Page 91 of Florescentia

Altair had gotten thirty clams, fifteen pretzels, and a dozen cobs of hot corn. All from various vendors. He picked something from every cart we’d passed.

When you could turn into a literal beast, you had to maintain a high caloric intake. I supposed pleasure wasn’t filling enough.

My street was always busy, biolamps everywhere, even on the passing carriages and mobiles. The parks were lit the most, giving the illusion of a nightlong dawn always peeking behind the skyline.

Constant light, noise, people. From up here we could see down into the homes across the street. Small shadows shifted behind their windows candidly, without knowing someone could see them, even on the second, third, or fourth floor. Some buildings varied a story or so in height, facades old and new.

“Do you ever miss it?” I asked him, eyes on the dazzling stars.

His chewing slowed, the sound of crunching clam shells a bit off putting. By now I was sure he was staring. But I was too focused on the sky to turn.

Stars weren’t usually visible around here. The smog hid them, even in the night. Once in a while, the temperature of the air made the fog hang low, and from the roof you could catch glimpses of the far-off light.

“Some things, yes,” he answered, “but it’s only a short adjustment.”

“Does it get boring being some omnipresent beast?” I half joked.

“Absolutely,” he said with such certainty. “Do not take it as an insult when I say this—but I’ve always wanted to be insignificant.”

I stared at him, but now he was looking up. The wind blew his hair back; his body was the most relaxed it had been since meeting him. The inky tattoos glistened, even under such dim light.

“Only something small can have moments like these. They’re so fast, so few. Before you know it, lives have passed, seasons have shifted, and nobody remembers you. There’s no pressure when you’re just a small piece of a larger system.”

“Is that what we are, fleeting?” I rested my chin in my palm.

His eyes shifted to me, then his face fully turned. “Everything is.”

“You said before”—I looked away—“that you changed your mind.”

“I don’t recall.”

“About your goal for coming here.” I skirted around his exact words. “Don’t take them back now. Was that a lie?”

“No,” he admitted. “I was being truthful.”

“You almost denied it just now.” I pointed his way.

He sighed, looking away. “I know you think of me as some beast.” He crossed his arms over his knees, staring at the few stragglers walking below. “But I am capable of being vulnerable, just like you. It doesn’t mean you can demand it of me.”

A pang hit my chest. I almost felt bad for asking. I moved closer to him, the tips of my fingers brushing through his hair and around his ear. “Do you feel vulnerable now?”

He shot me a glare, shaking off my hand.

“Are you insecure about something,” I teased, “after all of that?”

“More now than in any other form,” he said. “I understand sensations less than I do when I don’t have to be in a specific shape.”

“Did it feel good”—I touched his arm, leaning in by his ear—“to be yourself?”

He shuddered, a deep sigh.

Then I realized he might have been suffering from something entirely human—embarrassment.

“Are you getting shy?” I pinched his shoulder.

He buried his face in his hands. “No more talking.”

“Altair!” I gasped, shaking him. “Are you regretting me?”