Small, a white-hot spark no bigger than a match flame. But it was his.
He was smart. Funny. Kind. He was good at his job. He had value that had nothing to do with the size of his dinner or the cut of his trousers.
He looked up. The words gathered on his tongue. His lips parted.
She was already trodding along. A colleague at her gallery. A woman with no discipline. A valuable piece, damaged. Her voice filled the silence and his words had nowhere to land.
The spark guttered. Drowned.
He had learned this years ago. Had learned it and learned it and learned it, and still, somehow, forgot. Still the spark appeared, and still it died.
The anger curdled. Turned inward. Fermented into its older, more familiar sibling.
Shame.
It seeped into the hollow places the anger had briefly warmed. Coated his throat, heavy and sour.
She's right, she's always right, look at you, look at your plate, look at the way you take up space in the world.
Adriel spent the rest of the meal in silence.
He moved food around his plate. The steak cooled. The vegetables greased over. His mother talked. He watched theclock above the bar. Watched the minutes bleed away, one by one.
When a reasonable amount of time had passed, he glanced at his watch. Feigned surprise. "I should probably get going. Early start tomorrow."
His mother looked up from her plate, picked clean. Something flickered across her face and smoothed away instantly. "Of course, darling. You work so hard." She signaled for the check. "You need your rest."
They stood. Her perfume enveloped him again as she leaned in and pressed another kiss to his cheek. Her lips were cool.
"Take care of yourself." She pulled back to look at him, her eyes holding that earnest, concerned gleam. "I just want what's best for you."
The words were a blanket. They smothered any residual ember of rebellion.
How could he be upset with someone whose only crime was caring too much? How could he be angry at love?
He nodded. His throat was too tight to speak.
"I know." The whisper scraped out of him.
Then he was moving. Away from the table, through the hushed restaurant, past the other diners, their eyes on his back, or maybe not. Maybe no one was looking. Maybe the weight he felt was only his own, carried alone.
He didn't know. He couldn't tell anymore.
The hostess said something.Have a wonderful evening.He nodded. Pushed through the door.
The night air hit him like a slap. A crisp autumn chill that felt sharper than the weather warranted, more personal. He pulled his jacket closed. It didn't help.
He turned away from the bus stop and walked. Head down. Shoulders hunched. His footsteps fell on the pavement in a steady, punishing rhythm.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
With every step, her words circled back.
Picking at the brief confidence he'd felt in the office; that small, fragile candle cupped against the wind. It seemed like a dream now, fading fast.
∞∞∞
Inside, the apartment was dark. Still.
