Dali stared into the cup of coffee that she held in her hands. The steam traveled heavenwards, creating a ray of warmth that could hardly be found anywhere else in the apartment. She blamed the incessant chill on the landlord, claiming he was negligent towards his duties. Each time he retorted that it was her own negligence when it came to paying bills. She told him to fuck off.

It seemed that "fuck off" was a helpful phrase as of late. It came in handy, she reflected, as it could be used interchangeably. She could tell her sister, her brother, her friends, her boyfriends, and strangers -- all of them, "Fuck off." She liked that, the anger or annoyance that the one word held in its four letters and the offense and gaping it could cause.

And in all frankness, Adalia de Lorraine thought, she lately had the undeniable urge to want to tell Faith Rydelle to fuck off.

It was odd, she thought, the whole mindset. She wanted the Rydelle girl out of the picture, now, when she herself was the one who painted her back onto the canvas in the first place. Life was a complicated thing, and so, apparently, was love. Not that there was any love involved. Oh no, not love. Dali refused to believe there was love causing the intense desire to put Rydelle in her place. More accurately, she told herself, it was because of the pure hatred due to that girl's perfection. There was no love in hate. But there was, she added as an afterthought, hate in love. Indirectly, Dali decided.

She stared at the door, sighing heavily. Who the hell was she kidding? The stupid cat probably even knew she was beginning to have feelings for Caleb Whealdon. She argued many-a-times that these feelings were fueled by the jealousy that he could be in love with someone as perfect as Faith Rydelle. They were the couple that made one want to barf in their attractiveness and public displays of affections. She, for one, would have none of that. Life needed imperfections and mistakes. She wanted to be his imperfection, his mistake. How could she do that if "Perfect" herself was standing in her way?

Dali rolled her eyes, finishing off her cup of coffee and starting towards the kitchen sink. She wished she had realized all of this later. Oh, wouldn't life be so much easier if she had foresight? Hell, hindsight, too. It would be so much more convenient. If she had only known she would begin to grow jealous of Faith four months prior to the current moment, Dali would have never persuaded Whealdon to make that phone call. Of all the times to want to be a nice person, she had to pick that one.

God, how she hated life. She was, so to speak, reaping what she sowed. She made him get back together with Faith, and now she was bearing the consequences. The two of them were happy as could be and she was stuck being the miserable, single one. Maybe she ought to join a convent and then she would not have to deal with men ever again.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Dali twirled a strand of honey-coloured hair around a long, thin finger. She glanced at the door again and wondered if it was really a bad thing to wish ill fortune upon the relationship of a friend. She wondered if it was even worse to want to be the one to ruin it. She sighed heavily, pushing her weight away from the counter. In a quest for relief, she ambled (almost guiltily) towards the cabinet farthest from her. She opened it, stood on tip-toe, and peered inside. With a small wave of content washing over her, she grabbed for the package of Camels that lived in the cabinet alongside mugs and glasses. She blindly groped long the shelving, looking for the pack's counterpart: matches. It didn't take long, though, as she soon had the matches in one hand and the cigarettes in the other.

She didn't smoke.

Correction: she didn't smoke often. It was like a side hobby. She yelled, she drank, she yelled some more -- and occasionally she smoked. One pack lasted her a few months' time, whereas it would have lasted her brother or any other regular smoker between a day to three days. She didn't like smoking; she didn't think it all attractive. It smelled bad and, to be frank, it tasted just as bad. The only time cigarettes had the potential to be attractive was after sex, and even that was only in the movies.

She liked them for the action itself. Swiping the match and putting it to the tip of the cigarette, placing it between her lips and taking a breath, daintily holding it between index and middle fingers while blowing out a thin line of foggy silver smoke. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Dali didn't find solace in the nicotine. It didn't really do much for her. Rather, it was the consistency and thoughtlessness of that single process that calmed her down and eased her stress. It provided relief that nothing else, she thought, could contribute to her life. Too bad it caused lung cancer and emphysema. Otherwise, it would be quite refreshing to add smoking a cigarette a day into her daily routine. Her very own yoga, minus the medicine ball and brightly coloured mat.

She had lit the cigarette and began to smoke it, tapping the ash off into the sink whilst running water. She was careful to steer away from windows and keyholes when burning off a smoke. An unreasonable guilt took hold of her with each cigarette she went through. During the time, though, she cared not about the fact that she was smoking. All she cared about was the temporary relief. That's all it was, too. Temporary.

When she finished off the cigarette, she replaced the diminishing package of Camels and the small complimentary box of matches. Almost compulsively, Dali began scrubbing her hands, a ridiculous amount of liquid soap poured into her palms. Paranoia got the best of her when it came to the after-smoke kick. The last thing she needed was Arthur or Lara to find out that she smoked. They wouldn't care less if she kept one pack for months at a time. In the end, a smoker was a smoker.

She turned off the running water and drying her hands on a dish towel. Tossing the dampened cloth onto the counter (with no particular aim; she cared not if it landed on the toaster or into the sink so long as it landed), Dali let out a long sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. She leaned her weight up against the counter, nose turned up at the ceiling as the back of her head rest on the cruddy faux-wood cabinet.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, turning them towards the digital clock that glared bright-orange on the microwave. The blocked letters blinked to a set tempo, telling her it was 12:00 AM. A lie, of course, that was caused by the previous night's power-outage. If she gave one shit she would have fixed the time. She didn't.

A sudden outrage came over her, annoyed at the fact that no one was there for her to re-set the time on that stupid kitchen appliance. It didn't work half the time, either. There was no one to fix that for her. No one to call, no one to complain to. There was Conaway downstairs, of course, but he didn't count. He wasn't who she wanted to have to ring up to bother about fixing microwaves or clocks or the bathroom's loose doorknob.

And so, angry and without much of a second thought, she reached for her wool coat, scarf, and gloves and headed out the door.

It wasn't until ten minutes later that she was standing at number 21-B Ingers Avenue, hovering at the doorstep with uncharacteristic hesitation. Leaning to the side of the door against the wall she silently compiled a list of reasons why she should, and shouldn't, go inside.

For one, she thought, she was wearing pajamas – and a jacket, she added for credit. If that didn’t scream “desperate” she wasn't sure what did. On the other hand, Dali pondered in her mind, brushing a strand of honey-coloured hair from her face, it showed spontaneity. She wondered if spontaneity could outweigh the desperate. She sighed, rolling her eyes in spite of herself.

She added to her list, as it grew with other frivolous things, the fact that Faith would probably be inside. What a damper that would be. How would that work, she asked herself, frustrated. The whole thing would just blow up in her face if that damn girl was there. Faith Rydelle was the whole reason she was standing outside Caleb's door in the first place!

Without another thought towards the matter, she lifted her weight from the wall and pounded hurriedly on the door. It was an angry knock; she was beating up the wooden slab as if it was Faith's face. A nice mental image that was, she thought, and continued to throw her fist onto the door with complacency.

The knocking had barely ceased even as he began to open the door. She had, finally, subsided when she noted his face awfully close to the door. It wouldn't have been helpful if she socked him right on the nose. No, she thought, that wouldn’t help her situation at all. She recoiled her fist, placing it into her coat pocket, and muttered a small "hello" before he let her inside.

"Adalia, it's eleven forty-five at night and I've got an early job tomorrow morning. There's a reason the lights were off." He may as well have been speaking to a wall for that's how much she was paying attention to his words. Instead, she was craning her neck and inspecting the rooms in view. So far, there was no Faith. Perfect, she thought with a small smile. "Don't you smile god damnit. This is a well-paying job and I don't want to fuck it up. You can pay the difference for what these blokes don't want to because I'm in a right mood tomorrow morning."

She stared at him, blinking slowly. "You're in a right mood right now, you are. Take some fucking Midol." She crossed her arms, eyebrows furrowed slightly as she looked at him. "For the record," she began slowly as if considering each word before she spoke it, "I didn't know what time it is." She paused, shooting him a look as if this lack of knowledge was his fault. Which it was, in her mind. He said nothing, just rubbed the sleep in his eyes. She sighed, annoyed. "My microwave is broken." A good enough reason, Dali supposed.

"Your microwave is broken," he drawled back. As if unable to grasp the concept of a broken appliance, he slumped down into a chair and crossed his arms on the table, allowing his head to fall into the pillow they made. She looked at him, smiling slightly at the way his soft brown hair fell forward. "What, exactly, do you want me to do with your broken microwave that's back in your flat in Fades?" His words came back muffled.

"Fix it," she responded smartly, setting her hands upon hips.

Caleb lifted his head slightly, making a noise that sounded his disarray. "Did you honestly come here for me to fix your microwave?" He looked at her inquiringly, eyebrows knitted together. He looked dreadfully tired, she thought; that didn't discourage her, though. She nodded, the corners of her mouth curling into a small smile. "Your microwave that is back at your place?" Again, a nod. "I suppose you want me to summon my magic powers so I can use sheer will and determination to fix it."

She squinted slightly, chewing at her bottom lip so as to consider this notion. "Maybe," Dali said finally, offering a half-smile this time. "Although, I figured it would be easier for you to just go to Fades and fix it there. Wouldn't want you to stress yourself or anything." My, she thought, how considerate.

"You're not serious, are you?" he asked incredulously. "Here you are, at my apartment at almost twelve at night asking me to go back to your place fifteen minutes away so I can fix your bloody microwave."

"Umm," she sounded thoughtfully, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger. "It's actually ten minutes -- if you go above the limit, that is. But, yeah... Yeah. That's basically the gist of it. I've actually got a loose doorknob, too. It's been bugging me these past few nights, you see, because the air will jilt it just a bit and I'll think there are intruders." She nodded, eyes widening as if to portray the level of seriousness this situation held. "It's a real bother. I thought you could kill two birds with one stones." She flashed a grin, dropping her hand back to her side, fingertips brushing against the warm material of her wool coat.

He rose to his feet and stood in front of her. At nearly a foot taller, he towered over her small stature. She liked his height, she reflected silently. She stared up at him, lips slightly pursed and eyes narrowed as they looked into his own, which shone, despite the tired, crystalline green. He let out a strong sigh, running his fingers through his hair and causing the licks to go in even more directions.

"Is it really that important?" he asked, sounding partly exasperated. She nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as if silently getting the point across that, yes, obviously it was that important.

"It's midnight. Yes it's fucking important, Whealdon. If I have to go through another night with faulty appliances or wobbly knobs I may just have to throw up." She crossed her arms tautly over her chest, an action that gave her a stern appearance. Perhaps, he thought as he looked down upon her, to make up for her vertical challenges.

With her arms tangled over her torso and posture straightened as if against an invisible metal pole, Caleb thought her to look one-hundred percent determined. Yet, through the facade he could see the neediness she felt. It had been nearly a year since he first talked to her, and in that time he had learned various things about her. She had a strong personality, an affinity for swear-words, and she was deathly afraid of needing. And as she stood there, looking angry-as-could-be, all he saw was a twenty-three-year-old woman who needed more than she wanted to admit.

"Fine," he said finally, once more rubbing his eyes as if to banish sleep from his being once and for all. "But if I can barely make it to work tomorrow, it's your entire fault. You can dig into your little fortune you've got tucked away somewhere for, I presume, a rainy day, and pay me my losses with that."

She smiled, happy with herself. "Ta, then. I'll drive."

At that announcement, Caleb Whealdon knew that any left-over tired would be gone once he buckled himself into the confines of his Civic. It would instead be replaced with fear for one's life. Still, he hadn't the heart (or the courage) to tell her he valued his life over her happiness. Putting on an inward bravado, he sighed, following her out the door.

About half-way between Wattingshire and East Fadingham, he had begun to feel unease in his stomach and the start of a headache at the bridge of his nose. Where the speed limit said 50 miles-per-hour, she drove at least 60 to 65 miles-per-hour. As he had stepped into her car she told him not to worry as his speedometer needle must be ahead of what she was actually going, just like hers was. He retorted that, as far as he knew, speedometers were not like clocks; you could not set them ahead by ten miles as you could set a clock ahead ten minutes. She told him to shut the fuck up as she was the one driving. So he did and leaned back into the passenger's seat, holding onto anything he could grasp. Adalia de Lorraine, he noted, was a horrible driver.

They had, however, arrived at her East Fades flat all in one piece. Unless, of course, he had acquired bruises from the many times she slammed the breaks and caused him to fly forward, saved only by the seat belt that went into a lock mode and beat across his chest. As far as he was concerned, he was whole and all was well. He followed her up the stairs, feeling a bit odd when he realized he was still wearing pajamas that consisted of an old shirt and a pair of flannel pants.

"So," he said as they reached her door. "What exactly is wrong with the microwave?"

She slid the key into the doorknob and turned it, pushing open the door and waltzing in without bothering to remove the key. The lights were all on, still. Caleb wondered what her electric bills were like. He walked in, pausing to remove the key from its hole. "Um," she began, removing her coat and hanging it half-heartedly on the back of a chair. "It's just being stupid. I'm not sure."

"Oh," he said, shutting the door behind him. As he stepped into her apartment, he wondered about the time. Needless to say, the time was no where to be found. That didn't surprise him, though, considering she was rarely on time for things. Now he knew why. Maybe he ought to buy her a watch for her birthday or Christmas.

Caleb stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking around. He has only been in her apartment two or three other times, and those were limited to her screaming and rushing him out the door (or his voluntary exit). It never bothered him, though, as she normally arrived at his doorstep with her little smile and often with a story to tell. He appreciated her visits, he realized, even if she had a tendency to drive him up the wall. After spending nearly all his time with Faith Rydelle (not that he was complaining), sometimes a person who was the complete opposite of her was a nice refuge.

"So the microwave's in there," she said, pointing in direction of the cramped kitchen. "And it's been a really bugger as of late. I think the bulb needs changed," she added thoughtfully. "Although, it's really just a pile of shit."

"Why don't you just buy a new one?" He asked this question often. She would complain about a broken something-or-other, ask him to fix it, and he'd ask her: why not buy a new one? Each time it was the same answer, the same insult thrown his way, and the same posture as she threw hands on hips in an indignant way.

"If I wanted to buy a new one I wouldn't have asked you over here. God, Caleb. Sometimes I wonder about you. You can be such an ass." There went the fists on her hips, eyes shooting daggers from where she stood to where he stood. He should have known better, he thought each time, but he never did.

He approached the microwave with no thoughts in his head how to fix it. She didn't even know what was wrong with it, and he didn't bother asking her if she was sure she didn't know, or if she was sure it was broken. That would only result in yelling. It was, he thought, far too late for yelling.

"Well," he said, pondering over the microwave, its door open. "I can change the bulb just fine." He figured that was a good way to start off, considering it was all he was sure of. "Do you have spares?" He looked at her, brushing back light brown hair from his eyes.

"I don't know," she answered after minimal thought. "I never really considered picking up new bulbs for my kitchen appliances when I'm at the market." Sarcasm heavily coated her words, though Caleb wasn't quite sure why.

"I can't quite change the bulb if there's nothing to replace the old one with," he said matter-of-factly. This earned him a glare, which he shrugged off. "And the microwave itself -- everything seems fine. I suppose if you're having troubles next time you go to use it you can give me a ring."

"Fine, then," she said, almost bitterly. He sighed inwardly.

"So if that's everything --"

"No," she interrupted him, unreasonably miffed. "That is not everything, Whealdon. You're so useless about the fucking appliance, obviously. I knew I should have just asked Conaway. He'd have known how to fix the god damn, mother-fucking thing." Caleb blinked, resisting a nervous cough that he felt trying to creep out. She ran her fingers through her hair before tying her arms tautly over her chest. "What about the doorknob?" she asked. "Can you steady that son-of-a-bitch so I'm not waking up in the middle of the night to some invisible intruder?"

Caleb had half a mind to wonder if she realized that i she /i had been a solid, tangible intruder that caused his own awakening. The other half of his mind went to counting the number of obscenities she used. One could measure Adalia de Lorraine's anger by the potency and expletives used in a given time. He ignored this, though, and gave a small nod. He certainly wasn't about to tell her no, was he? He started towards the bathroom door, hoping to have more knowledge about doorknobs than microwave ovens.

"So, it's just loose?" he inquired as she stood behind him. He was kneeling on the ground, inspecting the nails that attached the knob to the door. She had her eyes on him, watching the way his hair fell forward a bit as he bent his head to the side to get a better evaluation.

"Uh-huh." She felt lame having no other words to offer. Then again, she quipped to herself, she used quite an extensive vocabulary back there. She sounded like American white trash, drinking Jose Cuervo while sitting on pre-used lawn furniture and holding a smoke. "Sorry."

"What?" He continued to toy with the doorknob, jolting it and turning it from either side.

"For being such a jackass before." He had turned around to look at her during this spontaneous apology. The corners of his mouth turned into a small smile.

"S'alright," he said in a slight drawl of a yawn.

"And for waking you up, I suppose," she added as an afterthought, returning the smile. "It's just been a long week, really. One thing after another setting me off."

He let out a small laugh. "I didn't think much of it, actually. Frankly, it's not very unlike you."

Her mouth tugged into a miniscule frown. Did this mean she was white trash all the time? Hopefully not. She sighed. "Thanks, though. I really do appreciate this."

"You can appreciate it more if you tell me where the screw driver is so I can fix that doorknob."

As she pointed in the direction of an unused draw that held odds and ends (including the screw driver James Conaway had left one day after tightening her light fixtures), Dali wondered if Caleb rushed over to Faith Rydelle's home as he did for her. Did she complain to him to fix stupid, meaningless things? Probably not, she thought. She was perfect, and perfect people knew how to depend on themselves. Regardless, surely Faith required some sort of dependency on others. It was inhuman not to. Even she herself had realized that. Or perhaps Caleb was at her flat often enough that she didn't need to beg, he just did. This thought sent her stomach into a fit of small knots. She sighed slightly as he brushed past her, tool in hand, to the door.

"I'm just going to tighten the screws on these," he muttered as he began to turn the screw driver, its head pressed neatly against the metal screw. "Then it should be all set." He had finished tightening it, starting to jiggle the doorknob. It no longer wobbled about precariously. Satisfied, Caleb stood up, smiling. "And there you are. Nightly interruptions are no longer."

He had expected a quick-witted reply, something drenched in various obscenities and double entendres. Instead, she was just standing there. "Well, I guess I'm finished," he said awkwardly. Her silence unnerved him. "So I'll just be on my way, if you're all set." He offered another smile, stepping towards the door.

"Do you love her?" She had pondered this question over in her head; did he love Faith? He had obviously loved her at some point or another, the first time they were together. Feelings changed, though. Dali felt she understood this more than anything else.

"Do I -- what?" Caleb stopped mid-stride, turning around to face her. "What do you mean, 'do you love her'? Faith?" He sounded nonplussed and, he felt, rightfully so.

"Yes. Do you love Faith the way you loved her the first time?" She asked the question so matter-of-factly, so colloquially that it had sent him into a state of bewilder.

"Well, I mean -- you never really stop loving a person, you know? It's kind of like . . . Well, I don't know. It's just a consistency."

Dali pondered this as she looked at him. His eyes glittered under the ceiling light he stood beneath. Cast under the glow of the yellowish light were the contours of his face; the straight, defined lines of his nose, his cheekbones, and mouth gave off shadows that enhanced one another.

"I guess." She said this off-handedly, just as his answer was. He avoided a true response, she had noticed, and didn't even use words like "I" or "her." She allowed an unfelt smile to cross her lips. It did not reach her eyes, barely turned up the corners of her mouth. "I was just wondering."

He shrugged, matching her smile. "I suppose I'll be off, then. Since it's late and all." He started towards the door, stopping to reach for his car keys that rested idly on the kitchen table where she had thrown them.

"Wait," she said again. He wondered why she was so reluctant to let him step foot out the door; he wondered why he began to find himself unmindful of it. He smiled inwardly, turning around and raising his eyebrows in a way which implied a returning question, what? She wasn't even sure of "what." She stood for a moment, silent. Desultory thoughts flooded her mind as she looked from the keys in his hand to his face. "What do you think of regret?" Dali finally asked. Her hands hung languidly at her sides.

Silence hung between them. Caleb found himself at a loss for words, simply looking down at her. "Regret?" he asked, feeling inadequate. There she was, he reflected, asking those thoughtful questions and all he had was a question in response. She nodded, though, her eyes directed at the floor. "It's ... not good. I mean, no one wants regrets." She didn't say anything in response as if she was taking in what he said. He didn't understand why; it wasn't like he was giving some profound sermon to her. "But, I guess everyone has regrets." She remained silent, eyebrows furrowed.

Finally, she said, "No." He looked questioningly at her, vexed. "No," she repeated, "because I try not to regret things." Another pause, this time as she walked over towards him. She reached a hand to his own, fingers wrapping around the metal of the keys that had been warmed from his own prior grasp. She pulled them away from him, setting them back on the table. "Don't go just yet," Dali said quietly. "I don't want regret."

"Dali, what are you --"

"Just shut up for five fucking minutes, won't you?" she snapped impetuously, crossing her arms resolutely. Acquiescently, Caleb refrained from speech. He was not sure in the least bit what this would accomplish; he did know, however, that complying with her importunities would be safer for his health. "I've got a few," she said offhandedly. He looked at her loutishly. Upon noticing his confusion, she sighed and added, "Regrets. I've got a few regrets."

"Oh." He muttered the single syllable awkwardly. She seemed not to have noticed.

"I didn't think," she started, uncrossing her arms and running fingers absently through her hair, "at the times that I would regret them. But there are some things I do, you know?" She paused, appearing to be in thought. He felt like an outsider, like he hadn't been a part of any of this; confusion had taken over. "Still, I don't regret everything."

"I don't think anyone regrets everything," he said. He felt like he was taking a risk by giving a full sentence when he had been subjected to silence.

Dali looked down at the floor, sighing heavily. She said nothing, but remained deep in thought. She wondered if it was possible to feel remorse for everything one did in their life. Surely not. She certainly did not want to. She had enough in her life so far and wanted nothing more than to slough them from her being. She didn't want to regret anything else.

She took a step forward, diminishing the gap between them. He started to step backwards, instinctively, but found himself at a firm halt when she lightly grasped his arms. He asked her what the matter was; was she feeling ill? She didn't bother with an answer, but instead stood on tiptoe, nearly nose-to-nose. "I don't want anymore," she whispered in a voice so quiet that the words could only be half-understood. He hadn't time to question them, though, before she brought her lips to his in an impertinent kiss that far exceeded the guidelines of being a good hostess.

She ended the kiss soon after it began. She remained close to him, though, looking questioningly into his translucent green eyes. No answers were given, only confusion. She knew she caught him off-guard; she wondered if she did that purposely. Truth tended to come out when one least expected it. She knew that more than anyone else. Tentatively, she placed another kiss on his lips, this one lighter than the other had been. She lingered there a moment, her hands resting idly on his chest.

After what had seemed, between the two of them, to be an eternity, she stepped away, clearing her throat. She ran her thin fingers through her hair, pushing back strands that had fallen into her eyes. Neither said anything, and she wasn't sure she wanted there to be words spoken. She felt better merely imagining his thoughts rather than having him speak them. She cleared her throat again.

"Well, I suppose I ought to get going," he said offhandedly. She nodded silent confirmation. "Since it's gotten quite late," he added. Again, she nodded. He looked at her as she stood staring at the ground. Her hair fell off of her shoulders, a veil around her face. He wanted to ask her why; what had gotten into her? He wanted to not feel like he was betraying Faith. He loved Faith; he loved her more than he could put into words. Adalia was different, though, he thought as he looked at her. There she was, just standing there and looking as if she had the weight of the world, and then some, on her shoulders. For the second time that night she had taken off her hard, impenetrable exterior. He could feel her need, see it in her eyes as they were down turned at the hardwood floors. She was more complicated than she would ever like to admit.

As he stood unmoving, he wondered why he was so reluctant to leave. He should not have cared why she was acting in such a manner; he was undeniably in love with Faith Rydelle. But, he thought admonishingly, if it was such undeniable love, then why wasn't he back at home already?

Shoving these thoughts into the back of his mind, he reached for his keys that had, once more, been thrown onto the tabletop. She only watched him, still remaining silent. He began to feel slight anxiety, nervousness as she stood in absolute silence. He felt like he was being appraised, like she was mercilessly judging him; he could feel her hazel eyes on him even as he turned his back on her on his way to the door.

He had a foot already over the threshold when she, once again, stopped him. She said with certainty, "Don't get married."

Her words stopped him mid-stride. His fingers were wrapped around the door knob and his foot hovering slightly above the ground outside the door. Quickly, almost defensively, he turned around, the door shutting behind him. Once more, he was facing her with furrowed eyebrows, wholly disconcerted. "Don't get married?" he questioned verbatim. He wondered if perhaps he misheard her the first time. Part of him hoped she didn't, and Caleb attempted to chasten this hope.

"Yes." She said this one word convictionally, just as the statement had been. "Don't ask her to marry you."

He perceived the words with careful thought and consideration, querying where she had even gotten the idea in the first place. He never mentioned anything about wanting to propose marriage to Faith. At least, he hadn't interposed the thoughts to her. Donnie, sure; but not Adalia. He said nothing, feeling unable to form words. The silence vapored when he opened the door once more and said, "I've got to go."

She upheld her taciturnity, words being thought but not spoken. He hesitated a moment, as if waiting a response, and finally started out the door. She watched him leave, his figure soon out of sight as he turned the corner down the stairwell. Dali shut the door but remained where she stood. "You don't love her," she whispered the words she had wanted to say. "I don't want you to be in love with her."

The words evaporated into the air, becoming nothing more than a statement gone unheard.