Moon River

..--..

“I would like to introduce myself but then, it really would be a colossal waste of my time and not to mention, yours. Does it matter whether you know my name since you may very well forget it in a month or two after graduation? Does it matter whether I tell you my hobbies since you really don’t give a damn if I spend my spare time cutting myself or murdering little stray puppies on the street? If humans have such a short attention span, why must we even bother doing the little trivialities of life like they matter? But if you’re really curious, then alright… My name is Nora Farrenway,” I bowed to them all at this point and looked up, a shocked silence hanging in the air. “I’ve spent sixteen years on this earth, a large part of it being emotionally abused and being treated akin to dirt by people like you. Don’t worry... I won’t hold it against you guys and no, this isn’t a sob story. Even if I’m looking for sympathy, you cheeky bastards would be the very last people I’d go to. In conclusion, let’s just pretend that neither of us exists since I don’t like you and you definitely don’t like me now.”

That was the introduction I gave in my first year of senior high.

The entire class stared back at me like thirty-odd goldfishes clumped in a glass bowl and the good ol’ homeroom teacher had looked… visibly distressed.

“And just for the record, I don’t murder stray puppies,” were the final words to that speech. Not that they had much soothing effect.

By the time I graduated out of high school, I was unanimously voted as the ‘Most Likely Candidate to Commit Suicide before hitting 20’. I missed out on the ‘Possible Psychopath In Need Of Psychiatric Help’ by three votes. But hey, atleast I had one name to uphold.

Surprising? Not at all. Back then, it was a huge honor, you know. I wondered whether I could live up to the title, it being such a heavy burden and all on my shoulders.

All humor aside, I guess I didn’t blame them. It really wasn’t their fault. I did deserve it.

Considering the fact that one of my favorite books is Shintaro Kago’s ‘Fetus Collection’ which I used to read openly in class much to everyone’s disgust, does make me look like a somewhat manic depressive with a fetish for guro. Disembodied intestines, Jack the Ripper’esque mutilations and fetuses as ornamental hair arrangements wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea… which I realized the hard way. Most people would cringe at Shintaro Kago’s graphical works. Most sane people would. But I’d long realized that normalcy is over-rated and began to accept my own eccentricity.

Four years later, I crossed 20, hail and healthy. It was one of those ‘Ah!’ moments where I just wanted to pump my fists at anyone who dared to second guess my life expectancy. The only sad part was that I had no one to pump my fists at. Everybody had moved on. That’s the whole trouble with real life. It isn’t ala Hollywood where the pauper gets to flaunt his BMW at the end of the two-hour rags-to-riches story. In the real world, the pauper remains exactly that. A pauper. Still poor. Still without a life. And the whole world is still laughing at him and his delusions.

When I hit 22, I was the same odd little bumpkin I was in high school. Sociophobic, secluded and world weary, I was living in a rented studio apartment in the city. It could have been a nice, cozy place had I attempted to make it hospitable. I never did try. That was always the whole trouble with me. When I got caught too much in something, I’d forget everything else that existed. Sometimes when I’m writing, I’d forget to eat for two days in a row because Agent Sarah Dale caught in a horrific murder case with a serial killer on her trail, didn’t have time to be binging away either.

I guess it needs to be mentioned here. I was a writer. Atleast, I was trying to be one. It’d have been easier if it weren’t for my editor who thought I needed a bit more paprika in my writing.

Paprika? He always liked to throw such words around.

I remember one conversation with him where he taught me that the best way to write a bestseller was to be either a) a crook b) a former politician c) the concubine of the former politician or d) All the above.

I didn’t really know who he was taking a potshot at but I guess that’s what he really meant by paprika.

In reply, I told him I was just a) a ‘nobody’ b) with a good sense of humor and c) I could be the literary world’s Alfred Hitchcock or Quentin Tarantino if he wanted me to. He laughed aloud at my answer, taking a liking to me immediately. And though his publishing house did do only mainstream fiction, he took me under his wing… albeit reluctantly.

My editor was probably the only one who understood the sort of shit I wrote.

That was until I met him.

..--..

The first thing he asked me when we met was ‘Do you want to have sex?’

Yes, I’d finally met someone loonier than me. Why, thank you, God. It was getting a little lonely here.

The scene in question was at my front door, at around 2 am on a rainy night. He was standing before me- a mess of soaking bleached hair, white t-shirt, faded jeans and a long gray rain-spotted overcoat. He had these wondrous black eyes that could just look right through you and those pouting, moist lips that would have put any L’Oreal mascot to shame. His waxed eyebrows did give me an inferiority complex.

Men were not supposed to be this pretty dammit.

I was staring at him through my half-lidded eyes, bed hair, bad breath, squinty vision and all. The point being that I definitely did not look like a hot, ravishing, rich client that any male prostitute would be interested in. Hell, I was hardly worth a second glance in daylight, let alone in the wee hours of the night. And I barely had two bucks hidden under my pillow to spare. Not that I was planning to use them.

“Huh?” I asked brightly, wondering whether I’d heard him right.

He smiled despite dripping wet and making a visibly large puddle on my ‘Welcome’ mat. I was rather annoyed by that. I mean I’d just bought it a week ago.

He leaned forward, repeating his question. I heard him loud and clear this time.

“You’re crazy,” was my subtle reply.

Waving my hand, I scoffed at him incredulously and started to close the door. He caught his sneaker into the archway and pleaded. “Please, let me stay. And if you’re interested, my offer is still up. I’m quite good in bed if I say so myself.”

“No, no and definitely don’t care,” I remarked, trying to nudge his foot out of the doorway. For someone who looked so brittle, he was quite strong… or maybe it was just me being weak from malnutrition. “Go to a motel or somethin’. Where did you even pop out from? How did the guard let you in?” I asked, trying to look past his tall frame. Judging from the way there was no wet puddle before any of my neighbors’, I got the lingering suspicion that all was not well with this boy and his reasoning.

“I just need a roof for one night,” he said, gazing at me earnestly.

I stared at him and took a careful step back. “Look, I want you to leave right now. You’re scaring me. And I’m really not the sort that gets frightened easily so that’s saying a lot. Leave before I call the cops.”

He paused, looking down at the untied laces of his rundown sneakers. “I just need a place to stay,” he said in a low voice. “That’s all.”

“Sorry. I guess you must have imagined the ‘To Let’ board outside. But for your kind information, I am NOT renting out any room at the moment. And I definitely don’t cater to the homeless since I’m penniless myself… No thanks to my editor and his publishing house. So, go, scram, buh-bye-”

“I don’t even need a room. Just give me a broom closet. I can stay the night there,” he said, voice quivering against the cold. He sounded so forlorn.

I stared at him, swallowing the tight knot in my throat.

Water dripping from his hair, his eyes dark and misty, he looked lost. So, utterly lost.

I let out a resigned sigh.

I warily opened the door and let him in. Now that I think about it, what was I thinking? Perhaps the right question is- Was I even thinking? It must have been the betrayal of my barely existing intelligence.

I guess I let him in because some side of me had always wanted to save a drowning puppy. And that he indeed was. Honestly, it wasn’t some sort of complex that I had. I usually didn’t go around trying to save people jumping off bridges. Too much hassle. My philosophy was to live and let live, die and let die. But after one look at this fellow, I decided to chuck my philosophy out of the window for just a day. I decided to try my hand at this ‘saving-people’ thing.

Plus, I didn’t want him ruining my door mat any more.

He followed me in, walking with a limp and his shoulders slumped. I kept a watchful eye on him just in case he tried anything funny.

How old was he?

Nineteen, twenty? I wasn’t too sure.

He waited for me to direct him to the closet. Instead, I led him to the couch in the living room. I gestured to it and warned him not to steal anything from my house. Not that there was much to steal anyway.

My attention shifted to the only prized possession I possessed that was hibernating on my desk. Unplugging my laptop off the power cord, I held it protectively to my chest and retreated to my room.

“You better not be around in the morning,” I called from my room, locking the doors behind me. “Or I’ll sic the cops on you. I swear to God.”

He didn’t reply and I heard him collapse on the couch.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have sex?” was all he asked.

“Hell NO!” came my horrified reply as I slumped back in bed.

He still asks me that.

Every day.

And I turn him down.

Again, everyday.

But yeah, that’s how it all started. That’s how the puppy entered my life- a dripping mess of jeans, white t-shirt and messy bleached hair. And he never quite left.

..--..

I do admit it.

I was the one who decided to keep him.

I couldn’t resist.

But I blame it on the pasta. Entirely its fault. Somebody should have given me a warning. Or I wouldn’t have caved to the dark side so easily. Who’d have known that the boy had mad cooking skills lurking behind that pretty face?

He cooked like Gautier, Master Chef from some French-Italian cooking school in the Alps and he could whip a soufflé like nobody I’d seen before. For someone like me who’d spent a good part of the past two years, eating reheated pizza from the microwave, he was heaven sent and his food seemed like manna from the gods.

Valentine. That was what he asked to be called. It sounded like a butler’s name. Just like Alfred, Sebastian, Emanuel did. And somehow he became exactly that. Some sort of a personal attendant. I realized that he was a good errand boy, a gofer of sorts. I sent him for picking the groceries, mailing posts, buying the stationeries and, oh yes, the oh-so-awesome cooking. He did all my errands without a word of complaint.

I wondered whether ‘Valentine’ was real. He didn’t even bother to tell me his last name and I didn’t ask for it. We had this unspoken code between us whereby we never tried to pry into each other’s lives.

I wrote and he did… whatever it was that he did.

I was always at home while he left the apartment at odd hours, only to return at even odder hours. The only people, in my opinion, who worked at 3 am, were the mafia, the paramedics and serial killers. I seriously hoped he wasn’t any of those. But sometimes when I watched him handle the butcher’s knife the way he did, flicking it back and forth with mind-numbing precision, the thought did cross my mind. Once or twice.

I felt a sudden pang of paranoia.

Since I let him become a tenant, I decided that I should atleast know what he made a living out of.

“So, what do you exactly do?” I asked him one day, when he was sitting at the dining table, browsing through a cookbook and far from any possible sharp objects.

“Uh,” he mumbled, scowling a bit. “I really don’t have much of a job…”

Likely story, I told myself.

“But-” he said, stopping short and giving me a weird look.

“But?” I repeated, waiting for him to proceed.

“I model sometimes for gravure magazines. Like Rave, you’ve ever heard of it?”

“Model?” I echoed, some pieces of the jigsaw puzzle falling into place.

“Yeah.”

“Nude?” I asked quickly.

“No, just standard designer wear,” he said and grinned, adding an afterthought. “But if you’re interested, I don’t mind-”

I shot him a tacit warning. “No. Don’t even say it.”

“Aww, come on. You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

“No thanks. I have my guesses. It’s probably some lewd thought I’d rather do without.”

“ ‘kay,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment. “But yeah, I don’t do nude. And I’m a little offended that you even asked me. Did you think so little of my dignity?” he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Mm,” I mumbled, blatantly ignoring him and went back to my laptop.

He raised an eyebrow, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug. “That was an inscrutable answer. What was that ‘mm’ for?”

I shrugged. “It means ‘It makes sense’.”

“What does?”

“Your waxed eyebrows and you being a model.”

He consciously traced his fingers along his forehead. “Oh, you noticed.”

“Yeah. They were giving me an inferiority complex for a long time. I guess now I can just blame it on your profession, huh?”

He laughed and went back to reading.

..--..

It was a clear night and she could hear the small whispers of the bay. Sea gulls flocked in the distance and judging by the time of the day, she didn’t need to guess that there was a dead corpse lying somewhere around. Agent Sarah Dale had felt fear before but now, she was living in it. She walked into the empty warehouse, her footsteps ricocheting off the hollow insides of the building. That’s when she heard his voice- “Wherever you’re going-

“-I’m going your waaaaaay…” he hummed, making his own music. “Two drifters off to see the world…”

That’s when she heard his voice- “Wherever you’re going- I’m going your way,” the voice said.

I squinted at what I’d just written.

“Val, quit that!” I said, scrunching up my face.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

That’s when she heard his voice- “Wherever you’re going- you better think twice ‘bout it. Cos’ it ain’t a pretty sight for a lady,” the voice said.

Valentine stuck his head out from the kitchen. He was still humming.

“Quit what?” he asked, a speck of dough on his nose. I felt the sudden urge to go over and wipe it off.

“Singing,” I replied, giving him an odd glance. “Quit that.”

“You aren’t fond of Sinatra?” he asked. “How can you possibly not like Moon River?”

I gave him a narrow look and turned my attention back to the laptop.

“I do but not right now. I’m writing. And I have a deadline for next Monday and I don’t want distractions. Absolutely no distractions. No music. No humming. No bloody whatever it is that you do.”

“Ah, someone’s stressed out,” he commented with a roll of his eyes and disappeared back into the kitchen, without much of a counter argument… which was surprising.

I continued writing.

It all felt like an eerie noir film on a vinyl tape with abrupt bursts and stops. She was about to take a step backwards to retract her revolver from the car when she felt a cold, steel object poking in her back. She heard him laugh.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the owner of the voice said. He slid closer, running the barrel of his gun up her back. “Long time no see, Agent Sarah Dale. How’s the view?”

“Could be better,” she surmised with no humor.

“We’re-”

“… after the same raaaainbows,” Valentine’s voice cut loudly from the kitchen, thundering in my ears.

My shoulders slumped and my head collapsed on the keyboard, creating a string of gibberish on the screen.

..--..

Valentine was a cockroach… a cockroach in the disguise of a pretty boy with devilish good looks, bleached hair and a boy scout’s smile. Part-time model, part-time cook, part-time diva and a part-time pain in the arse. Yup, that’s what he was. When he was at home, he was always breathing down my neck, trying to get a glimpse of what I was writing. It unnerved me so much to have a cheerful pair of eyes, watching my every movement. Here I was trying to write a detailed gruesome description of the killer’s attack on another unwitting victim and Valentine would laugh that cute little laugh of his, pretending to be reading some magazine. So distracting.

He enjoyed making me feel uncomfortable. Sometimes, he’d sit on the couch and stare at me for hours and hours together, a small smile lingering on those pouting lips of his.

He also had a thing for fedoras and scarves. Everyday when he’d return home, he was always wearing a new one. Black, Gray, Blue, White… he had one for every color in the visible spectrum. I couldn’t really put my finger on what exactly his fetish was. Him wanting to be a Frank Sinatra doppelganger or maybe it was just an obsession for anything 1940. I couldn’t figure him out.

“I might be late tonight,” he said, sticking his head out from the kitchen, a new linen scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Mm,” I replied, editing a paragraph that didn’t sound right in my head.

“What’ll you do about dinner?” he said, leaning against the door frame.

“I dunno. Takeout, maybe… Pizza possibly,” I said, still concentrating on my monitor.

“That’s not very healthy, you know,” he said.

I nodded absent-mindedly.

“Nora,” he said in pain.

“Hm?” I looked up.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he asked, stressing on every word as if I were a two-year-old.

“Something about something not being healthy?”

He groaned and moved to the shoe rack quietly. “Never mind… Take care of yourself now. I’ll be back at two in the morning.”

“Okay, mom. Now scram. Go wherever it is that you go. Break a leg,” I said.

I watched him from the corner of my eyes as he put on his new fedora.

“Purple huh?” I asked, trying hard not to snicker.

He turned to me, gracing me an inquiring look.

I pointed to the purple hat sitting on his head.

“Oh. Smart, very smart. Don’t you dare be the one to give me fashion advice, Miss. I-haven’t-taken-a-shower-in-three-days!”

I tossed a pen at him but missed the target by a wide gap. He grinned at my poor aim, turned around and left, closing the door behind him gently.

“Just so you know, I am averse to taking a shower whenever you’re around,” I yelled at the closed door.

I heard him laugh.

..--..

Sarah stared at the corpse before her. At thirty-three, she wondered whether she was really cut out for this line of work. She closed her nostrils with a handkerchief and bent low, inspecting the body. A clean slice through the ribs and a patch of skin torn around the neck. His trademark signs.

I stopped typing.

I yawned and crossed my arms behind my head. One brief glance to the wall clock announced that it was three fifty am. It was dark all around and only the streetlights flickered in the distance. Absent-mindedly, I looked at the door again, almost expecting the knob to turn. It didn’t.

Shaking my head, I slithered out of my chair and decided to take a cat nap on the couch. I wasn’t even rested for three minutes before sleep claimed me into its folds. No point arguing with sleep. It was a war meant to be lost.

After what seemed like ages, I woke up to the feeling of something heavy sitting on my legs. I forced my eyes open and glanced up to find Valentine peering at me in the semi-darkness. He was squatting on my legs, pinning me down forcibly. He was still wearing his hat and his dark eyes danced with mischief.

“What in the world… are you doing?” I blurted out groggily, trying to sit up. It was a futile attempt.

“Wondering whether I should give you a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?” came the quick answer.

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Because I thought you almost died. I come back home and what do I see? You’re lying unconscious on the couch with your laptop on. It took me a minute to realize that you were sleeping soundly in that precarious pose of yours.”

I frowned. “I can’t die yet. I still need to finish that book.”

There was a significant pause. “Then, my dear, you need to get your priorities checked. I must say, you did look tempting. Don’t sleep out here in the open again unless you *want* me to take advantage of you? Might I suggest that there does exist something by the name of a ‘bed’?”

“A single one, remember?”

“Unfortunately. But I don’t mind adjusting. I bet there is enough space for two,” he said with a sly smile.

I groaned, trying to push him off me. It was again a futile attempt.

“What’s with you and all your sexual innuendoes? Are you always like…”

“Like what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Like this?” I said pointedly, flicking my hands back and forth between us. “Even at work?”

He chuckled. “Not really. Only when it comes to a certain hot writer that I seem very attracted to.”

“And who is two years older than you, prima donna.”

“Age doesn’t matter. Love is unconditional. Didn’t you know?”

“Oh, so it’s love now? And here I was thinking you were just going through puberty. My bad.”

He laughed and rolled off me.

He pointed to the teapoy where some bags were sitting innocuously. I could smell the pleasant aroma all the way from the couch. “I got you dinner,” he explained with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

I stared at the bags, unmoving.

“Thanks. Very thoughtful of you but how did you… you know what, never mind. Just pass me the damn thing.”

He smiled but didn’t say anything.

“Don’t mention it,” was all he said in the end.

..--..

It was the day before my deadline and I woke up at five to get an early start. I hated the unearthly hour as much as it hated me. It was a mutual standoff. But then again, one always had to make a compromise to achieve something in life. And sometimes, it was better to avoid arguments where the other party is mute.

I walked out of my bedroom gingerly and made a beeline for the kitchen to get some coffee first. Caffeine was the best way to getting rid of those last lingering tendrils of sleep.

When I entered the living room, slurping loudly into my coffee mug, I stopped in my tracks. Much to my surprise I found my laptop on and someone already sitting at my desk.

“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my temper down.

Valentine raised his head above the monitor. He looked at me, flustered all of a sudden.

“Ah, sorry-” he said, getting up clumsily from my seat. He caused a lot of rattle in the process. There were shadows under his eyes and he didn’t seem to have slept at all. But well, if he’d thought that taking a peek at someone’s unfinished work was a pill to insomnia, he had another thing coming.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even meet his gaze. I didn’t know what he was doing but I had my guesses. And suffice to say, I wasn’t happy. If there was anything in the world that I felt the most sensitive about… it was my writing. Agent Sarah Dale could handle serial killers, mobsters and corrupt political bureaus up till her chin but not ruddy voyeurs. They ranked the lowest in her list of people who ought to be pardoned from the death row. Without sparing a glance to the screen and to whatever the hell it was that he’d been upto, I detached the power cord and pulled it from the socket with a loud thwack. Taking the laptop into my arms protectively, I started slogging towards my room.

“I’m really sorry,” he said to my back.

I stopped and hesitated.

“Look. You could have just asked for my permission first. I wouldn’t have said no.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, the sarcasm in his voice duly noted.

I could feel his eyes boring into me in the semi-darkness, his line punctuated loudly by my calm breathing.

“Suit yourself,” I said.

The next thing he said caught me by surprise. “If you don’t want anyone to read it, then why do you write?” he asked in a low voice. “Doesn’t it defeat the whole purpose?”

I stood frozen in my steps.

“Mind your own business,” I shot back. “Don’t think you’re all high and almighty just because I let you live with me. The only reason I ever took you in was the doormat, alright?”

“The doormat?” he echoed.

“Yeah…”

A long, pregnant pause hung in the air.

“Well, then atleast one of us needs to get our priorities checked,” he said, letting a bitter laugh escape him.

Shaking my head, I heaved under the weight of the laptop and trudged my way back to my room.

..--..

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The awkward silence lingered with neither of us wanting to be the one to break it first. He rolled out a perfect looking toast, bagel and omelet, laying them all out before me on a plate. The expression on his face suggested that it was his peace offering. I accepted it. Not as his peace offering but as breakfast because I was too darn hungry to refuse a square meal.

I picked up a fork and dug into my food resolutely, careful to not look at him.

He sat down across the table, watching me eat.

“I did apologize,” he said, funneling his hands over the table.

I glared at him but the intensity was greatly reduced by the mouth-watering, delicious food. Darn. He knew how to butter me up.

I swallowed hard and took a sip of the glass of orange juice he’d set on the side. He must have put some thought into this, I concluded, feeling very guilty.

Looking down at my plate, I cleared my throat and asked, “So… how was it?”

He looked up in surprise.

I blanched at having to cede defeat. “I’m talking about my work. How was it? It’s okay; you can shoot me with the worst.”

He was quiet for a long while before a slow smile crept on his lips.

“It was… horrible.”

My face fell.

“But in a good way,” he said quickly. “I mean macabre is supposed to be horrible right? I’ve never been a fan of gore, blood and well, the other things you do write… and frankly, your book made me feel like throwing up.”

I looked at him, taken aback. “Well, it isn’t meant to be read by a wuss like you. I should have known better than to ask the opinion of a pretty frat boy.”

He smiled and his eyes twinkled.

“But it was enjoyable. And there seems to be a slight undercurrent to the narration.”

“Undercurrent? Wha-”

“Yeah. Maybe it’s just me but I’m getting a whole lot of unresolved sexual tension from the interactions between Agent Sarah Dale and our mysterious serial killer.”

I stared at him, unblinking.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope, not at all. And do you want to know my personal inference?”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering what the next bomb was.

“I think they really ought to get together and get it over with.”

I pressed the bridge of my nose and grimaced painfully at the thought. “Right. A FBI agent and a serial killer. You have a sordid imagination, Val. Better not let it run away with you. Sarah hates the guy’s guts. All she wants is to handcuff him and put him on the death row. There is no love lost between them, let alone UST. Period.”

“Handcuffs?” he repeated, taking a long sip of his juice and letting his eyes hide behind the glass for a mere moment. “Now you really have to excuse my imagination, Nora. I never knew you were one of those kinky types. But I do think Sarah needs to reconsider her options.”

I snorted. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not just talking about Agent Sarah Dale here?”

He smiled and winked at me.

I pushed away my plate and frowned at him. “There is no UST,” I yelled over my shoulder, walking out of the kitchen. “Stop imagining things.”

..--..

“This is good,” my editor said, flipping through the manuscript.

I nodded along.

“This is it, Farrenway. Paprika. This is exactly what was missing in your writing.”

I nodded again, threading my fingers together.

“Will you be writing a sequel?” he asked me, head bobbing up at the question.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ll change your mind once this gets published. I’m hoping for a good response from the writer’s guild. They’re usually hard on the newbie but I might soften them up for ya… Since I’m a nice, benevolent guy and all.”

“That would be very kind of you,” I replied politely with a small laugh and got to my feet. “I’m just glad I am done with it. It’s been so long. Don’t mind if I bust out of your door and walk around in the sunlight. I haven’t seen the sun in ages, trust me.”

He laughed at that and nodded.

Just as I was about to get to the door, I turned back and glanced at him for a brief moment.

“Just wanted to know, boss. But what exactly was the paprika in the book?”

He gave a look of surprise and flicked his forehead with his well-chewed pen.

“Why the UST, of course!” he said with a bark of laughter.

I groaned and shaking my head, left his office.

On the way out of the publisher’s building, I came across a news kiosk. Feeling a little too hyper for my own good, I crossed the street and went around to it, greeting the man with a soft good morning. I looked at the magazine section and picked up a particular copy of ‘Rave’.

..--..

The apartment was quiet and I took a deep breath in, turning the pages softly. There was no one else in the house besides me and the unsolicited company of ‘Rave’. I poured over his profile in one of the glossy pages, his surreptitious smile causing a slight flutter somewhere deep inside. Valentine wasn’t just handsome. He was pretty and gorgeous beyond belief. There was just something endearing about him. He felt like the human connection I’d long since renounced.

Before the camera, Valentine looked right at home. He was smiling, playful and utterly comfortable. Dressed in a white t-shirt, black vest and dark shades, he held up two fingers to the camera, his back leaning against the wall completing the pose of a great rockstar. I bit back a grin and turned the page.

Next was a collage of him sitting with various props. In the first one, he was curled over a couch dressed in all white. In another, he was teasing the reader with a show of skin under his t-shirt. And in the third snapshot, he held up a sunflower and winked mischievously at the camera lens.

I stared at his images, still finding it hard to believe. He’d never kept it as much of a secret but yet, I found it very difficult to picture my makeshift valet as a popular gravure model (and popular he indeed was considering the number of pages devoted to him).

What was he even doing here in my home, trying to live with some crummy old hag?

I didn’t know but he must have had his reasons.

The knob turned and the subject of my monologue, walked in. He hadn’t quite noticed me yet. He took off his shoes one by one; lining them up on the shoe rack with the sort of patience I envied. He kept at the task for a long time and stood up, letting out a wistful sigh. He wore his hat low on his head and still didn’t look up. He walked into the living room, glanced at me briefly from the corner of his eyes and turned away.

“And yes, hi to you too,” I said, a smile quirking up at the corner of my lips. “I had a great day, thank you for asking.”

He didn’t answer and made his way to his room.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the book?”

He stopped in his tracks. “Uh… Sorry. How did it go? Did your editor like it?”

“Yeah. He loved it-”

Valentine nodded abruptly and opened the door to his room.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was wrong. I hopped out of my spot and followed him into his bedroom before he could even say ‘no’.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked him, tugging at his sleeve.

“It’s nothing. Can you leave?” he asked, looking at my hand as if it were offending him.

“Okay, I’m in your room and you’re asking me to leave? Who are you and what have you done to my adorable Val?”

He didn’t laugh and just sat down quietly at the end of his well-kept bed.

“Val?” I trailed, sitting next to him. “Valentine?”

I tipped his hat and saw it for the first time.

A dark bruise around his left eye. It was pretty swollen up and a nasty shade of blue.

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, peering at him, trying to get a better look. He inclined his head, pushing my hands away.

“Don’t,” he warned but I didn’t listen. I knocked his hat off and wrapped my hands around his face, staring at his eye. He didn’t meet my gaze. He kept trying to look past me.

“Do you care to tell me what happened?” I said, stroking his chin gently.

“Accident,” came the all too quick reply.

“Right. I mean, everyone goes around tripping themselves and getting bruises right in their left eye. Happens to everybody, doesn’t it?” I said sardonically.

“Nora,” he groaned.

“Valentine,” I said with a humorless smile. “So, let me guess. You tried to flirt with some married chick and her husband caught you in the act. And that’s why you are sporting a black eye now, right?”

He bit back a laugh.

“I wish,” he said and turned silent.

I waited for the explanation but it never came. I let out a sigh. “Are you going to tell me or do you want another black eye to give that one some company? You don’t want it to feel lonely, do you?” I prodded.

He shrugged, trying to wiggle his head out of my grasp. “I assaulted a photographer. He managed to land a punch. That’s it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You assaulted a photographer?” I echoed in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“He… tried to…”

I waited and he met my eyes.

“He tried to molest me, okay? Go ahead and laugh.”

I stared into his soulful, black eyes and let out my breath in a painful hiss. Pressing my forehead against his, I frowned.

“Why would I laugh? I don’t think it’s remotely funny… You okay?”

“Yeah. It’s happened before. No biggie.”

I scowled.

“Don’t make it sound like it happens everyday.”

“In my line of work, Nora, it does,” he answered with a rueful smile.

I stared at the bruise and touched it gingerly. He winced. I blew my cheeks into a puff and gently stroked the skin around his injury. It must have eased his pain since he relaxed visibly.

“Then, maybe, it’s time to get a new job,” I observed.

He bit back a laugh. “Right. And to quote you, who’s going to employ a ‘pretty frat boy’ like me?”

“I will.”

He rolled his eyes.

A long silence ensued before he cleared his throat.

“And what would the job be, milady?” he asked, suggestively.

“A part-time cook, a part-time gofer, a part-time sub-editor who specializes in fetching stationeries, groceries and the like. Besides, I need someone to keep me sane from my own writing. The pay isn’t much but if you’re interested-”

“Oh, I’m very interested.”

I pressed my lips on his forehead and lingered there.

“I’m glad. I was afraid you’d say no,” I replied.

“But if you’re going to be the breadwinner, then I must warn you. I don’t come cheap. Especially my hats and other accessories. And I expect to be treated better than a doormat.”

I chuckled against his head and nodded. “I think I can handle that, diva.”

I let him wrap his hands around my shoulders. His breathing was slow and gentle, as he pondered over something in his mind.

“Hey Nora?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to have sex?”

I laughed.

“… okay.”

..--..