knock next time.

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Tue 11:32PM EST
11:25 p.m.

The living room is bathed in the blue glow of the television. On screen, the local new personalities are exchanging the engaging banter that serves to "humanize" the news, that soaks up time they could spend on stories. Before the thirty-five minute program is up, a teaser promises, we will be treated to the heartwarming story of a mother and child reunited after losing track of each other in a train station. They like to end the news on an upbeat, because focus groups are concerned that the news is too dark. That the news is dark because the world is dark, because the world may well be dying, does not seem to matter.

At this hour, Éva is curled on the couch with a blanket through over her legs. The wide windows are all flung open to the cool night air, though she will close and lock them before she sleeps. And she will sleep soon, for she has court in the morning, 9:30 sharp, and must be well rested.

On the coffee table, a single glass of red wine. Open on her knees, a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, pretty spring flowers, fabulous dishes made with baby leeks and baby carrots, all the "new baby vegetables of spring!" the cover promises. This too is a smokescreen, another veil we cast over the world and one she prefers to the "upbeat" news segment as being pure in its fantasy rather than misleading. No pretensions to "news," here.


Santiago

Tue 11:35PM EST
One moment not there, the next moment there. The air shimmers and the gauntlet rips briefly. He can see the millions of spiderwebs breaking free to let him through. All she sees is him appearing.

"Did the police give you any trouble?"


Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Tue 11:38PM EST
"Why?" It is not something she can fathom, the way he appears and disappears. She does not like the idea of another world superimposed over her own, to which she is denied such easy access. "Are you bringing me another body to enjoy?" Dryly, dry as her wine.

A moment passes. The television news drones on, softly. "No," she concedes then. "Not much. They never made the connection. They thought it was a burglar or some other trespasser."


Santiago

Tue 11:40PM EST
A moment during which his eyes, solemn and severe and black, burn steadily on her. When she answers, then, the light in them seems to relax. He nods. A glance over his shoulder at the television; back to her again.

"I would have knocked ,but I thought it'd be better if no one saw me returning to your place. At least, not so soon." A gesture to her wine, soundless and flawless. "May I?"


Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Tue 11:44PM EST
She does not return his stare. Never look them in the eyes, this was the lesson of her childhood and her young adulthood, and this is one lesson she follows without fail. Never look them in the eyes. Still, her eyes are upon his face, as close to a direct stare back as she will come.

"That's likely wise," she concedes, without particular inflection. Closing the magazine on her lap, she follows his gesture toward her glass of wine with her eyes. Politeness would require her to offer him a glass of his own. "Of course. Be my guest."


Santiago

Tue 11:49PM EST
Politeness would require her to offer him a seat as well, but the circumstances of their meeting preclude such things. He remains standing. He does not seem to mind. Straight, he carries himself, though not with a stiff, military bearing. His spine arches back, his shoulders are back, chin high; he stands like a dancer or a toreador - those who dance the death-dance with the bulls.

And bends, smoothly, to lift the bottle and not the glass. "Thank you," he replies, courtesy that can't quite be called false, but is certainly far from conventional. A sip. A careful wipe of the wine from his lip, though he doesn't bother to disguise it as another gesture. The bottle of wine is set down with a clack, glass on wood or glass on glass.

A brief silence.
"I'll be on my way, then."


Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Tue 11:56PM EST
"You're welcome." Courtesy in return, though courtesy of a more convention sort. It's a call and response, in polite conversation. Thank you. You're welcome. One fits into the other like puzzle pieces, or blocks of legos.

She studies him as he lifts the bottle, and as he drinks, and studies him when he is finished, as he is quiet. Perhaps she is used to such visits, now. Or perhaps there have been others like this, before. Do this. Find him. Change this. See that he is released, come morning. Nonetheless, this is among the strangest of such visits and beneath her reserve she is surprised. Some echo of it sketches her brows upward. Otherwise, she remains expressionless, dark eyes still, mouth a cool straight line. "Good night."


Santiago

Wed 12:00AM EST
His gaze is level, steady, dark, unruffled. It holds for a moment and then the goatee moves as he - distantly - smiles. "I will knock next time," he says. It sounds like a promise. Then again, everything he says sounds like a promise; he does not seem the type of man (werewolf) who would say what he does not mean. "Good night, kinwoman."

He leaves the same way he came, vanishing across the curtain between the worlds.


Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Wed 12:17AM EST
The smile, no matter how distant, draws her dark brows up another notch, wrinkling her forehead, carving a meager line between her eyes.

"Thank you," mouthed, demured between his promise and his farewell, not so much half-voiced as unvoiced.

Then her living room is empty. The news is over, and David Letterman is guffawing over his latest top ten list. She can see the details of show host's appearance, the space between his teeth, the color of his tie, where before he was only an empty suit, for a man stood there between the coffee table and the television set, obscuring her line of vision. She blinks at the empty air, then fumbles for the remote. Silence falls over the living room.

The curtains drift and sway in the breeze. Somehow, it seems colder, and the darkness without more menacing. Gone is the comfort of the cool spring night, where day lingers with the remnant heat of the sun. This is how easily winter returns.

The magazine with its homey headlines is cool and slick between her hands. Its illusions - she willingly grants that such scenes and stories (The Perfect Spring Patio!) are illusions - seem less benign indulgences than sinister masks, and she flings the thick volume away across the couch in distaste.

In the darkness, she drains the last of her wine and moves to pour herself another glass, but thinks better of it as her hand wraps around the bottle's neck. Instead, she lifts the bottle to her mouth and stares out at the dark spring night. Some time later - five minutes, ten, no more than fifteen - she rises to shut the windows, and lock them, to pull the blinds down tight, to turn off all the lights but one that she will leave burning, burning, the whole night through.