Hecate

By Jace King

Smoking in the rain always struck a poetic chord in him. Despite the risk of catching colds or sneezing fits, he never failed to light up a cigarette outside when the rain begins to pour " always outside, never under a roof " and so it comes as no surprise this moment is no different. Shivering from the sudden downpour, he mechanically lights a Pall Mall, and stumbles out to enjoy the gray, misty horizon. The smoke of burning tobacco mixes in the quite-cold air with the fog of his exhalations, intertwining, until he cannot tell if his cigarette is really lit, or if he is as a child pretending to smoke his uncle's cigarettes. Pausing only to exhale smoke and exhale oxygen, he digs into his coat pocket, fishes out a quarter-full flask of his drink of choice " straight vodka"and takes another swig. The stench of burning vodka fumes out his nostrils, the taste in his mouth a strange orgy of vomit and alcohol and smoke.

I love smoking in the rain, he thinks to himself, as his blood-shot eyes soak in the blurry, murky line of skyscrapers in the city. Rain pours angrily as Helios weeps, the mist fuming, obscuring clear vision. A car trudges down the street cautiously, twin beacons shining the way, careful not to run into any pedestrians or cars. The driver is probably drunk as well. Losing interest in the car he fixes his eyes on his flask, and resumes celebrating his birthday with libations, a lonely birthday to be sure, but with the fiery liquor warming up his stomach, companions surround him on every side. The cigarette is dying from neglect, the wind smoking it.

He sees her. As he drinks his vodka, his black pupils focus, and he sees her. She is across the street, arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the wall, the hazy outline of her figure illuminated by the pub's lantern. Silent, unmoving, her body is like a lifeless mannequin, perched against the side of the red-brick building; only the howling wind breathes life into the statue, blowing all smoothness out from her black hair. He walks a little closer to get a better glimpse, his eyes glinting in the night like twin orbs of obsidian.

"Are you okay?" he says, calling into the night.

Silence. Her brown eyes look withered and weathered from the trials and hardships of previous autumns. She stares back at him without a word, analyzing the outline of his body as he is doing to her's. The sound of weary exhaling; she, too, is smoking the rain. The raindrops, unrelenting, beat down on the pair, their coats soaked and drenched.

Like the moment of triumph which comes when the right key opens the right lock, the two trip over an identical stump of revelation at the same time, for her brown eyes widen in horror, and her suspicious glare intensifies. She huffs, and turns her face away from his, jaws and fists clenched. Now he was sure of it; it had to be her. He smiles a knowing smile, his dark eyes never ceasing its analysis of her body and face, memorizing it, mapping it, drinking it all in. It has been years since he's last seen her, of that he is certain. From the looks of it, she hadn't forgotten the circumstances surrounding their separation. She sucks the last of her cigarette then throws it onto the wet street. Her lips tremble.

He reaches into his coat then lights another cigarette. Tonight is indeed a poetic night to enjoy a cigarette in this falling rain. While he puffs his cigarette, her curiosity overcomes her hostility, and she looks over again as if to confirm his identity. Her eyes catch his.

Mahogany meets Onyx.

Her pupils lock onto his, smoldering like she is trying to burn his corneas. He scratches his neck in a robotic manner, turning his face to avoid her hypnotic gaze. From the corner of his eye, however, he sees she is still staring at his face.

You haven't changed, Tessa, he thinks, haven't changed much at all. He puffs his cigarette, wondering in quiet how Providence brought him face-to-face with the face he tried to forget for years. I was young then, forgive me. He couldn't bring himself to glance back at her again, for he hadn't the courage to match her stare. So he pulls out long-suppressed memories from his bank of remembered things, and in there, he noted with some dismay, she was featured prominently, like an actress headlining the latest comedy movie. Her laughter which was once music to his ears, her genuine smile, her gorgon-like glares, her lies, her screaming tears, these memories remove their shackles from internal suppression and oppression and roughly intrude into the sanctity of his mind. He inhales his cigarette, which the wind is threatening to steal once more. His mind unable to focus on anything else at the moment, he begins offering her ramblings from his head, half-intended as apologies and half-intended as explanations.

I was young then, forgive me.

"So what?"

I don't know. I was young. Forgive me.

"No."

He laughs out loud, amused by the absurdity of it all. Like a 16-year old kid rehearsing lines for that first phone call he is composing fictional conversations with women in his head. She is not amused by his laughter, perhaps thinking it an attempt to mock a somber quasi-reunion. She clucks her tongue in annoyance, and spits on the ground. He glances at her direction once more, and catches her eyes.

Onyx meets Mahogany.

Her eyelids squint now in unconcealed hostility and belligerence. Her lips twist together into a candid snarl. This time, he does not retreat from her gaze. She looked different now. In another lifetime, when he knew her, she smiled more often. Energetic, hyper, with a dash of insecurity, Tessa had once been shining. There was a conversation they had, years ago, where out of the blue she asked him, " Hey... do I talk funny? I think I talk slow." All he could do was laugh in reply.

Now is a different epoch. She looks haggard and drained of blood, languishing, the lines of her face taut and depressed. He didn't fancy seeing her in this state. Admittedly, though, the fact her hatred is unambiguously directed towards him plays a small part in his holding this sentiment.

Why, he thinks, do you look like this now? Look at us now. You look so miserable and wretched now, and me, well I'm drinking every chance I get. But it wasn't always like this. There was a time, Tessie, when you were happy, and I was happy, and we were happy together. But it is different now.

As if she heard his thoughts via mental telepathy, she gasps at him, her hard-teak eyes softening for the first time he's seen for years. Her expression changes. She stares at him again, but this time it is not angry. A mournful, forlorn light gleams from her eyes, replacing the previous eyes of evil. She walks towards him. He eyes her cautiously. She raises her hand and points at him from across the street.

"Hey!"" she shouts. Panicking, He turns around, and walks. She stops like he punched her in the stomach, covering her mouth with her hands. She stays still, frozen into place, in the pub across the street. He flicks his cigarette out into the street, and starts walking. He only takes five steps, before he pauses. Frowning, he turns his face towards her direction. She is still there, staring at him, her eyes locking onto his.

Mahogany meets Onyx.

He turns, and runs.

The End