「 Reunion 」

That man, he stared up at the kitchen ceiling, gaze bouncing between the many light fixtures that illuminated the space. It was that modern minimalistic sort of thing, white cylinders wrapped yet unclosed around a bright florescent bulb—the type that'd give you a terrible headache, I don't know how he help the pose for so long. It must have been the wine.

"I still can't believe you got this gig," he spoke, his words chased by a sip of poison from one of the cute glasses we'd searched the cupboard for. They told us to make ourselves at home and use whatever we need, but I brought my own wine, nonetheless.

"Never thought I'd get paid to live in someone's house while they're off snow-birding," I couldn't' help a quick laugh, "All I pay is utilities, otherwise the place is mine for the winter."

"You get to live like a king, pay no rent, and what do you have to do exactly?""

"Take care of the cat, obviously. It's a full-time job."

I missed this, a light-hearted banter with a spice of liquor to boot. He'd always been good company, a feast for the eyes and soul all the same—even if his so-called comedy scraped the bottom of the barrel just to hear his own voice, it was somehow insightful still.

"As if that's much of a job at all! You're getting paid to live, that's how it should be."

As he topped himself off from the Riesling in the fridge—it's a childish one, but I knew he liked it sweet, I didn't want to disappoint—I stood against the wall, fiddling with where my pinky finger should sit. The glass in my hand, thick, with little bubbles in the material. It was a cute thing, gave a visual illusion of carbonation, almost. Should it rest on the bottom, or on the side? Should the glass rest in the cradle created by the position of my fingers, or rather clung onto by my ceaseless, worried grip?

My glass was filled another drink and I hardly noticed, that man I'd brought with me for the night making use of my absentmindedness to hand-feed me another dose of that social antidote.

"Thanks—" it was a dubious act in the back of my mind, but I'd forged a trust with him that let that wordless-discrepancy slip. I know he wouldn't taint something so perfect. "Should we sit down somewhere? I'm not worried about stains, given I'd picked a white." I was lanky enough to find pain from an excess of standing—not even leaning relieved everything that ailed me. Gravity is a curse.

"Yeah sure—does the master have a library?" facetious as always, he teased.

But there was a truth to it, "They've got a study?"

"Seriously?" his often-glazed eyes lit up, "A study? In this day and age?"

"Yeah, some kind of fancy romantics, they've got letter wax too."

A blend of amusement and shock contorted and played his expression—a ghost of a smile trying to break through the process of constructive thought and analysis. It was exciting, I couldn't blame him, and quite admired being able to see that process reflect through honest skin. For I, despite the grandness of my process in life, lay deadpan each night unable to realize the passage of things—he, on the other hand? He's a book open to everyone willing to read.

We went on to that study, a place with as much ego as a not-quite-library should have, somewhere between a sitting room and the sort. Sofas, chairs tabled stained with coffee mug rings—it was a well-used room, but not an often-used one. These folks didn't seem to have a study for the love of reading and the indulgence in text, but rather the namesake of keeping a study. We snuggled into a sofa adorned with an excessive hoard of uncomfortably stiff throw pillows, many of them displaced onto the floor as soon as we settled. Throw blankets, on the other hand, fully embraced—the large knit type, comfortable and warm. Though that warmth I'd been swallowed by, may have been more so a product of human contact, and the heat of a good drink. I'd missed it.

Inhibitions were something long done away with by the first few doses, though his experiences were far difference. I could see it behind his eyes, the drowsiness—I should have known, the skinny thing.

"Is everything else going alright? The job, the..." he gestured broadly with his stemless glass, as if the answers were right before him, "Was it med school? Still doing medicine?"

It wasn't the conversation I wanted to have.

"I've put too much money into it to stop now."

"What's that mean for you? Sunk cost fallacy?"

"Sunk cost?"

"Oh, you know." Once again, he gestured, "The whole, 'oh I've already spent this much time or money, I may as well see it through,' type of thing, that leaves you disappointed and unsatisfied."

"Like uh...Game of Thrones?" I clarified.

"Don't call me out like that."

I laughed. I'd never watched it, but time and time again I'd heard the complaints from all too dedicated fans. This man beside me, he was no exception.

"I'll probably make good use of the degree, it's too late now," I chose to respond seriously, "But if I can just get a good housesitting schedule going on, then I might just be able to, well, do this."

"It's a nice gig..." he drifted, starting into his glass, half full. Sure, he tends to get lost in wine and drink himself down too quickly, but this seemed quicker than usual.

I watched in concern for a stale moment in time, as he just watched the liquid, before nestling the glass between his thighs—a throw blanket covered them, one wrong move and it'd be flung across the room.

"You good?" just to be sure.

"Yeah, yeah, just tired."

He was.

After a time, with conversation dwindling down further still—he couldn't even manage to finish off his poor, the drowsiness swamping him. I'll admit, in the warm and lowly lit room, even I was more susceptible to the sleepiness than usual.

He knocked out after not long, and as soon as I was sure it was more than just a cat nap, I made him as comfortable as I could there. Burrito-ed into the sofa in a tortilla of cotton, the glass of his in my possession then. I'd missed this. I'd missed this desperately, the sight of him at peace with himself, and not at odds with the world. But there's no excuse in letting a perfectly good glass of wine go to waste. Making use of it as a sleep aid myself, I found another seat to press myself into, and put it away sip by sip. He would have made for a much prettier picture than I, but life isn't so satisfying.

「 © Kao Narvna, all rights reserved. 」