row offers its victims a momentary pleasure, as far as I’m aware. Some were tangled up in each other, though in the end I was able to separate about half a dozen from the container—they didn’t have a funky smell, fortunately. Some of the cloth that endured moving needed a run through the wash, though these are just inorganic enough to take the humidity head on, no repercussions to be seen.

I had some hanging spots in mind—the trees attracted plenty of attention on their own, what with sappy fruits and flowers to spare. It used to be that I’d put them outside the flat’s window, I’d catch a few, though more often than not a swarm of either bees or hummingbirds would take whatever I had laid out for the world to take. Those two animals can usually make it out with quite some ease, though every now and again I had to free a flurry of wings from white entanglement—the scratches I’d receive in response were never quite worth it, hopefully it shouldn’t happen any longer. Though, I doubt I’d be able to catch them in time, if it did.

Returning to the kitchen, I rifled through the cupboards—no honey in the spice, we should get some later. There was however a box of small sugar cubes beside my—potentially concerning—collection of half-empty, branded tea bag containers. They’re too good to throw away, but it’s not every day I want Darjeeling or English Breakfast. With a bundle of neds over my shoulder, a handful of sugar in a plastic baggie, I stepped outside into the mid-height sun. The foliage around us lessened its strength, something that’d hopefully come in handy when snow made its first visit. I didn’t struggle much, finding the well-travelled insect highways for my traps. A winged one or two was sure to follow, as they often do. Above bundles of wildflowers, another location or two. I was hesitant, fastening the twine to weak and bending twigs was nowhere as reassuring as a metal hook and loop, but I’d have to have faith in the strength of the natural world. It’s not as if I had been hanging metal windchimes, only mixed fibres, plastic dishes, and a cubic centimetre of sugar for the road. It’d remain stable, if no winds came forwards and disrupted it. Even so, the swaying was worrying from the first tie to the last—still is, sometimes.

I’d leave them to “bake”, though a process similar to the word would come far later down the line. Biting through the skin of a ripe peach—somehow standing the fur, how it grated against my tongue—I was left to ponder my options once again. Though a home is a place where you’re meant to embrace relaxation, to feel “at home”, I felt as guilty as ever, not doing anything. With a mind left to wander, overthink unnecessary circumstances, I came to the decision that I may as well go out—after all, we don’t have any chair cushions, honey, rubbing alcohol, or plain old sugar.

***

It felt weird, “sneaking” out of the house, a shared one at that, both our names on the deed—everything should be a group decision from then on, right? Shared funds, shared rings, but—I like my independence a little too much, at least it’s all only legal contracts, nothing inherently morally binding—he understands that, as far as I know. Still, it felt just a bit odd. But, that’s life.

Keys, cash, cards...most of it fit snugly in my phone’s case, that which doubled easily as a wallet. I knew the schedule of the trains now—well, it’s all one time, all throughout the day. On that front, I’ll never have to do any guessing. A short easy ride away, a left turn into the skybridge system—I followed my way back to the store we visited just a few days ago. It’s not quite a shopping mall or a supermarket, but there was just about everything you need, all tucked away at the same address, in one uniformly air conditioned hall. The lines between them blur, easy to waste time wandering between the two, losing direction as you go. I’ve never liked shopping for that reason—you could just as easily get everything online, delivered right to your door with annual fees—but, that doesn’t account for immediate need, or the need for exercise, the need to get a fresh breath of air.

I made my rounds through grocery section after grocery section—picking up a few things I likely didn’t need, baked goods and meats destined to be eaten in days, or left unattended in the ice box. Eventually, however, I found myself staring down an aisle yet untraveled.

Cosmetics. The stigma against men appearing in these areas has gone down with the rise in modification popularity over the past generation or two, though I’m still hesitant to step within, given my blank appearance. I had a chip of extra keratin or two on my face when I was younger, though that has been lost to a matter of time and growth—I think, the major piece may have broken off before I struck double digits, though it’s hard to remember, having been so minor, and in a part of my life that has already begun to fade away. Nonetheless, with foodstuffs in tow, I stumbles into a lane of brightly coloured polishes, pencils I didn’t know the purpose of, and tools I’d equate to torture machines. But towards the end I saw them, the stocks of neutral keratin, special adhesives, feathers, ear prosthesis, claws—everything modification from hollow needles to stick-on scales. Confronted with the thought of previous conversations, I reached for a faux goat’s horn. Though it was packaged in layers of that tough, sharp plastic, I could see the rough texture. I’ve always wondered how they make these, especially since they’re marketed as genuine.

“You findin’ everything alright?” a young voice called from the end of the row. I took a glance, he’s young looking, maybe twenty. He could go a bit easier on the eye makeup, though. Practically looks like a raccoon with such a thick smoky going on, “Trying to get into mods, maybe? You’ve got the hair for a ram, what’s your history?”

Maybe he was just trying to make commission, though it all felt a bit too personal. Perhaps it’s rural hospitality, if such a thing can be believed to exist—culture is culture, always transforming. I didn’t want to be rude—and, I’ll admit, I had not an inkling of knowledge in this field, “Sokolov...had a few to pluck when I was young, they fell out with age.”

“Good Russian birds aye? Looking for a touch up, something like that?” he’d approach after speaking, body stood in line with my own, gazing at the complex wall—though likely plenty familiar to him, “Or something permanent, temporary, somethin’ to shine up someone else’s pretties?”

He was trying to push a sale, I could see that, “Just want to get back into it, modifications are kind of...necessary, it seems.”

“Can’t blame you. Feathers then?”

“No, no—horns maybe?” I proposed, a bit hesitant, “They look cute on the models, so...”

The young man nodded, visibly shifting his weight onto on side, tapping a foot rather rapidly. He’d hum, perhaps continuing my thoughts in his head, “You seem like an outgoing guy, nice and headstrong...how about those medium rams? You’ve plenty of hair to cover it up, wouldn’t you say?” He gestured to them, the neatly packaged faux horns amongst the rest, “Hollow and transparent, they’re perfectly light if you’re just starting off, could paint ‘em cute, upgrade to keratin when you’re comfy.”

“You’re really trying to sell me on the whole sheep thing, aren’t you?” I forced a chuckle, thumb running over my forefinger in the privacy of my pocket. This was wrong.

“Just my job,” he kept the mood light, somehow.

“You’re damn good at it, kid. Should work marketing.”

“Eh, maybe someday. M’ dad owns some real estate biz’, doesn’t believe in nepotism, gotta earn it y’know?” too light, maybe.

I squat down to get a better look at the products available to me, the obnoxious, glossy boxes covered in tiny white text. Holding a pair in my hand—they felt light, not too obnoxious, could easily be applied and forgotten, I’d assume. Cheap, too—that’s always a plus, given the amount we had recently dropped on that plot of land. It seemed like an alright investment, since colouring solutions and other addons aren’t all too pricey either. Unlike piercings, tattoos, and other permeant matters, this wouldn’t burn a hole in my pocket.

I ended up purchasing them, along with other things I had come for, of course. Walking home, I watched sets of leaves begin to fall from trees rendered brittle by the coming cold—most of them prompted by a bird or squirrel, unsurprisingly. Even so, they were buried in untended layers of themselves, the rotted fruits of their host’s labour scattered among them—I sure as well won’t be raking them, not then or in the spring. Arriving, I put everything away, filed neatly into cabinets and other areas where they’d be easily found. All was in order, though those horns had no place—I tucked them in bathroom, a lower portion of a sink-bound cabinet—there was nothing in there but cleaning supplies, just enough room to accommodate the box, and one or two bottles of adhesive and polish.

Everything was home, aside from Aiden. At least, it wouldn’t have been long until he joined me—maybe, I thought, I could prepare dinner for when he returns, celebrate the evening.