Plucking a stray golden maple leaf from the stone balcony’s cracked banister, I gave it a twirl before sending it floating over the ledge.
Though he still didn’t speak, he did move, lifting his head just a bit.
My curiosity exploded, and I craned my neck to gaze into that hood, which framed only blackness.
“Goodness,” I said, eyes bugging as I took yet another swig from my wine. “You’ve really gone all out.” I gestured to his lost-to-the-shadows face. “H-how are you doing that?” No sooner had I voiced the question than I held up a halting hand. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Honestly, I’m starting to think your way is more fun. Because, no lie, I’m kind of scared right now.”
And I was—a little.
“That’s what the unknown does to us, right?” I prodded. “That’s why you, the Grim Reaper, are so scary. You represent death. The greatest unknown there is. Really, though—and correct me if I’m wrong—I think you’re a little misunderstood.”
More silence from my menacing cohort, and suddenly I found myself trying to picture what dwelled beyond that solid wall of blackness that lurked within that hood.
Was he cute? He could be.
And was I flirting with him? I could be…
Normally, I flailed in that arena.
Something about his silence made being myself easier, though. Because it didn’t matter that he wasn’t laughing at my jokes, or that he hadn’t said anything about my costume. If he was the Grim Reaper, why would he? He wouldn’t. Because he was just being himself, too.
“Again,” I went on, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think the Grim Reaperisdeath. I think you just… collect the souls of the dead and kinda… scoot-aloo them along to whatever’s next. You’re like a modern Charon. You know who that is, right?” I scoffed and shook my head, embarrassed. “Of course, what am I saying?Youknow your roots. That guy’s probably your great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle or something. But what I mean is, you’re like the ferryman. You just transport souls. It’s not like you use the scythe to kill people. You just shave souls off dead husks. Thankless job but somebody’s got to do it, right?”
Another nervous laugh escaped me because, now that I thought about it, hecouldbe a serial killer. Though he didn’t give off the slasher vibe—not that I necessarily had a barometer for detecting murderous intent. But if he was here to hunt for his next victim, why would he be out on the balcony alone?
Then again, I hadn’t seen him inside. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed him, but with his height, that scythe, and his literally misting robes, hedidstand out.
“Anyway,” I said, “that’s what I think. I think that the archetype you represent is… well, unfairly judged. Take the Middle Ages for example.” I waved my wine at the moon and the sky, with its slow-moving, tattered-lace clouds. “Death was so rife—indiscriminate, too. Kings and vagabonds alike bit the dust, but that doesn’t mean you were the one who brought the plague upon them. The rats did that. You were, and are, just… well, I guess you’re just the messenger,aren’t you? Though, at the same time, you’re a little more than that. Or a lot more, I guess. Am I making sense?”
Squinting, my head light and swimming from the wine, I spun to put my back against the banister.
Clasping my almost-empty cup between both hands, I peered down into the sip that remained and waited again for the answer I knew wouldn’t come.
“There’s probably an art to it,” I said. “What you do, I mean. Which is true of anything that requires skill, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, in your case, I can’t imagine the responsibility. The workload. The pressure. There’s likely little room for error, too. Not at all like my job, which is messy and chaotic—but in a good way. Thebestway.Bythe way, did you know they recently changed the alphabet song so thatLMNOPno longer runs together all willy-nilly? There’s now a pause right beforeO, if you can believe it. It’s been an adjustment, I’ll say that.”
Silence, silence, silence.
I sucked in a breath, and clutching the cup even tighter, I peeked up at him and blurted my next question. “Are you here alone?” My nerves twisted tighter, spitting sparks. “Technically, I’m not but, I mean, I also kind of am. He, my date, wouldn’t miss me, I mean.Isn’tmissing me. I know you don’t know me, but if… if you wanted to get out of here and, I dunno, catch a midnight movie or hit up Wendy’s for a pretzel burger, I’d totally be, um, game?”
He turned toward me, and my face, already heated from the alcohol I wasn’t used to, caught fire.
“You’re married,” I guessed. “Aren’t you? Everyone’s married these days. I mean,I’mnot. Mom says that, at twenty-nine, I should be—but dating hasn’t been going too well. But… we’re not going to talk about Mom, the careening approach of my thirties,orthe emotionally unavailable werewolf I came here with.Orgetting married because, on the off chance that you’re not already, where would we find an officiate at this time of night anyway?”
I laughed but then stopped myself and shut my eyes. I gritted myteeth and, frowning, commanded myself to unweird this monologue—stat.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to come out here and pester you like this. Sidenote, now that I think about it,isthere such a thing as an emotionally available werewolf? Probably not. So, again,LMNOP, joke’s on me.”
Another nervous laugh bubbled out of me, but it died off in the continued and unending silence.
“Listen,” I said next, “I’m going to get out of your hair, er, I mean your skull now and head back in. I reallydolike your costume, and I hope you have a nice night.”
Why did it never fail? Always in these situations—situations with guys—I did something to make a fool of myself. I said too much. I did too much. Iwastoo much.
I drained my wine and, tears already pricking at my eyes, I moved to push off from the banister, mortified.
Before I could get my footing, the stone railing supporting my spine cracked and jolted backward, crumbling. I dropped my plastic cup, which bounced away with quiet taps.
Eyes wide, I toppled with a shriek, following after the chunks that broke free, blond curls rushing ahead of me, screening my view of the hooded man who, instinctively, I reached for.
