Fading

Your heart is beating from almost missing the bus. It's anger, a little, at the driver who didn't open his door to your knock, five seconds before he pulled away. And it's relief, a little, the surprise of optimism paying off—that he'd been held up at the next stop, only a block and a half away. Of course, it's also the running, and dodging traffic, and the embarrassment of it all. But nobody noticed, you think, not really, so it'll be okay.

You take a seat by the driver, who says something to you that neither you nor I pay any attention to, though you, for a moment, wonder if he recognized you from the block before; but then, your mind is on other things. You're thinking of jokes, and your wife, about what you're looking forward to completing at work tomorrow, and the beer you're going to have with your friends on Friday. You don't realize it, but you're happier than you're ever going to be again.

Am I thinking too loudly? You looked up and did a just-slightly-longer-than-polite look about the bus. I think that might just be you, though: a little odd. That's nice. It's a horrible thing to slowly devolve to the lowest common denominator of your food. In any case, you didn't see me; that's trivial enough. You won't see me until I'm ready—until you're ready—and I want you to marinate just a bit longer.

Perhaps I do toy with my food too much. Who's to say? A harmless addiction, right? Like your guilty pleasure of smelling the whiteboard markers at work. You don't abuse them, of course; you're hardly a junky. It just makes your meetings a little more pleasant. This is like that. I'm making our meeting a little more pleasant—for me. I'm certainly not going to spoil my meal, and you're not about to "get away". This is my own little guilty pleasure.

Perhaps that seeped through a bit. You look up and see me, actually see me, though of course not for what I really am. Our eyes lock and despite the instinctual urge you have to look away...you don't. Despite my apparent age, you feel the slightest hint of sexual stirrings, but that's not my doing; the human body responds strangely to intimacy, does it not? I smile, and you...you begin to hear the slightest echo of my thoughts, now. You shrug it off as blood pulsing in your temples, but I dive in.

We think, together: how wonderful your wife is, the little things she does just for you; and the things you do for her. At this moment, you feel closer to her than you can recall. Her flesh is your flesh; you can feel her sitting within you. You can almost...understand...her every little foible. That fills you with joy, and I take it. We remember long midnight walks and romantic dinners, talks of future children. That warms your heart, and I take it. Your friends: you have good friends, and they're all a little bit jealous of your relationship, but you're comfortable with that; they love you, too, and you're comfortable with that. I leave you your comfort, but it won't be much. The taste of coffee is on the tip of your tongue, and you swirl it around, and it feels...so...good. And I take it.

I disengage slowly, as the taste in your mouth sours and then fades. Worried, confused, you remember the pleasant smell of whiteboard markers, and yes, they are good. They are good for a moment, and then I take them, too, and you're left with the acrid smell of burning rubber. You see your joys fading, but it's harder and harder to care. Life is like that, sometimes. By the time Friday comes you'll hardly taste that cherished beer. The ones who loved what I have taken will stay with you, or they'll try, at least. I would feel remorse, but that's what I've left with you. It will fade, too, in time, and then all you'll have left is ashes. And I'll need to find another soul full of hope.