- XIII -

* * * * *
         "You're blaming yourself for all of this."
         "Hm . . . what? What did you say?"
         "Like you don't already know but I'll repeat it for the sake of our audience at home. I said that you're placing the blame for all of this squarely on your broad shoulders."
         "My shoulders aren't broad."
         "No, you're right, I lied. But you're paying attention at least, squinting at the minute details. It's a step in the right direction. That's probably about as much as we can hope for by this point."
         "I don't understand what you're talking about. I don't. I just wish you'd . . . that you'd say a single sentence that makes sense. Just one. You . . . you're just . . . babbling."
         "Fine. Sense. You want sense? You want me to make sense? Okay, there, here goes. There wasn't a damn thing you could have done to make tonight not happen. Okay? Is that clear enough for you."
         "Ah . . . you're wrong. You're . . . you're just wrong. That's not true . . . true at all. There were . . . there were plenty of things I could . . . should have done, so many things I missed, I . . . you don't understand, you're just wrong."
         "Of course I am."
         "Goddammit, don't be condescending with me, you know I don't like that, don't treat me like some kid, like I'm just some kid."
         "Even though you are? Even though your lifetime is about the time it takes me to start to draw in a breath to sneeze. Don't treat you like some misfit kid who thinks he knows how everything works when he knows nothing, when he's only seen the dandruff of infinity when I've stared the real thing in the face? Don't treat you like that? Is that what you want me to say?"
         "I . . . you . . . oh. Oh God. Please just make this stop. I just want to wake . . . to wake up and be someone . . . somewhere or someone else, let me wake up from the coma and this all be a bad dream . . . oh God please."
         "There, there."
         "Dammit, you're being . . . treating me like a kid again. Stop it!"
         "Well, I'll stop when you decide which way you want it. When I try to sugarcoat it you say that I'm not making any sense but when I'm frank with you, you tell me that I'm being condescending. It's enough to give me a complex, really. All I'm asking for here is a bit o' honesty, my friend."
         "Damn you."
         "Oh come now, is that the right attitude? Really, I mean, you're going to thank me for this one day. Don't believe me? Well, we'll just give it time and see who's right. My advice is not to bet on yourself though. Not in this case."
         "I wish you'd make sense. You're . . . it's like you're lucid one moment and then you're saying some random things that . . . just whatever the hell pops into your head."
         "Still don't like the nonsense thing, eh? Then how about you look me in the face and tell me flat out that you don't blame yourself for any of this."
         "I . . . I . . . I'm not saying anything."
         "So you do blame yourself for this?"
         "I said I'm not saying a goddamn thing, okay? Just go away, all right? Just get the hell out of here and leave me the hell alone."
         "Hm. That was fun. But pointless. Time to play hardball, it seems. You see this nice glass of water here?"
         "What are you . . . oh my God. What the hell are you doing? Stop doing that."
         "No one can see it but you, trust me."
         "That's . . . just stop that. You're scaring me. I don't want to see it."
         "No, frankly you've been scaring me and I'm tired of it. It's time we set some things straight here. You watch this, dammit and you tell me what you could have stopped. You tell me what wasn't inevitable."
         "None . . . none of it was . . . it's . . . oh God. Is that what happened? Is that what I couldn't stop?"
         "No, you couldn't, there was no way it could have been avoiding. Don't you see? That's what you have to learn, that you're not omnipotent. Watch it, tell me how you could have known."
         "I . . . could have . . ."
         "Tell me."
         "I . . . ah, dammit! Where did you get this, you weren't there, how do you know that's what happened? You don't know anything, you don't know what the hell went on until you showed up, until I called you!"
         "Say that again!"
         "Say what? What did I say? What?"
         "About what I don't know. About how I don't know anything."
         "You don't, I said, like I said, you weren't there, you didn't see any damn thing, you've . . . you've no right to sit there and . . . assume you . . . you know what . . . turn that goddamn thing off, get that glass out of here! Please!"
         "It's hard to face the past sometimes, isn't it?"
         "That's not the-"
         "You're right, I don't know everything. I wasn't there either, I'm only guessing what happened. The same as you are. If you don't know what went on before you became aware, how can you sit there and think that you could have done something about it? How? Explain that to me."
         "Please take the glass away. I don't want to see any more of this. You . . . you don't realize . . . I should have . . . I should have been more alert, I should have paid more attention-"
         "You're drowning in excuses and you're not getting my point. Right now there's a star exploding and it's destroying a civilization that was in place for a billion years. A billion years of art and culture and science incinerated in an instant. And if I was there I'd do something about it, get them to safety, stop it, if I could. But I'm not so I can't do anything about it. If I found out, would I feel some guilt? Maybe, but I wouldn't feel responsible. It would have happened whether or not I was there."
         "That's not . . . you can't think like that, you just can't. That's . . . it's just being ignorant, you can't just walk around pretending that everything is fine."
         "I didn't say that, did I? Did I say that? Hm? No, I said that you have to know your limits and your responsibilities, just as I'm not in charge of every star in the damned Universe, you're not some sort of watchdog, assigned to the human race to watch over them and right every wrong. That's not your job, that's not my job."
         "Then what the hell is my job, why don't you tell me that?"
         "In simple terms, fight evil when you see it, when you can, to the best of your ability. It doesn't mean searching high and low for misdeeds to correct, forever not's enough time to do that."
         "You just sound like you're trying to excuse your failures . . . like you're trying to make yourself feel better when you don't do anything. That's all. I can't do that."
         "There's a difference between being helpless and not doing anything. If inaction were your problem then the lecture I'd be giving you would make this one look like a half assed sermon. To do nothing in the face of wrong, that's evil and I'll never excuse that. If you had stood by and let that happen, just because you couldn't be bothered, then you don't deserve to ever face yourself in the mirror again. And I'll break every mirror you run into and cut you with the shards if that's what it takes to get the point across."
         "Then what the hell am I supposed to do? How the hell can I walk around knowing that something might be happening that I can't stop, how the hell can you expect me to walk around without feeling so damned helpless? How do you do it? Do you think I can just close my eyes and my ears and pretend the world doesn't exist. Is that what you want me to do?"
         "Dammit man, do you ever listen to yourself? And what you're saying? Just for one second? One blasted second?"
         "What? What am I saying?"
         "Ah . . . let me, let me see if I can say this as plainly as possible. Let me try, just for the heck of it."
         "Just say it!"
         "You know, maybe this is the reason that you're feeling so damned detached from everyone lately. Because you're setting yourself apart from them deliberately, like you're their damned keeper or something and-"
         "No . . . no, that's not it . . . no . . ."
         ". . . you're treating them just like sheep, that you have to watch over and care for and . . ."
         ". . . shut up, that's not right at all, you've got it all wrong, you do . . ."
         ". . . because they can't be trusted to ever fend for themselves, because, you know, they might get hurt if they wander out of your sight and we can't have that, can we . . ."
         ". . . damn you, shut the hell up, I swear I'll kill you if you keep talking, if I could hurt you . . ."
         ". . . but every second you do this to yourself hurts me, you're hurting your friends but not being their friend, by setting yourself apart and treating them like children . . ."
         ". . . ah, no. No . . ."
         ". . . and that's just what you're doing. You can cover it up or call it something else, if you want but you're only hiding it from yourself. In the end."
         "Oh damn. Damn you. Oh God, no. It's not true. God, no, it's not. God damn you."
         "The truth hurts, but in the long term, lying to yourself will hurt even more. Trust me on that."
         "Ah . . . ahuh, dammit. God dammit. Why me? Dammit, why?"
         "Believe me, I'm sorry."
         "I don't . . . you . . . you want to hurt me, you . . . want to make my life miserable. I wish I'd never seen either of you."
         "I'm not."
         "That's, ah, that's easy for you to say."
         "No, it's not. Don't you think that after a billion years we don't know what effect we have on people? Don't you think it's just as hard for me each time, knowing what I'm going to be putting you through, knowing what all of this entails? Don't you think I hesitate almost every single damn time?"
         "But yet you . . . you keep doing it. That's sick. That's just sick."
         "We keep doing it because we have to. In the end, it might not be the best thing, or the worst thing, or the greatest thing, but we try to make what we can of it."
         "And . . . and what the hell am I supposed to do? Just smile and play along?"
         "If you want. After a while, you'll find that it's really completely and utterly up to you."
         "Sure."
         "Ah come on. I wouldn't lie to you, my boy. Not on this. Never about this. Do you believe me?"
         "Not really."
         "Aha! Now we're getting somewhere. Before, that would have been a flat out no."
         "But I meant no."
         "Not in your heart, laddie. Not in your heart. It seems there's hope for you yet, whether you want it or not. Who would've thought? Ah, but I never doubted for a second."
         "You're out of your mind. Out of your goddamn mind."
         "Then we'll go cheerfully down together. Two of a princely pair. In the end, you'll find that you never would have wanted it any other way."

* * * * *
         ". . . you won't be happy with me, but give me one more chance, you won't be happy anyway . . ."
         "Damn depressing song," Brown mutters, frowning a bit as the words hit his ears. The jarring beat almost knocks his timing off, and he nearly spills whatever drink he's trying to create. He's back behind the bar again but there really isn't anyone there to serve, he's catering to an exclusive crowd now. The rest of the party is scattering, falling into fragments, still dense and packed but with more purpose now, pockets dotting the expanse.
         "What was that?" Tristian asks suddenly, glancing at Brown. Brown just shakes his head, indicating that it's not important. Figures that Tristian would hear him, the man could probably hear every word that was being said in this cyclone of noise whirling around them. Tristian is nestled neatly in a corner, caught between the two walls, his body resting against a presumably off stove. His hands are in his pockets and unfortunately that means that the sword is cleanly visible as a flashlight looking thing attached to his belt. Brown has to work very hard to avoid even staring at the damn thing, it makes his chest itch to even glance at it sideways. Even when he turns away he can feel its presence, like some vicious force that only his friend can barely control. Damn weapon. He still wishes he knew why Tristian had brought it, if it really was out of habit, then he and Tristian were going to have to sit down and have a long talk about this. Soon.
         "Geez, Tristian are you sure you don't ever dance?" Jina asks. She's leaning against the bar, tucked in the gap between the wall and the bar itself. Brian is standing with her, his arm encircling her shoulders. Jina looks fairly comfortable there, almost content and Brown thinks that he feels a pang of something, but he's not sure what to call it. Probably because of the blasted sword, it's scrambling all his perceptions, he's not focusing. Nobody else seems to notice it but him, or maybe they're all just selectively blotting it out. It's easier that way. Brown was never one for the easy way, alas.
         "Nah, sorry Jina," Tristian replies, shifting his weight a little as if trying to wedge himself further in the corner. His face is cheerfully bland but his body is telling a different story. "I was never one for dancing, can't seem to ever find the rhythm in the song, I don't have the coordination for it, it seems." He gives a half hearted shrug. "But I think we can all deal with that."
         Jina gives a laughing sort of snort, glancing up at Brian who is staring at Tristian very strangely. Both of them seem about to speak but Jina beats him to it. "Tristian, my God, I've never seen anyone dance like that. You were great!" Tristian is merely staring at her while she praises him, his expression seeming to say that she's speaking a completely different language, that he can't possibly be hearing the words that are reaching him. Brown wants to laugh but knows that it won't be polite. Tristian never changes. He never will.
         "I guess I was all right," Tristian admits slowly, but there's a ghostly sly smile on his face. Some part of him knows that he did a damn good show out there and even if Tristian can never admit that fact to himself, he knows it just the same. "You guys all were better at it than I was though, you've had more experience. I need more practice before I'm up to your level."
         Jina's laughing again, more than she normally does, a perfectly pitched looping noise, one of those sounds you're always glad to hear. Probably the few drinks she's had so far are adding to her behavior but he can't see her doing anything irresponsible. "Can you believe him?" she asks Brian, fixing Tristian with a mock serious gaze. "My God, Tristian, one day you're going to surprise the hell out of me and take some damned credit." She moves closer to Brian, pressing against me. "You saw Tristian, what'd did you think?"
         "Well I'm no critic now . . ." Brian says, a slurred slowness to his speech that still sounds natural when given the proper context. Just the record player winding down, just slipping into a different groove.
         "Come on, be brutal, I know Tristian can take it," Jina prompts. "Can't you, Tristian?" To which Tristian merely gives an indulgent smile and a gentle nod of acknowledgement.
         "Well, I thought . . ." and he gestures at Tristian with his glass, the liquid sloshing around dangerously close to the rim, trying to escape from its silicate imprisonment, "and don't take this the wrong way Tristian because God knows that I love women just as much as the next red blooded male . . . and you know that I'm being as objective as I can here . . ."
         "God damn Brian, finish before the sun comes up," Brown jokes, leaning on the bar with both elbows, flashing the other man a grin. "She asked for your opinion, not a dissertation."
         "Cork it, Brown, objective honesty takes time," Brian shoots back, turning his head and body to face Brown, his tone still friendly. Brown ducks his hand and shows his palms as a sign of backing down, the grin still there, a symbolic victory if anything. Brian has already turned back to Tristian, finishing his obviously detailed analysis. "Like I was saying, Tristian, I like the girls but you looked damn good out there."
         "Opinion duly noted," Tristian says with some amusement. Brown's not sure but Tristian might actually be enjoying himself, even just a tiny bit. He cocks his head to the side for a second, a thought seeming to occur to him. "How about we make a deal, Jina?"
         "Ooh, careful, you don't know what you might be making a deal with," Brian cautions, giving Tristian an exaggerated wink. Brown glances at Tristian but the man's face is unreadable, if the comment at all affected him, he wasn't giving any sign. Immediate time will tell on that one.
         "Stop it, Brian," Jina admonishes, digging her elbow playfully into Brian, to which the man dutifully gives a grunt of exertion. Smiling angelically, she replies to Tristian, "Go ahead, Tristian, you were saying?"
         The smile returns to his face again, but Brown can see the cracks masking the fault lines underneath it, the barely glued on pieces of his emotions, a shattered china doll of a face. "I was saying," Tristian continues, "that I'll accept your praise at face value if you let me say that you and Lena both looked better than just about anyone else out there. Let me say that and you've got a deal." He crosses one ankle over the other, seeming to mold his body further to fit the corner, gradually retreating into the wall, becoming little more than the fly in the wall. Brown thinks that Tristian would be very much inclined to just stand there and watch, to just excise himself from all of their lives. But you can't do that, it's not possible, strings connect everyone and as you pull away you tighten and pull those strings taut, and the farther you pull, the harder you try, the more pain you cause. We're sewn to each other, Brown realizes, whether we want to be or not. Each bit of contact simply adds another stitch.
         Jina breaks out into a broad grin. "Deal." Then a mischievous expression creeps into her face, an eclipse crossing into the sky. "Say, Tristian that was fairly smooth of you, if I don't know any better I'd say you were trying to make a pass at me. Pretty bold, Tristian."
         Jina laughs even harder when she sees Tristian's falteringly shocked expression and even Brown has to work really hard to suppress a wide smile. Tristian was so easy to have some fun with sometimes, it was almost criminal. "God I was just kidding, Tristian, don't worry," and he looks quite relieved to hear that until she says, "I know that you're only just waiting for Brian to leave before you make your move."
         Tristian's shaking his head, his eyes rather wide and Brown can't be sure if Tristian is merely playing along or he's actually trying to convince Brian that he's not interested in Jina. Brian fixes Tristian with a blurred squinty eyed stare and says to him in a mock growl, "You keep your hands off my woman, you hear, boy? Ain't no fancy stuff'll save you if I get my hands on you."
         "Oh I don't know about that," Brown whispers to himself, then checks himself, startled that he even said something like that out loud. Whoa there, Joseph, getting a bit too comfortable, don't forget that these people don't know a damn thing about where you've been the last few years, or that you know more about Tristian and his life then you're letting on. Maybe the alcohol is having some effect on him finally, if he made a slip like that.
         "Don't worry, don't worry," Tristian is saying, "I'm no competition at all, I'm afraid."
         "So you're saying I'm not attractive, Tristian?" Jina's voice carries a mild pout to it.
         "No, that's not what I'm . . . you don't want me to win here do you?"
         Brown hears the grating clinking slide of a glass on wood and looks up to see a pair of eyes staring right at him. Nearly surprise, he does stand up straight, his hand almost automatically traveling to his hip, ingrained motion, but this is the wrong place for it. He covers the motion up in what he thinks is a smooth maneuver but these days you can never be sure. Lena's sitting across from him, nursing her own drink, a pensive expression on her face. Lena's staring so intently at Brown that for a second he thinks that she might have heard what he had said. How the hell much did these people know about Tristian? He had never properly asked the man how much information he had so nicely provided them with, there's no telling what kind of innocent comments could be dripping from their lips, all kinds of insinuations and probings into a life that none of them could ever really fathom. Even Brown couldn't understand it all fully and he had been there. It just boggled the brain, a widescreen picture that stretched for miles so by the time you run to the one end to get the story, you're missing the action on the other side and you start losing the whole mess of a plot completely. You just know what's going on around you, but you want to see the entire scheme and the screen is retreating but it's just not fast enough. Agonizingly slow. You want to see it all, it's a burning ache like the time when you first saw the girl you liked with her arms around someone else and you knew that it would never be you if you had a hundred years and all you could do was jam your hands in cold pockets and stalk away, the dry click of shoes on pavement your only consolation. Still, you keep trying anyway, because you've got to, or else it's just some pale charade, stringless puppets lying face up on the stage, slowly getting blinded by lights blazing into lidless eyes and wondering just what the hell they're going to do now.
         "Come on, Tristian, you have to admit that this is more fun than sitting around at home by yourself . . ."
         "Oh sure, any night where I let you abuse the hell out of me is great fun . . ."
         "Hey, now, Tristian, I didn't mean . . ."
         "Gotcha."
         "Ooh, damnit, Tristian, I swear . . ."
         But Lena's not really looking at Brown, she's staring but not looking. Brown is just some random object in her way, he can see the way her eyes are staring, it's an unfocused, glimmer of a gaze. A look that might indicate she's deep in thought or trying her damndest to avoid thinking about anything at all. A second later she's looking down at her glass again, swirling it around almost like it's one of those little black balls that give you a future when you shake it. Whatever the future is, Lena doesn't seem too thrilled with it. Another second passes and she's pushed the glass aside, and she's just crossing her arms, leaning on the bar and staring sightlessly at the wood itself, reading insights into life through the bloodless entrails of trees. Brown realizes what she's doing now, she's one of those people that just stares at random things when she's trying to avoid looking at something else. Show interest in everything else around them, playing a game of solitaire I Spy.
         "Two can play at this little game, Jina . . ."
         "Says you, but I can get reinforcements . . ." Jina twists her body again, to the left first and then the right. "Where the hell did Lena . . . oh there you are!" she exclaims when she finally nearly turns herself into knots to find her friend. "You feeling antisocial tonight?"
         Lena doesn't seem to hear that at first, blinking heavily and looking up at some point above Brown's head. Brown shares a glance with Jina and holds a single finger up into the air, smiling.
         "Hey, Lena," he whispers, "they're talking to you," and he taps her on the arm.
         She jerks upright, her mouth curling into an expression of surprise. Seeing her facing him headon, Brown has to admit that she's a better looking than his first impression led him to believe. Maybe it was the lack of good lighting. Her features are sharp but well defined, an angular sort of beauty. It's only the eyes that didn't fit with the image, there's something watery and sad there that keeps flickering in and out of existence, as if she reminds herself of it every few minutes. It alters her whole expression, and Brown thinks that it shouldn't be like that.
         "Wha?" she says, closing her hand back around her drink, turning instinctually to the direction of Jina, her eyes sweeping the scene around here.
         "What I was asking you before you zoned out on me," Jina continues with a fake sense of exasperation, "was why you were separating yourself from the group. Something I said?"
         Lena gives a smile and shakes her head, her hand falling down to her leg. "There's a seat here and not any over there, that's why I'm here. I'm getting old, I need to sit down more." There's a pleasant easy joking tone to her voice.
         "If only I could look like that when I'm old," Brian notes without turning around. Lena flushes a little at the comment but nobody seems to notice but Brown. Tristian seems to have gone very quiet for some reason, like he's trying very hard to blend into the wall.
         "Well we miss you over here," Jina comments with amusingly feigned longing, "come back to us."
         Lena seems to notice Brown for the first time and gives him an arch look, smiling with a bit of a twinkle in her eye. "I'm guessing that you don't count as part of the group?" she asks him, her hand crossing the air between them, indicating the distance across. Her fingers are fairly thin, but they seem to fit the rest of her hand. Brown wonders where his sudden eye for detail is coming from.
         He finds the voice to respond. "You know how it is," he shrugs, "go away for a few years, you've got to earn your place in the group all over again." He hangs his head, sighing heavily, "I just don't know if I have the strength for it anymore." He lifts his head up, face blazing with humorous conviction, "But I must go on. I've no other choice. I will succeed." Brown keeps the absurdly courageous face for a few moments, and Lena stares right back at him, biting her lip a little to keep from laughing before Brown's resolve finally flattens out and he bursts out laughing as well.
         Jina hasn't heard the conversation and so is justifiable confused over the proceedings. Breaking free of Brian, she turns around completely, her face poised on the knife edge of laughter but she's not sure what she's about to find funny. Eyebrow raised, she asks, "Just what are you two doing back there?"
         "Sordid things, Jina . . ." Lena purrs, glancing sideways at Brown, bringing him in on the act. "Just use your imagination."
         "Hell, I know I don't have to anymore," Brown chimes in, furthering the joke a little longer. This is what the party is all about for him, sitting around with people you like, ploughing roads through old memories, creating new ones, even if some of them might not remember it all in the end. Letting it all go and being free for just one night, not even a night, just a few hours, fighting to stave off the dawn with one last drink, one last song before reality came crashing through the front door and made everyone shuffle back off to jobs, to classes, to obligations that didn't exist six hours ago. Here, in this night, they're all equal, all sifting through ashes looking for the same thing, the same feelings, outside there's no telling what they might be. Here, everyone is your friend.
         Then Brown takes a look at Tristian, caught half in shadow, his face as unreadable as a cat's, eyes more like black holes than anything else. It's no more than a glance, a glimpse but it catches his breath. Like peeling Tristian's skin away and finding that there's something else there, not flesh and blood, molten gold, blazing and dripping, searing them all. Tristian's not fitting in, but is he trying, or is he just content to drift in the usual patterns, feeling that his friends deserve better than his presence, hating the fact that they even wanted him here, at this party, in this place.
         ". . . look out kids it's something you did, God knows when but you're doing it again . . ."
         "You want to be forgotten," Brown murmurs, a darting stinging statement that he wings right at Tristian. Lena looks sharply at him, and he doesn't care if she heard or not, he's not even sure if Tristian heard, the man might be able to read lips for all he knows, for all Brown cares. Staring at Tristian, he can feels the twine tugging at his skin, starting to pull away, taking hair with it as it goes. Dots of pain but that'll fade in seconds, that's the whole point, the whole goal of the game. He's going to gather it all in and disappear into the dark night, Brown realizes. Going to do it without a second glance. Because he feels that's the best thing for everyone. Bastard. Why won't he learn? Why can't he see?
         It's a night of revelations for Brown apparently. The kind that come to you in a burst of clarity when you're least expecting it, when you're completely distracted and thinking about something else. When the revelation is no damn good to you anyway. The trick is keeping a straight face when they hit you, smiling through the punch in the chest, daring the person to give you another while you stand there and take it. Come on, you know you're man enough. Brown got's a self healing system and he can do this all night. That's the attitude he has to take, he has to believe it.
         Lena seems about to say something to Brown, but then stares at a point past Brown and abruptly clams up, looking back down at her glass, hesitating only a second before downing most of it, as if trying to wash the taste of something out of her mouth. Or replacing one taste with another. He half expects her to wipe the back of her hand across her lips.
         Then he smiles. You just do it. It's that easy. You open your mouth and you just start speaking. Easy. Anybody can do it? But you can't even do that anymore can you Tristian? You're crippling yourself even as I'm standing here, slowly unlearning all the basics, reducing yourself to a loincloth clad caveman hooting and barking at the stars, trying to convince everyone that you don't know a damn thing about what it is to be human. And they're buying it, but only because you're trying too hard, you're overstating the performance. Bad move.
         "You know, Tristian," he says, leaning on one elbow toward Tristian, his words seeming to brush shadows away, "I have to hand it to you, you've got the wool pulled over everyone's eyes. You've got them all fooled."
         "What?" Brian asks, turning to Brown with a quizzical expression on his face. His eyes don't seem to quite focus, but he's astute enough to follow the action. Jina's still next to him, leaning casually on him, for support and comfort, even in this place.
         "Fooled?" Lena asks, which surprises Brown a bit, he didn't think she was going to say anything. But she's looking at Jina anyway, not even at Brown. Lena is looking between everyone, her eyes darting back and forth from place to place, trying to decide where to rest, a spinning wheel. Round and round.
         He expects Jina to continue the line of one word questioning, but she says nothing, merely looks down briefly and inches a slight distance closer to Brian, who doesn't seem to notice. For a second Brown realizes that he's treading on tender territory, for these people some of the wounds are still too raw, the rubbing continues to this day, red and sore.
         "I do, don't I, Joe?" Tristian says from his dark corner. His voice comes from the bowels of nowhere. The sword almost seems to twitch at his belt. Brown finds himself swallowing just thinking about it, just thinking about something red slicing the air to pieces right in front of him. He throws the thought aside, pulling his words out, silk threads from a magician's sleeve.
         "Oh yeah you're damn right you do," Brown continues, easing into his role. In high school he was the Clown, the man with the fast talking and the faster plans, always looking for the way out, looking for the side opportunity that no one else might have realized. Brown once thought he had laid that to rest with the death of his high school days, kicked the dirt right over the casket but you never really leave yourself. You try to make a fresh start, give people a new impression, give the old folks a different impression but you fall right into the old script, you're just whiteing out pages and inserting new words, changing the date, hoping nobody remembers it's all been done before.
         "Something you're not telling us, Tristian?" she says coyly, slipping away from Brian and crossing over to the same wall as Tristian. Her hand gently touches his arm, but even that touch is ginger, ready to be pulled back at moment's notice. Tristian, my God, what did you do to them?
         Perhaps Jina has sensed the shift, or she's just falling into her own patterns. Either way, Brown's proud of her tonight, she's the same girl that he remembers back from the old days but she's changed in all the good ways, she managed to make the transition to the real world while staying the same person, enhancing what was good about her while keeping the bad stuff down. For Brown it brings back memories. Memories and maybe other things, other intangibles.
         "I like to think I've been an open book with you folks," Tristian responds, his voice friendly but his tone a veiled threat to Brown. Watch it. Watch where you step. That's the problem tonight with Tristian, he's been treating this entire experience like it's some sort of firefight, like these people are just obstacles to be either cut down or plowed through. These people are his friends, dammit, he has to be reminded of that. Someone has to do it.
         "Yeah and aren't we glad for that," Brian mutters, though Brown's about the only one who might have heard it. There's some bitterness in Brian's voice, bitterness every time he sees Tristian, it's clear even if he tries to hide it. Brian never got over it, whatever issues that Tristian raised in his mind, he was never able to reconcile them with his friend. But that's not Brown's problem, not tonight at least. Not for the first time he wishes he was there that fatal night at the restaurant, instead of just hearing about it, instead of wishing that he could have made a difference. He can make up for it now, make it up for all of them. Brown's got nothing but time, in the end, an unfurling ribbon intersecting with the horizon, but for everyone else they've got timers counting down in their chests and it's a race against something that never gets tired and never falters.
         "Oh, I think you've done an admirable job of presenting yourself, Tristian," Brown says, his tone a contrite neutrality. "In, all, er, aspects of your life," and we'll just dance right around that subject, "but come on now, didn't you think people would find out . . . really." Tristian looks a little confused now but Brown's just getting warmed up, everyone will be wearing the same expressions when he's done. That's the trick. Keep them guessing. He faces the rest of the crowd, mostly just the two girls, Brian could probably care less since this involves Tristian and says, putting on his most honest face, "I mean, when you think about Tristian here, you probably think to yourself, a standup guy, role model for us all, an all around decent guy, above all, right? Right?" Brown stares around, trying to find some friendly faces but only expressions asking him to get to the goddamn point already.
         "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we," Tristian says quietly but Brown just forges on, never looking back. When you're on a roll you don't question it, you just keep the head down and charge, hoping you'll see the cliff before the fall.
         "Well, friends, our buddy Tristian might be that, but he's got a dark side to him," and he can see Tristian flinching a bit at that, probably the wrong choice of words, cutting too close to home. They've all been changed, slashed by life and some day it just seems to rain salt. "Our pal Tristian has," and he pauses, looking from Jina to Lena and back again before his eyes finally settle on Tristian, "a past" and he strings the words out, turning it nearly into a hiss.
         Brian laughs suddenly, a burst of sound. "What? This I've got to hear." He faces Tristian, "What dirty little secret are you hiding this time."
         "He's already hidden his dancing skills," Lena notes, a comment from her that Brown finds surprising, if only because it almost directly addresses Tristian. For some reason he's been watching her, watching where her eyes are going. Do enough surveillance and you can tell where anyone is staring. Or rather, trying not to stare. It's Tristian, she's trying her hardest not to even look at Tristian unless she absolutely has to. That comment must have cost her some effort, she's trying not to make it seem too obvious. Why? What's her story, Brown wonders.
         Jina has a thoughtful expression flexing its muscle across her face. Meanwhile Brian turns to Lena and says with another chortle, "Heh, maybe Tristian makes it a habit of driving through the tolls without paying." Lena gives an awkward laugh at that, which Brown can understand, it really isn't that funny. Brian should leave the cracks to the professionals.
         "No, nothing that base, I'm afraid," Brown comments with a nod of his head. "So try and keep at least your head above the gutter, I know how you so enjoy wallowing in it." Brian makes a lewd gesture in Brown's direction, which Brown just counters with a grin. "It's just a little story, to show you our friend isn't all sweetness and light." He cocks a finger at Tristian, wiggling it a little. "Not that he hasn't done a good job of it, petting kittens and helping old ladies cross the street, he's got the image all sewn up." He narrows his eyes dramatically. "But there is that past, isn't there?"
         "Bring it on," Tristian says evenly, his smile there but lost in the darkness. He really does seem to be sinking further into the wall, his voice the disembodied cry of the apartment itself. "I like to think my record stands for itself." But he's playing along at least, trading barb for barb, or at least attempting to. It's a step up. You just have to keep his interest, turn everyone's mind away from other subjects. Other matters.
         "What is he . . ." Jina's thinking outloud, chewing thoughtfully at her lip, playing with a ring on her hand with one finger, the other hand tapping the beat of a song on the wall.
         "You know," Brown tells her, smiling evilly.
         "Wait you don't . . . oh my God," and Jina claps a hand to her mouth in an expression of surprise so perfect that Brown couldn't have timed it better had he given her a script. Then she's giggling a little. "Joe, you're bad." Then she gives Tristian a little glance, smiling speculatively, "But not as bad as you were, Tristian."
         "Is someone going to tell the story, or are we going to have to deal with this damn innuendo the rest of the night?" Lena exclaims, running a hand through her hair, fixing the little band tying it back. Shaking her head in a mildly frustrated fashion, she pushes her glass at Brown. "Joe, get me a drink, please. I deserve it trying to figure you people out."
         "Coming right up," Brown replies politely, taking the glass from her. Their hands brush briefly and he can feel her eyes on him, but why? Something is out of synch here.
         As Brown's mixing her drink, Brian says, "Hell, Lena don't feel bad, I don't know what the hell they're talking about and I think I was there for it." Lena blinks at that, something about his statement worming into her consciousness, the hand that was near Brown withdraw swiftly to sit placidly in her lap, out of view.
         "You were there," Tristian says, "but don't be surprised that you can't remember, it wasn't anything major."
         "Oh so you know, do you?" Brown asks with a smile.
         "About the only experience the two of us shared even remotely in high school, Joe," Tristian says mildly, a detective presenting his case with implicit ease. "But I don't think you're putting on this little show so I can play guessing games, hm?"
         "Well, if I were you probably just ruined it," Brown admits, finishing Lena's drink and sliding it back to her. She doesn't immediately drink it but holds it in both hands just the same. As if she might need it to fortify herself for the story.
         "Even if he did, I want to hear the story anyway," Jina adds, placing her back flat upon the wall. Her shoe taps the toe of Brian's sneaker.
         "You were there though," Tristian points out with some amusement.
         "Yeah, but sometimes tells me Joe wants to tell this. And he's so good at it," Jina croons, smiling beatifically at Brown. Pushing other thoughts out of his head, Brown nods in acknowledge and encouragement to Jina.
         "I think it's more in his opinion of himself," Tristian continues.
         "Ooh, he stings me!" Brown gasps, clutching his hands over his heart. "You wound me, my friend, wound me!"
         "But let's see how much damage he can do to my reputation," Tristian finishes, knocking back a glass of something and placing it heavily on the stove with a hollow clank. Where the hell did he get that? His hands return back to their pockets. "But let me assure you, Joe, it's hard to break down something already in tatters." There's a somber undercurrent to that sentiment.
         "I'll do my best," Brown replies, injecting his voice with more cheer than he has to, more to balance the mood. Tristian'll drag them all down into darkness if they let him, the man seems more comfortable there. Maybe because you can't see. Can't see the mocking world around you. That can't be it. "Feel free to add anything as we go along in our little character bashing exercise, folks," he says, mostly talking to Jina and Brian, then turns to Lena fast enough so that it doesn't seem to be an afterthought, "And you too, Lena, fiction's allowed here too, and who knows, chances are it'll be more interesting than my wee tale of woe."
         "Oh, I doubt that," is all Lena says, seeming to be looking at Brown and a point between him and Tristian at the same time. He wishes suddenly and piercingly that he could see what was going on in her head. Something wonderfully complex but he can't fathom it at the moment, even though answers must be fluttering in front of him with billboard like signs. He'll save the forehead smacking for later.
         ". . . I've waited too long to have you hide in the back of me, I've cheated so long I wonder how you keep track of me, you can never be strong, you can only be free and I've never asked for the truth but you owe that to me . . ."
         Brown waits a beat, making sure he has everyone's attention. He's never been much of a storyteller, he can relate the true stuff easy enough but when it came to making things up, well, his imagination just can't cut it. It's a diet of too much of the fantastic, when every idea you've ever had pales when compared to the fundamental reality of the universe around you. It brings to mind the old adage about a million monkeys and a million typewriters. Think of all the correction fluid needed.
         "Now, as we all probably remember, me and Tristian here are the sterling pals that we are now . . ." Brown begins, throwing a look Tristian's way, "in fact, except for random hallway encounters, I never ever saw Tristian and he never saw me and back then we probably thought our lives were better for it." He gives a playful shrug. "No more though."
         "Well maybe not after tonight," Jina comments wryly.
         Tristian merely sighs. "I'm thinking it over as we speak."
         "You do that," Brown fires back, his voice jumping the rhythm and then falling back into it. Over the hail of musical notes strafing them, he's probably shouting and he might have trouble talking tomorrow but that doesn't matter right now. They can all hear him, they're all caught in the recollection. It's a beautiful thing. "But there was one time in school where our paths sort of crossed and it really gave me a whole new perspective on this sort of nerdy looking quiet lad who seemed to go out of his way to avoid human contact."
         "Oh, aren't we a bit harsh, Joe," Lena says, laughing a little. "That's not nice at all."
         "Sad part is, it's true," Tristian says. "All true." Lena gives a bit of a strained smile but Brown notices that the two of them really don't make eye contact. Just two people talking simultaneously. Dueling monologues.
         "Hey now you weren't that bad, Tristian," Jina tells him in a comforting voice, though any real emotion is bludgeoned to death by the booming chorus of noise that seems to drip from the walls. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
         "Ha," is all Brian says by way of comment, with a bit of a snort.
         "Well, it's my story and my interpretation, so Tristian remains nerdy and quiet," Brown pronounces, a verdict of finality. Marking down history with a stamp and the spoken word. It's written by the winners, but in the end who really won. You're all gone in the end, all dust. "Now into this picture we have my group of ruffians, and specifically we've got a certain big lug we liked to call Bill, Billy when he wasn't listening." Brown gives a quirky smile, transporting himself to a past drifting farther down the road. "Or even right to his face, and we just convinced him we were talking about someone else. Bill wasn't always on the ball sometimes. Bill . . . I'm not sure why I hung around with Bill, I mean he was nice enough and everything, swell guy, but him and me, we just saw life in different ways. Still we had mutual friends and while I never would have picked up the phone and called the guy, there he was most of the time with the lot of us. Big boy, as it turns out," Brown raises his arms in the air, stretching and straining to try and convey his height, so much taller now in retrospect. They're all shrinking. Sinking toward the earth, the final home. Sobering stuff. He wishes he knew where these jarring thoughts kept coming from. "But he was good to have on your side when things got a bit touch and go, if you know what I mean."
         "Which never happened to you," Jina remarks with a bit of a tease in her voice.
         "Never," Brown agrees, waiting a second to see if anyone believes that. By the looks he's getting all around, it's probably a good bet to say no one is buying it. Tristian isn't saying anything so far, maybe he's just waiting to see what kind of story Brown is going to pull out, what kind of spin he's going to put on it. Brown does wish Tristian would say something though, contribute to the discussion in some manner other than merely reacting. It's just not healthy for him, not that Brown is in much of a position to talk about healthy anymore, being that chances are he'll never get sick again for the rest of his absurd unnatural lifespan.
         "So anyway," Brown continues, "Bill's got a girlfriend, which put him head and shoulders above most of us in our little group, none of us having much luck with the fairer and often frustrating sex," and he dances around that last word, somehow seeming to make his voice echo, giving it other meanings, ghostly trappings. He chances a glance at Jina, but she's staring at Tristian, searching his face for some sort of reaction. She sees it too, she sees his distance, a receding ship, not even bothering to signal before vanishing into the night. But she can't do anything about it, she can't fathom the life, while Brown can. And he's equally at a loss. You want to help your friend but you're just as human as he is and you're so afraid of failing, of creating waves that drive him further away. Just keep pressing forward. Keep going. "I think she was familiar to you, Jina, her name was . . . Carol?"
         Jina's head snaps back to Brown at the mention of her name, eyes wide like she's trying to absorb all the light in the room. Her face works for a second, digesting information and then memory dawns. "Carol? Oh yeah, her! We were pretty good friends for a while . . ." and then she trails off. Some parts of this story aren't sticking as well to her as the other parts are. A garish female model covered in old recycled bits of paper, until all you can see is the eyes. The eyes are the most important part.
         "Pretty girl, not stunning but this was high school, none of us were stunning. Easy on the eyes was about the best we could hope for," Brown comments a bit wistfully. He shakes some hair into his face and then brushes it back. Good stuff.
         "Hey," Brian interjects, turning to Brown and holding his hands at the sides, as if trying to part some random body of water, "speak for yourself. Some of us had the ladies just flocking all over us."
         Brown hears Lena's cut off snort of laughter and even Tristian shakes his head at the comment. Jina's looking at Brown and just rolling her eyes, though she's still smiling. Brian hasn't been acting too drunk tonight but it's clear that he's sliding down that slippery hill with every moment. Might make for some amusing memories if he keeps this up. At least he's not describing just what he did with the girls who flocked to him. Brown has a strong stomach but he's still better off not knowing. No knowledge can be a wonderful thing sometimes.
         "Oh Brian," Jina says, her voice filled to the brim with sarcastic tenderness, "is that what they told you back then?" She pats him on the back gently, like a child.
         "I always wondered what you saw in him," Lena can't help but comment. "Now I don't have to wonder."
         "Can it, you," Jina bursts out in mock threat, giving Lena a pointed stare that she really can't sustain for very long without collapsing into laughter. All the situations tonight are just absurd, seen through a different lens, molded and shaped into other perceptions. The world's a funny place, moreso after a few shots, as it turns out. Who would've thought?
         "Now, now, kids," Brown calls for calm, "don't forget I'm trying to tell a story here. Let's not get sidetracked."
         "I'm listening, Joe," Tristian says. There's a weird light coming from somewhere, and it's splitting Tristian's already dark shadow into Siamese twins, joined at the hip, identical in every other respect. Brown finds himself shivering again. Damn sword. Too close to the damn sword.
         "Yeah but what fun is it, you know what happened," Brown laments. "All my efforts are for naught, it seems."
         "Oh, sorry, Joe, we're listening," Jina says, slipping her arm through Brian's and turning him around to face Brown. "Don't mind us, keep going. You're doing good, really."
         "Thank you, my dear," Brown replies cordially, inclining his head. "Now, as I was saying, Bill and Carol were an interesting pair. But, it was funny, because I think that they had two different ideas of the relationship and neither told the other about their respective ideas, per se." Brown grins and looks around slowly at everyone. "Are you all following this so far, because I'll go slower if you're having trouble."
         "While we're young still, Brown," Brian warns.
         "Very well then," Brown gives an indulgent smile. "So the problem was that Carol felt she was in a nice safe exclusive relationship, just her and Bill, the two of them happily committed to each other." Brown leans on one elbow on the bar, gesturing with his free hand for emphasis. "Bill, on the other hand, didn't seem to see it that way but didn't see any need to discuss that with Carol."
         "Wait," Lena interjects, holding up a hand to stop Brown. Her eyes are stars, catching the light and glittering, still sharp. Her drink is barely touched, but still clutched in her hand, as if she might need easy access to it later. "Are you saying that Bill was seeing other people?"
         "You might call it that," Brown replies gamely, shrugging his shoulders a little. "But that'd be one of the more polite terms."
         "I think back then I called it blatantly cheating," Tristian calls out from his corner.
         "And there's another term for it," Brown follows through without missing a step. "But it's my story here, Tristian, keep your views out of it," he says without turning around. "You'll get your chance soon enough."
         "He is right though," Jina points out.
         "Funny you of all people should say that," Brown says, swivelling on his elbow to face her. "I mean, Tristian nailed it but still . . ." and he just chuckles a little and shakes his head. "This is too rich . . ."
         "What is he talking about . . ." Lena asks slowly, looking from Jina to Brown and then back again. The answer is starting to lay itself over her face like some sodden blanket but she's not responding to it yet, she just thinks it's the heat. It is damn hot in here, Brown thinks, wiping some sweat from his forehead. Makes the hair easier to manage, but still, some people must be having some problems breathing. Soon enough. Just hopefully nobody will faint. That'll just make the night.
         "For all his numerous faults, Bill was quite the ladies man, perhaps not at Brian's level, a level which is admittedly hard to attain" and Brian gives Brown an evil look that Brown completely ignores, "but still he was a decent guy all the same, treated the girls right, showed them a good time, and he was good for a twenty four hour fling if you weren't feeling too attached." Brown gives an sinister smile that manages to convey the gap of years lost. "Or so I hear." He's staring right at Jina, and she's staring right back but there's a certain red flush creeping into her cheeks. "How about it, Jina, is that what it was like?"
         "Jina!" Lena exclaims, suddenly fitting the puzzle right into place.
         "It was just one day," Jina nearly shouts, still grinning but nearly covering her face, as if expecting an onslaught of papers and vegetables to pepper her. "We went the movies, that was it."
         "What movie was it?" Brown asks suddenly, swiftly, his word a whip slashed across your face before you've got a chance to think, the smile never wavering from his face the entire time. He's enjoying this, having more fun than he's had for a while. If he had managed to go back in time and tell himself just what was going to happen tonight, who he would be meeting, what stories he would be telling, he never would have believed himself. Which probably says more about Brown than about the plausibility of the party's events, but what can you do?
         "Oh, I don't remember, it was a long time ago and . . . you know . . . hey, don't look at me like that, I really don't remember," Jina's saying even as Brown is staring at her with one eyebrow cocked in the air. "Get whatever sick thoughts you've got out of your head. Stop that!"
         "I didn't say a word," Brown says after a second, driving the little plastic knife in a bit further. It won't cause any damage but it's still darn fun to use. Fun for the whole family. "Still," and he's glancing at Lena now, "makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
         "Jina, I don't believe you," Lena's saying, her words carrying little venom, empty hollow things. She's shaking her head, absentmindedly rotating her glass, causing the liquid to swirl in a clockwise motion. "You . . . you helped some guy . . . cheat on his girlfriend."
         "He told me that they were taking a break from each other and . . ." Jina's treading water, backpedaling. It's a funny thing to watch. "I was young, naive."
         "Apparently so," Brown comments with mock dryness.
         "Don't you ever lecture me on anything ever again."
         "Hey, I'm allowed one mistake aren't I? One mistake?"
         "She was your friend, didn't you know?"
         "Ooh, I'll get you for this, Joe," Jina says, shaking a fist of feeble rage at Brown. She can't hold the anger for long and instead breaks into laughter. "God I was stupid back then, wasn't I? At least I can laugh at it now."
         "Or we can laugh at you," Brown points out. "Which in the end turns out to be much more fun. For us."
         "Hey!"
         "We are going to have a long talk in the car on the way home," Lena says, grabbing her friend's shoulder. "I don't believe you. And you never told me?" She looks at Brown. "She never told me this. Can you believe it?"
         "Oh, I can. Jina's full of dirty little secrets too, that's why her and Tristian get along so well," Brown's waiting for some sort of reaction to the name but there's nothing in Lena's eyes. Maybe she's hiding it, or she's becoming numb to it, like being punched in the arm too often, after a while it's just this dull ache that you just assume has always been there.
         "Speaking of that, this is Tristian's story, huh?" Jina breaks in. "How about we get back to him. He's feeling lonely over there."
         "Oh, I don't know," Brown says, "I think Tristian is getting a kick out of this, in his own sick way." Brown looks back over his shoulder at Tristian and raises his eyebrows. He can barely see the man's face, it's almost a blank slate, the pinnacle of mediocrity, the kind of person you might know for your entire life but still not see him when you pass him in a crowd, or you might stare at him for a long time wondering where the hell you've seen him before. It's all relative.
         "You folks take your time out there, I'm just going to sit back and enjoy this," Tristian responds wryly, his voice a slow drawl. Y'all just take your sweet time, y'hear? He pictures Tristian sticking hands into the pockets of his overalls and chewing on a shaft of wheat. Add a corny hat and it's an amusing picture. Ladies and gentlemen, we present you one of the most important people in the Universe: Farmer Tristian. Brown has to dig his nail into his palm to keep from bursting out into spontaneous laughter. This alcohol must be getting to him, he's not normally this silly. Must be the company, they're all going crazy together. It makes it easier, you still feel normal the entire way down.
         "Come on, Brian, defend my honor for me," Jina is saying, shaking his arm a little. "Don't let him walk all over me like this. They're ganging up on me."
         "Just finish the damn story, Brown," Brian growls almost convincingly. "I've got to hit the can soon."
         "Okay, Brian," Brown says in his best use of the condescending tone. "In light of your heartfelt and emotional plea, we'll table Jina's roasting for later."
         "Don't think you're getting off that easy though," Lena states to her friend, her face crinkling with suppressed laughter. "It's a long ride home. And I'm driving."
         ". . . all men have secrets and here is mine so let it be known, for we have been through hell and high tide and I can surely rely on you . . ."
         "As much as I hate to defend our friend Jina, jezebel that she is," Brown says to Lena with a small wink, comically putting his arms around his head to ward off Jina's miming of a thrown glass, "she wasn't the only girl suckered in by Billy. He unfortunately talked a good line and I'm not saying every gal bought his bull, but enough did that some people noticed." And Brown dramatically turns his head, almost parrot fashion, all vivid neck motions, to stare right at Tristian. Tristian merely raises his eyebrows.
         "You must mean me," Tristian notes, his voice still amazingly neutral. Brown wonders what the hell he was drinking over there, definitely nothing with any alcohol content. Even Brown's feeling some effects, the bouncing rhythms of his speech, minor case of blurred vision, the usual stumbling over certain words as you try to fit a mouth rounded and numb around sharp jagged phrases. He's still telling a barbed story here and while there's no death and destruction, it's not highlighting the best of humanity. But they're all adults, they can take it. Allegedly. Doesn't help that Brown is refilling the reservoir every time it starts to dip, his poor liver will probably have to remake itself several times tonight. But here's Tristian, as alert as ever, standing over them like sort of watchmen, a nursemaid, a constant cushion surrounding them in case they fall. Tristian, they don't want your help, they want your friendship. Why can't you see that? Why can't you learn?
         There are thoughts crawling in his head like maggots, they smell the pickling of his brains and they want to come to the feast. Or something. He shakes them free, hiding the motion in a swipe of his hair. "Do I?" he asks Tristian innocently. A charade, there's no innocence, someone ripped the shades off the window and it curled up and died in the light of reality.
         "I think you do," Tristian responds, almost too slowly, as if Brown is becoming simple. Or time is just winding down, the world creaking as it tries to find the strength to make that next revolution. Keep turning or you'll fall off. "Though I'm sorry I didn't notice earlier."
         "So you could save me from my own stupidity?" Jina asks, grinning a little. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, and her eyes are searching for a chair. There's secret jealously for the fact that Lena found a seat. At least her ass is comfortable. She leans further against the wall and Brown finds the meshing contrast between her dark hair and the sporadic absence of light striking, like hair is sprouting from a skullcap. Remove the hair and you're left with the raw features, the cheekbones, the curve of the face, the distance between the eyes and the mouth. An appealing combination. Having nearly drugged himself into a slippery vulnerability, Brown finds it hard not to stare. Not that Jina would notice, her eyes carry the same lack of focus as Brian's, though not to the same degree. Give it time, though, give it time. She's not driving and probably slept off many a hangover before, there's nothing but cascading paths for her tonight, rolling easy walkways. Just the way it should be.
         "Well, now, don't take this the wrong way," and Tristian is almost smiling, not that anyone can really tell, "but you sort of did it to yourself."
         "You tell her," Lena says in a mildly rousing voice, as if afraid she might attract the wrong kind of attention. Tristian politely nods to acknowledge her comment but except for maybe the briefest lingerings of a glimpse, he makes no other sign that he heard. Or that he ever cares.
         "Well, excuse me," Jina says, expelling her breath sharply in a snobbishly annoyed way, standing pillar straight and putting her hands on her hips. If she had longer hair she might toss it over her shoulder, a million little flails for Tristian's words, but it only manages to make a sort of wavey motion, sort of shimmering in the surrounding hazy glow, the black absorbing the ambient light and oozing it right back out.
         "The way . . . the way I see it," Brian interrupts before the pawing moral battle between the two can commence, "is, well, you can put it this way." He stares right at Jina, his face blankly unaware of any emotion, even as it dances just out of sight in the line of his eyes. "Did you enjoy yourself at least."
         Jina blinks as she considers the question, then gives a sheepish sort of smile. "Well . . . yeah." Then quickly, even as she can see Lena opening her mouth, "But I completely regret it now." The words spill out as nearly one syllable.
         "Don't you wish that sounded sincere," Lena gives a sort of snort, though fondly smiling at her friend. "You're far from off the hook."
         "I think that's about the most sincerity we can hope for from Jina at the moment," Brown comments in his best dry voice, drawing a laugh from Tristian. Man has such a strange sense of humor, sometimes. He revolves in his seat to face Tristian again, taking his verbal spotlight and shining it right on the man hiding in the corner. The party has taken on the timeless quality of darkness plus alcohol plus too many hours staying awake when you don't know what the hell time it is, but looking at a watch just breaks the spell, let Time jockey for attention later, instead they're just content to exist in this drifting void state, the bar's an island and they're clutching to it not for dear life but because it's there and they're there and it's something fun to do. Sometimes it pays not to look too deeply into things.
         "So, wait," Lena suddenly says, "not to get us back on the subject, God forbid, but . . ." and her question is only for Brown, it seems, "how did Tristian get involved in all of this? I'm a bit confused."
         Brown points a lively finger at her, "That's the kicker to all of this, well one of them anyway." He casts a glance back at Tristian before turning to relate the tale further to Lena. She's listening intently, but for what reasons, if only he could translate the glassy writings behind her eyes. "As it turns out, Tristian did have friends in school," and he gives the other man a witheringly angelic smile even as the others can't help but snicker, "and one of them, Steve, I think his name was . . . right?"
         "Right," comes the simple response.
         "So anyhow, Steve, at some point he confessed to Tristian something that the rest of the school had known for quite a while . . . that he had a crush on poor Carol."
         "He really didn't confess it to me, as much as told me while I was sitting down and doing some homework," Tristian clarifies, affecting a casual weariness with the world in his tone, "he plopped himself down and said that I was the only one who would take him seriously, that he had to tell someone."
         "Though, for the record, body language tends to speak more than words and his mooning over Carol tipped the rest of us off long before," Brown points out, his words a warning to someone but he's not sure who yet. Everyone around him is awash in nonverbal communication, firing out signals like radio stations caught in a snowstorm, shouting to anyone who might be listening, hoping to hear a voice, hoping that someone might be out there. To help. To hear. Brown chuckles a little, mulling over his next sentence, "Though one day Bill and Carol were together and they were just all over each other, typical couple stuff. Poor Steve passed by and I think his face just crumpled, I didn't think a face could possibly convey that much sorrow." Brown shrugs, not content to dwell on the detail, merely making his point and moving on. How long has this little story taken? Feels like forever and Tristian hasn't budged from his corner, he's wedged there tight, a wall fixture. Maybe someone can give him a tray to hold and he can at least be of some use. Oh, that's a bad thought. Bad bad bad.
         "So I felt sorry for him," Tristian adds, shuttling depth into a story that might as well be created from construction paper. "I thought there had to be something I could do . . ." and it's like he's defending himself to some invisible jury, like when he stares into the darkness there's a ghastly scale there, weighing his good deeds and his bad and it keeps tipping in the wrong direction. There has to be balance. There has to be a compromise. Brown wants to shout it. You can't tip over into total detachment, you'd just become some waferthin parody of humanity, a distant flesh robot going through the motions because that's how you think you're supposed to react, how people expect you to act.
         "Funny part was, you had little idea what Bill was doing to Carol," Brown notes, glancing over at everyone else. Tristian tends to forget small details like that.
         Tristian puts his hands in his pockets and then runs the palm of his hand down the wall, leaving a streak of sweat that evaporates almost instantly. "Hell," he says, "I barely knew that Carol was dating anyone."
         "Weren't we oblivious," Brian nearly sneers, though alcohol dulls the edge of his words.
         Tristian responds with a noncommittal shrug. "Didn't bother involving myself in the social politics of the day, that's all." He's eyeing Brian evenly, as if daring the man to contest the point further, but that's only on one level, on another level there's a tiredness there. He doesn't want to fight anymore, he's tired of struggling against the brick wall wills of his friends, of their prejudices and minds that have expanded to the straining point and just can't go any farther. Everyone has limits and they're all panting, on their knees in puddles of perspiration, with only one more inch to go but that last inch would take everything from them, take everything they had. No one can do it, no one has the strength anymore. It's not an easy admission.
         "Except for this one time," Jina interjects, defusing the situation before it even threatens to reach critical mass. Good timing, that gal, Brown thinks.
         "If I might play Joseph Brown, Junior Psychologist for a moment," Brown says, leaning back in his stool, crossing one ankle over his knee, cupping both hands around the knee, "I think what happened was that when Tristian saw the situation between Carol and Bill, it triggered his dormant morality center, on one hand," and then he gives a vastly wicked grin, "and on the other hand it brought forward Tristian's nasty manipulative streak. Which, if you're not on the receiving end of it, can be an awful lot of fun to watch." He cranes his head to make eye contact with Tristian, "Am I close?"
         "You're kinder on me than I am." Tristian's voice is carefully neutral, trying not to give too much away and only succeeding partially.
         "Knowing you, that's to be expected," Jina says, with an undercurrent of soothing calm to her voice. He's hurting, they can all tell that, but they're afraid to reach out and help. Afraid of what might lurk right beneath the surface. The damn sword wards them all off, it's a symbol of everything wrong, and everything right. Jina's hand clenches and unclenches, light from her ring glinting and making dancing pixie shadows, her arm tensing as if she might reach out and touch Tristian, reassure him that people are there, that folks care, but she doesn't. The gesture remains unspoken. Would it have made any difference? Tristian would say no, Brown knows that, Tristian thinks that they would all be better off it he never existed. It's the wrong idea. It always makes a difference, every action brings on a different outcome, it's all about forking the path.
         ". . . I just freeze every time you see through me . . ."
         Brown sees tapping fingers out of the corner of his eye and notes Lena's doing the motion, drumming in time with the blaring song. Probably humming it too but it's all turning into one big morass of sound again, too hard to discern the individual threads, just a solid glossy wall raging at them. Song's certainly a blast from the past, God only knows where Will figured out his song selection, Brown's only been paying attention every so often but something different strikes his ear every time. He's not sure if that's a good thing or not, he likes to think he's eclectic but too much variety can just become boring after a while, becomes consistency. Even randomness has a pattern if you stretch the quilt out long enough. And Brown has plenty of time to see the long term. He secretly dreads the day when he starts seeing the patterns in everything, in history, in Time itself. That's the moment when he hangs his hat and calls it a day, that's for sure.
         With a chugging jerk, Brown reels himself back into the present, where he's supposed to live. Taking a long drink of something that slides down his throat easily enough, he says to Tristian, "I think we're getting to the point where you're going to have to fill me in on some details . . . I wasn't privy to whatever sick thoughts were floating around in your head back then."
         "You know me, always eager to help, Joe," Tristian replies and his boyishly enthusiastic tone almost seems a parody. "But a smart fellow like you can probably puzzle most of it out. You're giving me a lot more credit for subtlety than I was actually capable of."
         "We'll let history decide that one," Brown tells him with a charming smirk. Turning back to the group that at the moment most closely resembles history, he says, "So at one point I figure you must have done some research and saw how Bill was screwing poor Carol over while pretending to be her best friend and soulmate-"
         "Actually," Tristian says, with a slight smile, "I wound up just asking Steve point blank one day, when he was sitting there moaning about how Carol would never go out with him." He settles his hand in his pockets and leans back against the wall, resting his head against the angle the corner makes, as if trying to make his head think in straight lines, "I remember it . . . he was sitting there across from me and I got so tired of it . . . that I just closed the damn book I was reading and said, Dammit, why the hell don't you just go and ask her out instead of bothering me."
         Tristian's voice almost barks out those last words, he's getting into character now, slipping into the skin of the man he used to be. Everyone takes a small step back, even Lena on her chair puts one foot on the floor, at the force of his words. But the phrases are lost to the past now, lost to a time five years gone and they have no power now.
         Jina's the first to react, regaining the step she lost even as the rest of them are righting their momentum. "God, Tristian, he must have been really bugging you. Did you make him cry?" she asks with an impish grin.
         "Almost," Tristian sighs, as if regretting the fact that he didn't. "And I probably would have, if he had given me the chance. But he didn't give me a chance to get anymore words in and before I knew what the hell was happening, he had explained to me the entire affair."
         "Interesting choice of words," Brown comments and Tristian just shrugs. "So, that's when you decided that something had to be done, hm?"
         "I don't know," Tristian admits, his actions confusing him even to this day with their perplexing rationales. If we knew why we did everything we did, then friends would be unnecessary, we wouldn't need people to tell us why we yell at our girlfriends, why we like our favorite bands, why we can't put some books down and others bore the hell out of us, why a snowy day seen from indoors can bring the mind to bitter nostalgia while a driving rain just causes the desire to go inside and avoid getting wet. People fill in the colors in the spaces that we leave for them, you can never use the magic markers on yourself. It's just a rule. They define you. "I think mostly at the time I just wanted to shut Steve up . . ."
         "Poor Steve," Jina interjects.
         ". . . and on the other hand I thought that Carol deserved better, or at least a shot at something that might be better." He gives that dismissive shrug again, clouding all his actions into a lesser light. "I was fairly full of myself back then."
         "As opposed to the pillar of modesty that you are now," Brown jibes, still fairly enjoying the give and take of this conversation. If every party was like this, just simple indulgence of conversation, shunted off in some dark quiet corner while the rest of them drink themselves into oblivion or screw each other's brains out, he would go to more of these things. But it's a mentality, it's being in the right place with the right bunch of folks who are receptive to the mood, they have to want it, and something like that only happens in spurts. But once you nail the feeling down you've got them, they're sold and packaged, the rest of the party might as well be the backdrop for some absurdist fraternity movie for all they might care.
         "So, wait, let me guess this, before we go any further . . . just to see if I'm on the ball here . . ." Lena interrupts and Brown turns to see that she has drained her glass. There's a slow flush spreading from her eyes on down. It barely changes her appearance. Leaning on one elbow, she cocks the hand attached to that elbow at Tristian, even as she's staring at Brown. One finger does the pointing, for unneeded emphasis. "His idea was to break Bill and Carol up and then attempt to set Steve up with Carol. Am I right? Did I get it?"
         "Oh, you did," Brown says in an intensely quiet sort of way, the smile never wavering from his face, "but you'll find as we go along that the devil's hidden in the details." He uncrosses his leg and leans back, his back touching the counter behind him for support. It occurs to him that people have been serving themselves at the other end of the bar from the assortment of liquors down there. Good. He'd rather be trapped in this insular little world. "Look at his opening salvo, for instance . . . okay, it's after school, and Tristian and Carol have the last period together, some science class I think. Steve was in that class too, I think . . ." and he glances at Tristian for confirmation of this, which he gets, "okay, Tristian says he was, but he probably didn't stick around because he figured Bill would meet her there shortly and he just didn't want to subject himself to that."
         "Wow, I forgot how bad he had it for her," Brian murmurs. "Pretty pathetic, if you ask me."
         "Ah, but no one did," Brown replies cheerfully, "so we'll carry on like you said nothing. So Tristian and Carol wind up walking out together, and on the way out to their lockers, they pass a candy machine . . . Tristian stops to look at the selection for a second and Carol makes some comment about how her favorite candy bar is in there but she doesn't have any change, you know, typical high school lamenting stuff, like our problems were the worst in the damned world. Tristian, true to his generous nature, offers to get it for her, and is sticking his dollar in there before she can even protest. However, and this is the part I never got, Tristian, so feel free to explain, it wouldn't take the dollar and apparently got stuck. In his haste to retrieve it, he managed to rip the dollar in half, at which point he was able to get back the first half."
         "Fold a corner of the dollar so that the machine won't take it," Tristian says without even being prompted, which Brown takes to be a good sign of something, "and then if you just keep one hand on the bill while attempting to get it out, just tear it off and blame it on getting caught."
         "That's damn clever, actually," Brian says, nodding in wonderment. But then a swarm of confusion coats his face, bees leaving the hive, "But what the hell did you need to do that for?"
         "Ah, ah, let me get to that," Brown cautions, wagging a finger in the air. "Tristian now, is embarrassed, or at least acting that way, and insists, insists I tell you, on getting another dollar and getting Carol that piece of candy. Carol probably said something about how he didn't need to do that but Tristian just wasn't having any of it, by all reports. In full view of everyone, he stalked off down the hall, waving his torn dollar in the air and saying to Carol how he was going to set things right . . ." Brown breaks off and looks at Tristian. "Was that some obscure commentary on the situation or just the best you could think of at the time?"
         "I'm not even sure that's what I said . . ." Tristian muses, his forehead kneading in thought. "Whatever I said, it was probably just stuff I made up . . . I was never one for long term plotting."
         "So he says," Brown laughs, shaking his head. "Ah, Tristian, you never change." Still laughing a little, he shifts on the stool again and leans back on the bar. Lena's leaning forward as well and as Brown turns his head to stare at Jina and Brian, he can feel her breath close to his face. She's so quiet, so still. It takes an effort to shove the nagging thought of his head. He's so missing something. That's not like him. "I think I'll let the evidence speak for itself on how well Tristian plots . . . because here we've got him heading for the cafeteria, insisting he can get another dollar there, Carol in tow for no other reason than curiosity, I think." For Lena's benefit, he explains, "Tristian had a bit of a reputation as an, ah, eccentric, shall we say, one of the quiet ones mind you, but at least twice a month he did something worthy enough to make the gossip rounds."
         "Ah hell I remember one time he was shooting baskets in the gym-" Brian starts to say.
         Jina reaches forward and gently puts her hand on his mouth to silence him. Crosseyed, like it's some sort of odd growth, he stares at it. "One story at a time, Brian," Jina tells him, taking her hand away and sliding back over to him. His arm encircles her again and whatever story he was attempting to tell is gone, fractured and fluttering away, newspapers caught in a breeze. All memory seems to be like that. A simple gust blows the candle out.
         "So Carol wanted to be first in telling her friends what bizarre thing Tristian had done this time," Lena comments, eyeing Brown. Those same eyes narrow a second later. "But there was no way he'd know she was going to bother following him."
         "I know," Brown admits with a cutting smile. "And that's what scares the hell out of me sometimes. Don't think about it too much, we'll just go with it."
         "If you say so," comes the amused reply. Brown can feel Tristian staring at them both, his eyes a dull burning ache on the back of Brown's neck. Brown figures he can take it, hell, he's handled death. This won't be any problem at all. Still, he rubs the back of his neck on the pretense of loosening a stiffened neck. Which is a lie, his muscles don't stay sore or stiff anymore, he could tear every ligament in his body, sleep every night curled into a ball and still be limber enough to do somersaults within an hour.
         "Tristian makes it to the cafeteria and he has to go to the back room where the aides are cleaning up the trays and stuff for the next day . . . so he's crossing the cafeteria, still talking in a boisterous fashion that was much unlike him and . . . were you shouting her name over and over as well . . ." he asks Tristian.
         "No, she kept calling after me that it wasn't that important," Tristian corrects. "But I can see how it got changed in the telling, the other way sounds better."
         "Just goes to show you," Brown sighs, and then marches on, determined to finish his epic, "With all that in mind, he reaches the back room . . ." he stops again, grinning at Tristian. "I always liked this part . . . but I'll let you do the honors, if you want."
         "No, no, keep going, you're doing fine. You're making me sound a lot better than I was." Lena makes a face at that but it's so transient, an eclipse where the sun burns it away before it can become anything resembling a shadowy threat, that Brown isn't sure what he saw.
         "All right, well, now, Tristian gets there, saying something along the lines of he needs change so he can get Carol her candy, when . . ." Brown covers his face for a second, lost in the delicate humor, "when he stops and finds Bill there, chatting it up with the rather cute girl Patty who worked after schools helping out the kitchen staff, no doubt making bets in his head how long this conquest would take. Funny stuff."
         "Oh my God, that is funny," Lena exclaims, giving a little clap of her hands. It's such a girlish thing to do that Brown can't help but find it endearing. Again he feels the burning ache but just swats it away, paying no heed to it. "So Carol walks in with Bill and finds him trying to cheat on her and . . . why are you all looking at me like that . . ." she says slowly.
         Jina is slowly shaking her head, an indulgent smile on her face. "Come on now, did you think it would be that simple . . . Bill wasn't doing anything outwardly wrong, he could have easily talked his way out of it."
         "And beaten the hell out of Tristian later for it," Brian adds with a smirk, and you get the impression he's running that little fantasy through his head, maybe he even gets a few licks in himself.
         "So . . . what the hell did he do then?" and now Lena's looking confused, thinking she had it all figured out, like thinking you can just use dynamite to tear a house down but then find out that it's made of a million cleverly interlocking pieces that have to be taken apart first. Brown almost feels sorry for her, Lena's face seems utterly crestfallen. Maybe she just wants the endless story to end, so she can get back to dancing or drinking. But nobody's keeping her here, only the gibbering beast known as curiosity. Brown makes a note that it's not what did you do, Tristian, but what did he do. A small detail but he picks right up on it. He hopes it means nothing but he has this sensation that if wishes came true, that if enough people thought of the same thing long enough and at the same time, Tristian would have ceased to exist long ago.
         "Ah, let me finish," Brown admonishes gently, "while Bill didn't seem to be doing anything wrong, in his head he knew what he was doing and he was as human as anyone else, he felt mighty guilty about it. I mean," and Brown shrugs at this, pondering the point, "he had to know he would get caught eventually, the odds were just stacked against him. But that doesn't make it any easier," just like possessing the knowledge that you're going to die doesn't make the simple fact any easier to stomach or swallow, but you don't have that problem do you Brown, "and so he was fully expecting Carol to come stalking in and chances are, he might have confessed right there." He turns back to Tristian, "But that's not what you wanted, was it?"
         "It wasn't my immediate goal if that's what you mean . . ." Tristian says quietly, the framed picture of innocence.
         "So, instead, he just stops, looks right at Bill, and then . . . winks, as if to say that your secret is safe with me, my boy and then whips a dollar from his wallet and runs back out, yelling to Carol that he got it and he can get her candy from her."
         There's silence after Brown says this, and Lena is staring at him with a very bewildered expression. "What. The. Hell?"
         "Clever, huh?" Brown says. "But I didn't realize that for a long time, when I first heard it, I was thinking the same thing you're probably thinking. I mean, Tristian was the pillar of morality in our school, he might have been a little . . . offbeat, but there wasn't a more standup guy around. And here we are hearing that he's basically condoning the admittedly skewed relationship between our couple . . . I was really confused."
         "But so was Bill, and that's what I wanted," Tristian states from his seemingly distant corner.
         "Well you got it, he came up to me later that day and said Joe, I thought I had that Tristian guy all figured out."
         "But . . ." and Lena's shaking her head and the look on her face seems to hint that she's thinks they're all putting her on, that they're having some fun with the only girl who wasn't around back then. "But how did he know Bill was going to be there?"
         "He was a few people in front of me in the lunchline and I heard him saying to someone how he was coming back later to talk to Patty . . ." Tristian explains, even though the question wasn't asked of him. Lena gives him a quick glance as he talks, her expression blank and impenetrable, her features chiseled from soft rock. He gives another one of those casual shrugs, the maddening kind that someone gives when they've solved the impossible problem and treat it like it was nothing. All in a day's work. Sure. "Sometimes it pays off not to be noticed by anyone."
         "I guess," Lena says, two words that sound dragged out of her, porcupine quills that go down easy but cut you all up when you try to bring them back up the other way. There's a tentative agreement in her voice, a wavering false thing that seems to either say that going unnoticed isn't a bad thing, or that Tristian hasn't gone unnoticed. That he can't anymore. He's a vortex of attention, a riveting swirl of focus, the black hole for events. So they think.
         "Oh, Bill noticed, Tristian. Trust me on this," Brown says and there seems to be a wink trapped in his voice, struggling to reach his face. Speaking to the group again, he explains, "The close call had rather unnerved Bill, as it turns out and he wasn't totally stupid, either, there were splinters of suspicious poking around in his normally dense brain. So he dragged me along and the next day before school really began we caught up to Tristian at his locker. Bill confronted Tristian, and when I saw confronted, I mean completely in the spirit of intimidation, keep in mind we're talking big football player style bulk here," and he holds his arms out, his elbows making right angles, arms dangling down, trying to somehow fill the space with solid air and suggest mass where there is none. Let imagination fill in the rest, the posture cries out. "To no avail, when Bill asked Tristian basically what the hell was he doing yesterday, Tristian just shrugged and said that he had seen nothing and he had no idea what Bill was talking about. So he said." Brown gives a knowing smile at the memory. "But his face and I don't think I appreciated this until a lot later . . ." he laughs, a deep rolling sound that forms a counterpart to the relentless airy thudding playing in the background, "but goddamn Tristian you play the innocent really well."
         "I know," Tristian replies calmly. "Ironic, isn't it?" He's not making eye contact either, Brown realizes, and his hands aren't leaving his pockets, they seem tightly clenched there, as if he was trying to claw his palms out, rip the blood out, let it cleanse his guilt away. But that's wishful thinking, Tristian's the type that would rather keep his guilt tucked away inside until it becomes a pressing bloated thing, until it nearly consumes him and pushes all his other organs aside and he's just one puffed up bag of guilt walking around. It's a vaguely unsettling thought and Brown shoves it away as best he can.
         "I mean," and Brown just shakes his head, rubbing his hands together, friction creating heat, warmth, "you guys had to see his face, he managed to somehow completely come off as really not knowing what Bill was talking about but somewhere . . . somewhere there was a twinkle and a smile lurking there that seemed to say Hey, Bill, I know your secret and I understand, let's just keep it between the two of us, okay?" Brown runs a hand through his hair, wondering for a detached moment if he'll ever go bald, if even regeneration can overcome genetics. It's a sudden stray thought that he can't explain, so he tries to ignore it as best he can. "And Bill bought it, not that he had much choice, he really was too confused to know what the hell was going on. Hell, I was in the same club."
         "Never saw you as one for mindgames, Tristian," Brian notes, shooting Tristian a look that can mean a lot of things. It's probably meant to be somewhat cutting but his upcoming state of drunkenness has rendered his face slack and loose, Brian almost seems a man who can't remember how to control his expressions. Tristian, to his credit, makes no comment, though Brown can see him bracing himself for some further jab from Brian. None are forthcoming though, so either whatever point Brian was about to make was lost in the increasingly fogged recesses of his head, or there was really nothing to say. Maybe that was the problem.
         "Oh, it gets even better," Brown grins, waving his hand, scattering impending conversations like butterflies. "A week or so goes by, and Bill's basically just filed the incident with the rest of the weird stuff Tristian tended to pull from time to time. He had moved on to his next potential conquest, this girl Pam, who was new and really didn't know any better. Which suited Bill just fine, except for one thing . . . Carol always seemed to be around. They were a fairly close couple, as screwed up as they both were, but she was always dropping in, surprise visits between classes, stuff like that. Generally during school he really only saw her during lunch and passing in the halls, and he sort of relied on that when he planned the rest of his day. Now," and Brown pauses to let a bubble of laughter out, "it's like he can't get rid of her. She's not clingy or anything, it's just that she's everywhere. And it was driving him out of his mind."
         "I was always proud of-" Tristian starts to chime in even as Brown is raising his hand, warding the other man to silence. Tristian gives an indulgent smile and seems to retreat back a step. He can understand though, this is Brown's story all the way through, Tristian is just a character in an absurdist play, a bit part thrown center stage, windmilling his arms to keep balance while giving the crowd a sickly smile all the same. It's all theater. You're never supposed to forget that, as long as you might live. All theater, just curtains and spotlights and you're the poor strutting player trying to cram in as many words as you can in the shortest time before the bastards wing you with the hook and drag you screaming off stage. To the dark wings. The corners. Tristian seems to be halfway there already, and nobody would dare pull him out. There's no hands, no hands to reach out to. It shouldn't be that way.
         "So Bill's got this scared rabbit look after a while, like the pressure's really on," Brown continues, his gaze settling on everyone, lingering like fine rain, "and this goes about most of the week. By Friday he's not sure what to do, Carol is being the perfect girlfriend, which is exactly what Bill doesn't want at this point, it's the one thing he can do without. But Bill keeps trying . . ."
         "He always was a tenacious guy," Jina says, her voice cloaked with memory. She immediately flushes when everyone's eyes turn on her, Lena giving her a dirty look that barely hides her obvious amusement. Lena's going to have lots of fun with this little tidbit for a long time, Brown thinks.
         Brown's eyes are mildly sardonic. "Maybe not so tenacious in your case, eh?" Jina knows better than to say anything back, but Brown gets a look that might have even stymied his healing abilities had it been able to do any damage. Her heart's not into damage though, this is a night for good times.
         And this story is part of that, in its own simple way. Brown hopes he's being somewhat modest. "So, now, Bill's trying for Pam, when out of the corner of his eye while he's in the hallway talking to her . . . well, he spots you know who. He knows she's coming toward him, but he's not sure what he should do, whether he should just break the conversation off with Pam until he can get Carol to go away, or just send her away, or just have the both of them go somewhere and hide from Carol . . ." Brown stops and shrugs, "Apparently cheating is hard work, if you want to do it right."
         "My heart bled for him," Tristian notes sarcastically.
         Brown nods, taking the comment in stride, "But just when Bill is about to combust from indecision, along comes his pal Tristian, yelling something about having to talk to Carol about some sort of science project and before Bill or Carol knows what's happening, Tristian's got her steered away, going in the opposite direction."
         "Smooth, Tristian," Jina says, inclining her head slowly in his direction, a referee assigning the score. "You had a flair for timing back then."
         "Bill," Brown continues, "saw all of this of course, and at that point I think something clicked in his head. At least when he described it to me later that day, some sort of idea seemed to be forming." Brown sniffs in a mock snobbish fashion. "I don't think I can even fathom how goddamn lonely it must have been in there."
         Everyone gives a little laugh at that but Lena's got a question wrapping itself around her face. "So . . . is Carol in on this at all . . . like, how much does she know what's going on?" Everyone remembers Carol of course but Lena wasn't around back then so to her Carol is just an empty shell of words, a paper doll template of a person filled in with vague descriptions and paraphrases from speeches and conversations too far gone to even recollect properly. She'll never know the sound of Carol's voice, the way the color of her hair blended with the hues in her eyes, her girlishly simple way of dressing, the way she walked. It's like hearing someone talk about a relative gone fifty years, you have no basis to compare, the world might as well not existed before you were ever born.
         It's all in her face, Brown can see it. Lena wishes that she was there back then, that this was more than just a story to her, Brown can tell that from the curved furrows forming in her face. It's a lonely feeling, he'll have to get some stories out of her later, repay the favor, give her the chance to share. That's what you have to do, in the end. Sometimes it might just be the only thing you can do.
         "How much does she know?" Brown shoots back to her, throwing a cocky smile out. "Nothing."
         ". . . and as the smack cracks at your window, you wake up with a gun in your mouth . . ."
         "Carol was a great person, Lena," Jina supplies a further answer in response to the confusion being written all over her friend's face, "but she wasn't really a . . . subtle person, if you know what I mean. It really . . . mindgames just weren't her style, you know?"
         "Yeah, unlike most women I know . . ." Brian adds in, with just the tiniest hint of a slur, like he's running a second behind everyone else.
         "Oh shush you," Jina chastises him, giving him a playful squeeze on the arm. "Do you think I'd even bother playing with your head," she asks him, giving her most dazzling and innocent smile. Even from where he's sitting Brown can feel the light, it's burning him, throwing his shadow against the wall and pinning him like one of those people vaporized by the bomb. It takes him back, where a smile like that could mean holding hands while walking home from school or fumbling around in the back seat of a car, trying to find some grace and poetry blindly, sometimes hitting upon it all the same.
         "But then," Lena continues to ask, "how . . . how did she . . ." and she breaks off, staring past Brown, past Brian, into the space wrought between them, where the walls meet into a right angle. "You did it, didn't you?" she asks Tristian, staring right at him with a look in her eyes that isn't too easily read, it could either be a kind of grudging admiration, or utter disgust. Her voice is a hushed whispery thing, but carrying all the same.
         Tristian just smiles, seeming to shrug into himself.
         "Fine, keep your mysteries to yourself," Brown proclaims, his voice louder than necessary, slicing through the strange stretched tension that Tristian seems to create just by his presence. It's like they're standing here and talking and they gradually forget that he exists and suddenly they remember that they know this guy named Tristian, this terrible terrible man and my God he's standing right over there what the hell are we going to do? Rabbits caught in headlights, the truck stopped inches from their faces but they still can't find the strength to dash off to the dense undergrowth and safety. They enjoy the smell of scorched rubber too much, perhaps, playing the game of risk, trying to get as close to the danger as you can before it notices you and strikes back. Dousing yourself with gasoline and dancing near the fire, confident that if you keep your distance you won't be immersed in flames.
         "Well we can debate what Tristian did and didn't do later, but I can tell you what happened next," Brown tells them, reeling them back into the story. "And what happened was me and Bill and some other folks were standing around in the hallways when Tristian suddenly came past, just meandering off somewhere . . ." Brown gives Tristian a knowing glance out of the corner of his eye, "or so we thought. All of a sudden Bill calls Tristian over and says he wants to talk to him for a few minutes . . .
         "What is it, Tristian asks . . ." dropping his voice a note or two in a passable attempt to imitate his friend's tone of speech, the clever calculating innocence. Some things he just can't capture though, it's just not the way he thinks. Just staring up at some hideously complicated structure of architecture, you can admire the work and the planning, the absurdist linkages but you can never for the life of you fathom the thought processes behind it.
         "And Bill tells him, well you know Tristian, I want to ask you, you and Carol, you're good friends, right . . .
         "Ah, sure I guess, Bill is what Tristian says.
         "Well, then, Tristian, I bet you know then about the, er, problems me and Carol have been having, lately . . .
         "Why, Bill, no I didn't know you two were having problems. She didn't say anything to me, about it, I'm sorry to hear it, is there anything I can do to help?
         "Uh, actually, there is something you can help me with, Tristian. I think, I think what me and Carol need is our space . . .
         "You mean like some time off from each other?
         "No, no, no, not that . . . I mean, just you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that stuff, we just need some distance, that's all.
         "And what exactly does this have to do with me?
         "Hm, well, she really listens to you, right?
         "If you say so.
         "I think she does and . . . and I think if you could, if you could get her mind off me, you know, give her other stuff to think about, keep her busy, you know, the way you've been doing.
         "What way would that be, Bill?
         "Oh, you know, Tristian. You know, keeping her distracted, when . . . when I'm . . .
         "Exploring other options?
         "Yeah. Yeah! that's it, you know, because I've known a lot of girls in my time, Tristian and, really, none of them are, there's just no one like Carol out there. There just isn't. But I, I don't know want her thinking the wrong things, right? Because that wouldn't be fair to her, right?
         "No, Bill, it wouldn't be fair at all. So you just want me to keep her out of your way, is that it?
         "Uh, hey, when you put it that way, but I think, you know what I mean? Would you do that for me Tristian?
         "Ah, I don't know Bill . . .
         "Please, Tristian, this relationship means a lot to me, I don't want to see it get messed up . . .
         "You know what? You're right, you're both good friends of mine and I hate to see the two of you splitting up over something utterly silly . . . I'll do it, Bill, I'll get your relationship back on track for you . . .
         "Really? You're a pal, Tristian, really. I won't forget this, it's really important to me. Really.
         "I'm sure it is, Bill." Brown sits back from his performance, smiling primly at the listeners settled around him. "Do you guys know that I absolutely no idea what Tristian was even planning . . ." he turns to Tristian, "You're good, my friend."
         "That's because I was making it up as I went along," Tristian replies, dismissing the praise as something overly lavish, not something he deserves. It's his way, Brown knows, he'd shrug off the Nobel Peace Prize even if he stopped all war and ended hunger because he would still think he hadn't done enough. "Still, you left out my favorite line of that whole conversation. At the end, I said . . . I told Bill I'd make sure he wouldn't forget any of this." Tristian gives a surprisingly self-satisfied smile, one that seems out of place on his otherwise starkly serious face.
         "Yeah, I remember, I left it out . . ." Brown quips, "it was too cliche for me. I took some liberties."
         "Rewriting history, are we, Joe?" Jina teases. "Maybe you shouldn't do that when you're telling the story to people who were there."
         "Ah, hell, you people have nothing in your heads, the beer's drained it all out," Brown jokes, even as he pours himself a glass of something dark and bubbling. "At this point I could tell you how Nazi frogmen invaded the school and took everyone hostage and you would have figured that you were just out sick that day and missed all the excitement."
         There's a small tug on the bottle in his hand and he instinctively releases it, glancing at the culprit. Lena gives him a shy smile as she takes it and pours some in her own glass. "I just can't believe how you remembered the whole conversation like that."
         "Mind like a steel trap, what can I say?" Brown laughs, tapping at his forehead. Lena finishes pouring her drink and slides the bottle back over to him.
         "I don't know a damn thing about your mind but your mouth rambles like hell . . . I don't remember you being this longwinded," Brian gripes, shifting his weight against the bar, trying to drag feeling back into his legs. He's been standing for too long, beer can't make the glossy numb feeling in heavy legs go away the same way it can make you walk around outside in dank winter weather with a thicker skin, apparently immune to the cold. It's funny like that.
         "I'm sweet talking you back to sobriety," Brown tells him sweetly, giving him a sugary smile. Brian just glares but there's little real feeling backing it, it's just going through the motion, responding to the same stimulus with the same reactions because you're too tired to think of anything different. But different doesn't mean more creative, sometimes repetition can be equally effective in the long run. "Anyhow, we're almost done anyway . . ."
         "Yippee," Brian mutters.
         "Though I can make it last all night, if y'all want that," Brown finishes, his face distantly serious, a wavering mirage that seems to appear only once every fifty years. "But I know you don't," and the grinning mask hides the idle threat, "so let me take you right into the climax." He leans with both elbows against the bar, using his hands to illustrates the players, the setting, telling the tale through gesture. "Right that the little conversation, it turns out that Carol has little time to see Bill anyway because her science class got handed this big project suddenly, the teacher has them all working in groups of three so they can finish this up quickly. As it so happens, Tristian turns out to be in her group . . ."
         "Oh like we didn't expect that," Brian snorts. "You're becoming obvious."
         Jina laughs suddenly, a sound that becomes increasingly more melodic when Brian gives her a pained glance. "Oh, Brian, that wasn't the point." Stifling another giggle, she turns to Brown and says, "Tell him who the third person was."
         "Sure thing," Brown responds in a chipper fashion. The other chap rounding out their little group was none other than Steve. Remember him?"
         Brian blinks and for a second Brown's not sure if he does. But then memory tears the veil from his face and a combination of shock and a strange acceptance drips into his expression. "You sneaky bastard," he says to Tristian, his speech slow and deliberate, each word pronounced with delicate finesse, he wants nothing lost in the translation from brain to mouth.
         Tristian just shrugs, and for the first time he seems to be enjoying the give and take of conversation, or at least being the brief center of it. Hard to tell with him though. They keep trying to pin Tristian to the wall with their talk, their words, their looks but he refuses to be nailed down, refuses to let the light shine on him completely, he's shies away, as if afraid he's bared too many secrets already and those few he has left he wants hugged to his chest, taken to his grave. "Figured I could suggest the groups, being the project was my idea."
         Brown gives that sentence a second to sink in before launching back into the story, his voice commandeering their attentions, or so he likes to think. Maybe they're hoping for some insight, some angle that they didn't consider the first time around, an observation colored by years of maturity and hindsight. Sure. That might just happen. Brown's just calling it as he sees it. About the best thing to do in a situation like this, doesn't pay to analyze too deeply.
         Then he looks at Lena and the dazed sort of puzzlement on her face, the way she keeps trying to look at Tristian and failing, like it makes the eyes hurt, he's a vibrational blur, it gives you a headache trying to resolve the image. Then again, maybe analysis might not be a bad idea.
         "So Tristian and Steve and Carol are spending lots of time together in the library, at each other's houses, trying to get this project done. Now, I wasn't there for any of this stuff, but I imagine you said something to the effect that this was Steve's big chance, and that he should take advantage of this. Am I right?"
         "In so many words, yeah," Tristian confirms. "I started out trying to be vague but he wasn't getting it. So I spelled it out for him." Tristian grins at the memory. "That worked a bit better."
         "It's that uncommonly deft way you have with words," Brown deadpans. "So a couple weeks go by like this, Bill's doing his thing, unfettered by Carol's absence . . . but he's having some trouble. The girls just aren't buying it anymore, you see, he's getting lots of dirty looks, like he's just been reduced to the low man in the hierarchy."
         "I don't think I ever thanked you for spreading the word, Jina . . ." Tristian says suddenly. "It really helped."
         "Well, she was my friend . . ." Jina admits.
         "And you felt guilty as hell, I'll bet," Lena laughs.
         "Maybe," Jina replies slowly, giving her friend a pointed look. "But it just made me work harder."
         "And that you did," Brown notes, "Bill was about as frustrated as a man can be, hell, he wanted that project to be over with so he could see Carol again. And so finally it's all over and she's finally free again. So at the end of the school day, he runs to see Carol, you know, to see if she wants to go out somewhere to celebrate somewhere tonight, because he sure missed her and wants to hear all about her project and how it went."
         "More like he wants to get some," Jina sniffs.
         "Hey, he's only human," Brian says, squeezing Jina against him a little. "I can sympathize . . . ow!" he shouts as Jina gives him a small kick in the leg. "Hey, what was that for? I was just saying."
         "Children, children," Brown admonishes, shaking his head at both of them. They'll be making out before this night is over for sure, they've got passions all bottled up and fired up inside them, magnetism drawing them closer whether they want it to or not. You can feel it even now, the drag from the poles, waves sliding over you. Still, no time for that now, he's got a story to tell. He waits a second to see if everyone still has their minds with him, and then plunges right forward, "But, alas it was not to be a good day for poor old Billy. I happened to be standing around waiting for someone else when he comes stalking over to me, and he's got this expression halfway between rage and looking like he's about to cry.
         "Joe, he says to me, Joe she went and broke up with me.
         "That's too bad, I say, did she say why? I was a nosy little bugger back then.
         "And his face changed and he got really mad when I asked this question and for a second I thought I was going to get the piss beat out of me. But it wasn't me he was mad at. Joe, he says to me, she says she's found someone else. She says it was fun while it lasted but she wants to see other people.
         "Well, isn't that good, I said. I mean, you've always wanted to see other people too, right? That was the whole point, right?
         "I'll kill the bastard, he growled and I could see that he really wasn't listening to me. I'll get him for taking my girl away from me . . . and on and on in that vein, real macho trip we're talking here. I figured I should probably get away before I found myself holding this poor guy down while Bill has his way, but . . .
         "Then Mr Sunshine shows up," Brown remarks, grinning at Tristian, "walking down all full of innocence, like he wasn't trying to find Bill at all. So anyway, he's walking down and Bill sees him and he says, Hey, Tristian, I want to talk to you.
         "Oh sure, Tristian says, stopping. What about?
         "Carol broke up with me.
         "Yeah, I heard, that's too bad. Seeing someone else now, I hear.
         "Damn right, and I want to go beat the hell out of him right now. Do you know where the hell he is?
         "I do, he's with your former girlfriend. And then, and then Tristian's voice sort of changed, I can't really describe it, but it scared the living daylights out of me. He says, but you're not going to do a damn thing to him.
         "Bill wasn't expecting this at all, mind you, so he was a bit taken aback. But still damn angry. Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, he nearly bellowed, I mean we're talking angry here. This is how fights get started, two guys surfing waves of manliness, eyeballing each other and trying to see who can stay afloat the longest.
         "Tristian's not playing along though, he's dead calm and he says I know who I am but who the hell are you to go and tell her what to do.
         "I'm not going to tell her to do anything, I'm just going to show that guy that he can't take my girl away from me.
         "Really now. And then Tristian reaches his hand into his pocket and takes out a tape recorder. You really think you're going to go and do something, huh? And then he hits play and Bill's voice comes out of it and Bill looks like someone just blew his house up while he was standing there.
         "Tristian shuts the tape off after a few seconds. You're not going to do a damn thing, Tristian says. I have several creative uses for this. Don't push me, because you'll lose. Let me tell you, shivers went right my spine, folks.
         "Bill isn't taking this well at all, definitely not how he saw the day ending. Oh yeah, he says, still trying the macho act, well what the hell is going to stop me from taking that from you? Brown, he says, unfortunately remembering that I was still there, help me take that damn thing from him.
         "Go right ahead, Tristian says, and he gives perhaps the most evil smile I've ever seen on a human being. You just go right ahead and try. That's all he says.
         "We can both take him, Joe. You have to help me. Bill's sounding really desperate but I'm not being moved, I'm starting to think about the last few weeks and Bill and Carol and how Tristian really didn't do anything wrong. And frankly, what kind of balls this guy has to do something like this. And I realize that's not someone I want to risk messing with.
         "So the hell with this, I say, you want him, Bill, you get him yourself. And before anyone can say anything I turn right around and get the heck out of there. Last thing I saw was Bill facing a still grinning Tristian, daring him to take another step forward." Brown clasps his hands together, closing his eyes briefly, and then lowering his hands to the bar, separating them and laying the palms flat. "And that's my dark, sordid Tristian story. Hope you liked it folks."
         Jina claps her hands, applauding Brown's apparently sterling work, if he might say so himself. After a second Lena joins in, though she looks uncertain, as if trying to digest what she heard. Her face is pleased, open and inviting, but her eyes are another story altogether, clouded and veiled. His story has spurred thoughts in her head, and Brown wonders what kind of thoughts he's inspired.
         "You made me look pretty good there, Joe," Tristian notes, his voice also pleased, though still not matching his face. He's stepping a bit out of the shadows, as well and for a few seconds the ridged illumination highlights him differently. The trip there, coupled with the trip into his past seems to have changed him, he's looking more like he fits into the party, at least more than he did before. He won't even be a party person, this whole place is a round hole that he can't fit his square body into completely. But he can fit partway and peek in and maybe enjoy himself that way. He seems to be a man of simple pleasures. At least Brown can't see the damn sword anymore. That's a definite plus, right there.
         "Did my best," Brown concedes modestly.
         The radio seems to hush for a second, giving everyone's eyedrums a respite, however brief. In the vacant silence, their small group seems to be become aware of the party again, as if they were shunted sideways off to some other dimension and now they're just rejoining their former comrades. Like living in a cave for years and then emerging to find the outside world hasn't changed a bit, it's just the way you thought it was. There's a small comfort in consistency, even as they blink from their dreams brought on by Brown's fiction. The silence persists for another few seconds and then it winds back up again. This time, though, this time it's different, a lone piano, backed by subtle strings and a man's voice gently keening over it. A drifting melody, as opposed to the notes hammered into their brains by leaden guitar strings, a wind rushing over their ears where before it was just constant assault, rocks thrown from drum built catapults crashing against walls during a siege.
         Jina cocks her head to the side, her eyes focusing suddenly. Brown can almost see song titles scrolling through the reflections in her eyes as she tries to remember. "About time they did a slow song . . ."
         ". . . the photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago, turned around backward so the windshield shows every streetlight reveals a picture in reverse . . ."
         Then her face changes abruptly and she gives a bit of a squeal, extricating herself from Brian and grabbing both his hands. "Oh I love this song, come on let's get back into the party . . ."
         "Ah, dammit, Jina, not this song," Brian complains, making a face that might as well be glass. "I hate the slow dances . . . right guys . . . help me out here," and he turns to Brown and Tristian for some kind of aid, any kind of liferaft they can throw to him. The lack of conviction in his voice is hurting his cause though, Jina can see right into him, the floors and exhibits in the museum of his head. Fourth floor, white lies and other lost manners. Everybody out.
         "You're on your own here, pal," Brown says, crossing his arms over his chest. Not that he doesn't secretly wish that Brian refuses, wishes it to the point where he feels an ache in his chest as he tries to suppress it. But he can't deny that it exists just the same, pressing on the inside of his head, turning his stare into something solid, something less than innocent. Dammit. He blinks and glances down, snapping the links in the chain of his thinking before he clambers into a territory he doesn't want to go into, all the same, he still curses himself for the thought.
         "Come on, please, Brian," and Jina gives him a face that he wouldn't have been able to resist had he been completely sober, tugging him at the same time. Finally, with a sigh and a mildly indulgent smile, like the entire thing was his idea, he lets himself be led away by Jina, off to the other couples moving in stately slow motion, fragments rejoining a whole they've been too long apart from. Planets returning to the warmth of an encompassing solar system, inexorably, degenerating spirals, seeking the center even as they know the center promises nothing. Islands attempting to clump together, for peace of mind, for comfort, hands entwined tightly, bodies with barely any space between them, staring into the eyes of the person across from you, trying to see yourself and the dimming lights and that person all at the same time, all for the fleeting reassurance that you're not alone out there.
         ". . . and still it's so much clearer, I forgot my shirt at the water's edge, the moon is low tonight . . ."
         "Well, then," Brown notes, letting any pain he feels dissolve into a smile, "aren't those two cute." He's staring out there now, at those couples and part of him wants to join them, to somehow make himself a puzzle piece that'll fit in with their overall panorama. And why the hell shouldn't he? He glances at Lena to see if she's paying attention, and then he says with a grin bordering on silly plastered on his, "I guess we're going to have to fight it out over which of us gets this dance with Lena, Tristian, lucky girl . . ." and as he pivots to face Tristian, his voice trails off when he realizes with a sudden groping shock that the man isn't standing there anymore.
         "What the . . . how the hell," he mutters, eyes narrowing. Goddamn him, how the hell does he do that? Shaking his head a little, he turns back to Lena. But she's looking the other way, out at the dancefloor and there's an old form of longing in her stance. One foot on the floor, off the stool and he can see she wants to join them. Seeing her, something tickles at his brain, feathers from a burst pillow, thoughts pressing against the rubber sheet separating his conscious from his sub-conscious, trying to break through.
         The music peppers them with small climaxes and he can see her fingers tapping against her leg, strumming along. Sometimes the desire to belong, to become part of something meaningful, is so prominent that you can't look at that person for too long without wanting to help, to complete the set, even for a few minutes, just to make some small difference. The dancefloor is coated in copious splatters of liquid darkness, compared to the relative brightness of the bar, but watching Lena, it's like watching a cry in the dark. Into the dark, maybe more precisely. With a request like that how can he refuse?
         "Hm, did you say something?" she asks, her voice oddly distant. Twisting, she turns back to him and if she happens to notice that Tristian is suddenly gone, it doesn't show on her face.
         ". . . I'm not sure all these people understand, it's not like years ago . . ."
         "I was just wondering if I might have this dance with you," Brown states dramatically, slipping off his stool and coming around the bar, standing perfectly straight in front of her in a posture that only the military can drill into you, and holding his hand out. "Because it would be my pleasure."
         ". . . the fear of getting caught, the recklessness of water, they cannot see me naked . . ."
         His question is only partly in jest and she sees that, sees it in his face, he thinks. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth and Brown is reminded of something he said at the beginning of the party that he can't quite remember now, something to do with Tristian. Her eyes are reflecting light, stars thrown against the backdrop, shining. There's humor there, humor and a parcel of understanding.
         "Why, I'd love to," and she reaches out and takes his hand, and he sweeps her off the stool to her feet and together they slip into the swirl, already finding the slow subtle motions, playing off each other's strengths, making the weaknesses irrelevant, if only for one song. Her touch is light, her fingers a dry whisper on his skin, but still firm. She's not letting go.
         ". . . these things they go away . . ."
         "You seem deep in thought," Brown comments, after a moment, gently finding his feet, guiding her along but he has a feeling it won't stay that way. The party seems to part to let them back in, welcoming back lost children, and then closes back around them, sealing itself. It's like diving into an ocean where the water is pure sight and sound, where the darkness is no hinderance, where light is a foreign thing that only ruins the mood, takes the illusion and unravels it into tatters.
         "I was just . . . there was something about the story that . . . that I wanted to ask Tristian about . . ." her face is turned down, musing over something. She's moving in sleepwalking motions, guiding herself by graceful instinct, not even paying the dance any heed while he struggles with the flow, trying not to fight it but for some reason to totally give himself into it.
         "Oh? And what was that?"
         She gives him a slight smile, shaking her head. Lena looks back up at him, her hand tightening around his, "Nothing important." And then she does lead and Brown feels about as graceless as a man can feel, left feet sprouting all over his body, a caveman stomping along into a primitive box step when everyone else is doing the waltz.
         ". . . replaced by every day . . ."
         Eventually he gives up, sacrificing his lead to her, only to find that she's taken it all anyway. He finds he doesn't miss it, just staring at her face he knows he made the right decision. If a face could be called radiant, it'd be now, and she's not even looking at Brown anymore, she's staring over his shoulder, over his head, sometimes right at him. But that's just where her eyes are pointing, they're not seeing anything in this room, in this dance she's finding windows to her past perhaps, in their fluid motions Lena's letting herself get carried away to a place that might not even have a time, someplace Outside where for a little while, the length of a song perhaps, she might find a kind of contentment.
          And Brown gets the feeling he's just the catalyst, a necessary coupling that makes the journey possible but it's not something he can share in, it's a deeply personal experience. But, seeing her face, feeling the assured heat of her hand, moving like they've dipped into a river and are just being carried by the flow, Brown can't say that he'd have it any other way. Seeing Lena like that, it gives him a feeling that he wouldn't trade for anything else.