Strangers in the Night
Darwin Delantri
"This one goes out to the one I love."

She took her morning coffee black and hard.

That was always a trend I saw. Among all of the assertive women I met in the course of my life every one of them drank the same coffee when they got up. Miss Noin, Miss Po, Miss Schbeiker, they all demanded plain coffee, and if I brought them decaf by accident I could only hope that they had opted to leave their guns on the bedside table.

Obviously, there are certain things you can learn by being the errand runner.

I bring this up for one reason; this was the one and only way she reminded me of absolutely anything or anyone. In all other respects she was her own person and she was unique enough to get a place in the universe by simply existing. Her manner was separate from any of my sisters, and only when I talk about how she drank her morning coffee can I ever finish my dreamily trailing of with "just like Miss Noin . . ." or, "just like Miss Po . . ."

In fact, I think I should indulge myself before I take the plunge into the annals of memory.

She took her morning coffee black and hard, just like Miss Noin . . .

I’m not totally sure what I was doing back then. I’d forgotten whether I had been brought up into business or politics, and so much of my training and education had faded after taking such a vital role in both a bloody war and a bloodless one.

Looking back from the precipice where I stand now, all I can say for certain is that I was in the politics of business.

No, not the other way around. That’s something different in ever way. Back then—

Back then. I can’t believe I just said that.

It can’t be fair to consider what happened in these scarce last weeks cause to separate the person I was before and the person she made me into. I’m not sure how different I’ve become, either. In the days she altered my life, I was paying more attention to her than I was to anything ever. I wasn’t thinking about myself in the slightest, so self-inspection wasn’t high on my priorities. I’m not sure if I can be totally trusted.

"Back then." I was someone different before she came along, so I think it’ll be alright to say "Back then".

It was the hottest day in August Heat was pouring off the asphalt in inverted waterfalls. The air stunk like melting shoe rubber and disregarded deodorant commercials. Elevators felt like kilns. Doorknobs were like hot iron brands and it helped to use the fabric of your shirt to hold one so that it wouldn’t feel like your flesh was being grafted to its metal. That sort of end-of-the-world heat wave that always gets saved for August.

My secretary took her lips off her water bottle just long enough to rattle off my appointments for the day in rapid-fire fashion as I walked in that morning. She tended to blast me with that string of gibberish every single morning. Not once did I ever hear the whole schedule without mishearing something. I had been meaning to fire her as lightly as possible for a long time. I worked up the courage to break it to her one day. She chose that day to tell me that she had finally gotten pregnant but she was devoted enough to work right up to the last for me. So I had long since accepted that for some reason I wasn’t supposed to hear my appointments in the morning, so I just gave up and let each day beat me down with surprise after surprise. Being exhausted by a pounding daily regime made it much easier to get to sleep at night.

Personally, I couldn’t afford that let the heat get to me either. I had an image to maintain. Being a Winner carried with it a certain dreary destiny that I was supposed to uphold, almost like a condition on a birthright. On top of that, it wasn’t very easy holding my place in the politics of business being so young, Winner or not. I had no choice but to comply. I had to be unflappable.

All that meant that there were a few rules to follow and each of them were quite negative. No fanning myself with opera programs. No dressing down or bowing to the weather, despite heat waves or cold snaps. No frosty drinks in hand unless it would be fashionable. Most of all, no sweating. I liked being alone on those August days, but only because it was the only way to keep from baking in my own frozen dignity.

One detail I’d picked out from my secretary’s motormouthed notice was that my first appointment wasn’t for a good twenty minutes. Twenty minutes left me more than enough time to discard some of my extraneous clothes and get a few rare chances to breathe. I peeling off the outermost layer of my business suit, got to know the space in front of my air conditioner and virtually inhaled ice water.

So she liked to be a few minutes early. A mere coincidence.

Sylvia always explained it later by saying, "It gives you a few minutes together to get to know one another beforehand and get all the embarrassment and awkward moments out of the way while everything is still off the record."

Phenomenally stupid, but at that moment it was the more perfect philosophy in the world. I never admitted that to her, of course.

I can’t help but wonder if she could easily recognize me in my state, but I knew her from the second she poked her head through my half-opened door. Her eyes were still too big, and her hair was the colour of sunlight.

Little Sylvia Noventa, daughter of the Alliance whose camera-perfect face and innocent eyes were occasionally credited with a part in her grandfather’s rise to power. Her charm and slick wit, even at the young age it which she had been exposed to the media, had been adored in front of the press and photographers. She was the Alliance’s biggest popularity stunt.

She wasn’t any worse for wear, though. Quite the opposite to be exact. Quite possibly the youngest person to earn a place in the tabloids by doing something other than be fathered by an alien or get murdered in a most brutal fashion, she was drawn to attention and flashbulbs like a summer moth. She remained good-natured on camera and off.

Or so I’d heard. This was the first time I’d had the opportunity to meet her face to face.

My ten-o’clock, almost twenty minutes early, only cracked a sweet smile at the sight of my lapse of protocol. I think I was an bashful as a priest in a gay bar, but Sylvia was completely unperturbed.

"It’s good to meet you in person at long last, Quatre." She slid through the door quickly enough that my secretary wouldn’t be able to see me. I fumbled in my mind to decide whether I should try to get back in full dress or just improvise.

"You have Causal Fridays here? I wish you would have told me in advance, so I wouldn’t had to have come layered." True to her word, she stripped off the pink vest she wore over her blouse and draped it over her arm. I came to make the decision that if she wouldn’t have a problem with relaxing the dress code a notch, neither should I.

"Uh . . ." I stalled and peeled myself out of the extra chair in the air conditioner’s current. I should at least be standing to greet her. "Miss Noventa! You’re early,"

She tilted her head at an angle that made her smile look all the more divine. I was dealing with a pro. "Please, its Sylvia." Checking her watch, she added with a slight ring in her voice, "For another fifteen minutes."

Sensing that my discomfort came from another source separate from the wet, if softened, heat, her lips fell. "I’m sorry. Would be prefer it if I waited until you’re ready?"

(She would tell me later on that she only asked for permission for something when she specifically wanted to get a ‘no’ answer. To this day, I can’t quite figure our why.)

"Oh no, please, it’s no imposition." I smiled back, hoping that looking pleasant would negate the insincerity in my voice.

A spring in her step, she gracefully pulled the chair away from the air conditioner and swung it in front of my desk before flipping her discarded vest onto the arm of another chair. "So, Quatre." She said, adding a bit of a click to my name. "I haven’t seen you in . . . ever."
I dropped heavily into my executive chair, loathing every inch and every contour of it. "Has it really been that long?"

"I can’t begin to describe how much more pleasant it is to make your acquaintance in person rather than through the phone lines." She said, her voice silken smooth.

"The feeling is mutual, Minis—Sylvia." I stumbled. Nobody’s perfect. I wasn’t very used to speaking causally to anyone my age, what with the demands of my name. "Although you’re a bit taller in person than you appear on the video feed."

"Oh, thank you for reminding me." She leaned forward and wrenched the high heels off her feet. I really couldn’t blame her. Even if I wanted to, I probably couldn’t. I was still getting adapted to the rules, or to be accurate, the lack thereof. "I don’t know why I didn’t take those off first."

She stood up, reflexively straightened her skirt, and said, "Does this look about alright to you? Not to short now, or too blonde?" She sounded about as honest as she could while still retaining a slight and required air of sarcasm.

I took the opportunity to look her over. Yes, she was gorgeous. Everything about her was light and pale and her body read like an unlocked diary. She hadn’t the slightest tan, so she must spend all of her time working and never get to the beach or enjoy the sunlight. She must not want to go to a tanning salon, obviously so that she wouldn’t get that atrocious sunglass-shaped ring of pale flesh around her eyes. She wanted to look genuine.

Her eyes were sky blue, of course. Poetic.

I didn’t want to look any longer than would be impeccably polite, but I did want to look. Her presence was giving me the strangest feeling. Merely being in the same room and breathing the same air and sweating to the same heat wave as she was giving me a tinge of vertigo.

"No complaints here, Sylvia." I said before she had a chance to get suspicious. "And even if I did, it’s not like there’s anything you could take off to make yourself a brunette." Man alive, I hated myself for saying that, but she didn’t let it get to her. Either that or she wasn’t as disgusted as I was at the time. Personally I couldn’t do much but clench my eyes in self-loathing.

Predictably, she didn’t waver so much as an inch. Her demeanor only seemed to acknowledge my regret and went on its merry way. "Good. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. It saves me the trouble of telling you that your eyes are a shade too blue." She sat down again gratefully.

I couldn’t tell whether she was joking lightheartedly or letting me know that she had noticed my eyes in the same way I noticed hers.

"I’m joking, Quatre."

She took the liberty of clearing that up rather quickly. Her timing was almost flawless.

"Oh, right."

"Well, shall we get to the matter that presents itself, or would you rather discuss each other’s physiques to greater detail?"

I was slightly stunned, so I didn’t come straight into her meaning, and I went to fingering on of the folders on my desk as I steeled myself for her to address me differently.

"What do you do to cope with this sweltering heat?"

Simply put, we small talked. I enjoyed it immensely, just sitting in that oven I call an office and discussing everything with no attention to detail. I don’t get many chances to be genuine with anyone at all, let alone anyone my age. To expect female company on top of that was usually hoping against hope.

For the first time in weeks, I finally felt a degree of comfort. I wasn’t considered each possible ramification of what I was committing myself to, since I wasn’t saying anything that could be taken for something other than face value. I wasn’t thinking about possible errors in translation or comprehension, because we were both on the same wavelength. I was even going against my ingrained nature and allowing hints of slang and colloquialisms into my speech. There were no judgments between us.

I was so at ease that I even let slip that I swam nude in the estate’s fountain on the hottest nights. She laughed and admitted to doing the same herself. We even shared a secret.

Fifteen minutes later, she peeled back her sleeve to check her watch and her cleared her voice. "Uh oh. We’re cutting into our time together, Mr. Winner." Just like that, she severed my connection to smiling, outgoing Sylvia and burned away into Minister Noventa. She forced me to become a slightly demure businessman again. It’s the one thing that I have the hardest time forgiving her for.

From the first moment that we had to delve back into the politics of business or the business of politics, I missed Sylvia.

Back then, Sylvia was filling the haughty post of Vice Logistics Minister. What that title boiled down to was that she was in charge of the lion’s share of trading and enforcing the disarmament treaties ratified after the second great war.

From what I had heard and from the experience I was receiving first hand, she did her job passionately. Her grandfather would have proud of her. I would have told her that myself, but it seemed so obvious that she must get it all the time.

Besides, saying something so conclusive would make it seem that I wanted our business to come to an end soon so that I could work out parting phrases. Under no circumstances could I say something to hint at anything so violently untrue; I didn’t want our time together to ever end. We would sip ice water and simply chat for the few minutes that she arrived early for, and pour over my company’s records for nonexistent discrepancies.

For those first few minutes, before ‘privilege’ and ‘office’ bound us to work and practice, I was in Elysium.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end eventually. Our work together was finished and we bid each other farewell for time being.

Don’t discount her perceptive nature, however. Sylvia must have noticed more than she let on, like how I was deliberately taking our work slowly so that I’d have another morning talking with her. She might have thought it was cute, or that it was a hint, but either way she saw it decided to leave her number with me. In case I ever wanted to get together with her again.

Deciding the perfect time to use that number was the single hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Calling her at the right time and for the right reasons singularly occupied my mind for days. My work suffered and I neglected my pastimes. I was obsessed.

Yes, all good things must come to an end eventually. The secret, of course, is to take action to make certain that the twilight of one good phase is the dawn of another better one.

The heat wave persisted into the first days of September, although the dry spell was broken for a while one damp weekend. At the insistence of my aides, I was to take a few days off to see if I could let off some pressure and find a way to set my mind back onto my responsibilities. They had no way to know why I was so distant, though, so it’s not their fault.

I let them blame my detachment on the heat, since it was the easiest thing for them to do under the circumstances. In fact, those circumstances are worth bringing up, since they played a part so vital and ironic that they seemed almost to be divine intervention.

Extreme heat breeds misery and discomfort. There are no exclusions to this rule, and the worse the heat, the worse and more frequent the reaction. The particular reaction that concerned Sylvia and I most of all, was that several groups of civil servants found a clause in their employee agreements that they were permitted to take work off if it was deemed ‘too hot to continue’. That was the exact wording, or so I’ve heard.

Postal workers declared the weather to be ‘too hot’ en masse, and mail delivery simply shut down for a few days before the government’s lawyers managed to legislate them back to the streets. Normally, the post office being down due to legal oversight wouldn’t slow down business or government a mite, since most everything is handled electronically. However, there were a few things that had to be conducted through tangible means and by human delivery, such as sheepskins, or party invitations.

The end result of all this was that the social elite, of which I was rudely included, received the invitations to the social event of the season: the Governor’s annual ball, two days before the actual party. Two days to find something shocking yet beautiful to wear, two days to have their hair and makeup and fingernails and so forth done and embellished, and two days to secure a date.

To be exact, there were only a few of the ‘social elite’ young enough or single enough to have to find a date for this ball. I, of course was one of them.

I fell into a wider demographic as well; I was one of the many people that wasn’t reminded that the event was approaching until the invite was in my mailbox. I was too busy thinking about Sylvia beforehand to consider the social schedule of the year, and I was too busy thinking about Sylvia after finding the charming slip of paper afterwards to put two and two together. Later that day I did manage to clue in as to what I should do to help myself on both fronts, so I spent the rest of the evening wondering how to go about asking her out.

In what was a true blue epiphany in the simplest sense, I came to realize the best way to do it. I found her number and I called her.

She said yes.

To tell the truth, I don’t know exactly how I was expecting her to respond. I wasn’t totally sure if she had already had somebody to go with, wasn’t going at all, or was even expecting me to call. For the way she greeted me, the latter would be the safest guess. Trying to hide my intense relief, I told her I’d come by at eight to pick her up.

That was an interesting evening, after I called her. My feet must have been floating a full inch off the ground as I danced to whatever music I could flick on as I led a one-man crusade through the estate to spread my joy and ecstasy across my little parcel of the world. I could hear snide remarks that I had discovered narcotics in my wake, but I was no mood to rebuke them. I can’t hold them in contempt for thinking like that. I felt high, and I wanted to act like it too.

It took some time, but I eventually ran the initial ‘We have a date!’ excitement into the ground and the subsequent ‘We have a date!’ paranoia took its place. I sequestered myself in my bathroom with whatever hygiene products I could manage to seize and determined that I was going to make myself into an idol of perfection no matter how long it took.

It took a long time. I admit it, I got carried away and became needlessly scrupulous about what stared at me from the other side of my mirror, but it still worked. I managed to satisfy myself that no hair was out of place, that every crease in my tuxedo was flawless, and that my shoes had just the perfect shine on them.

I also managed to convince myself of two facts. The first was that I was not actually being so demanding of my appearance was not for Sylvia, it was for the press. This sort of thing was a foghorn for social pages and more illicit reporters, so even a lowly young businessman such as myself would become a camera target. I would argue that I could aid the company’s success with a few good appearances so that I could take another run at my hair.

The second fact was that despite all my boundless attention to the details surrounding me and the condition of my clothing, something had fallen tragically out of place on the drive over.

Both of these feelings dissolved the moment I saw her again. She had worn a pure sky blue dress, the same colour of her eyes, with her hair up. Undeniably formal, yet still as comforting as the woman I had met before, tearing the heels off her feet.

Excepting the comfort of seeing her again and the too enthusiastic way I greeted and complimented her that it led to, our time in transit was relatively silent. We sat separated in the back of my limousine, illuminated periodically by the gentle streetlights. We both preserved the silence around us by trying to distract ourselves. Sylvia seemed intensely interested by the upholstery, while I spent my time trying to place her perfume. I flickered my eyes around, looking at nothing in particular for long periods of time, just so that I wouldn’t be staring at whatever oxygen atoms happened to be dancing in front of my eyes, which would probably come off as very odd. She won’t have noticed even if I was staring at her cleavage. The last place we looked was each other’s eyes during that trip.

I wish I knew what excuse we had to be so chummy during our causal time before meetings, yet allow things to become irreversibly awkward when the situation changed ever so slightly. Nervousness? I had never felt nervous around her before, I didn’t regret calling her while I went totally neurotic about my appearance, and least of all, I hadn’t been apprehensive in the smallest sense to see her again. Whatever detail it was that kept our lips sealed, nervousness was not a candidate.

It took me some time to figure out that her perfume smelled like cherries. Either I was taking my time to distract myself for more of the voyage, or she was only wearing a dash of it so that it would be easily overpowered by the fragrances of the more fashion-conscious socialites. More than likely, it was a combination of the two.

One abnormality of the trip was that I was paying higher attention to details than usual. I thought that this was due to the absolute vacuum of conversation, but this fascination went on through the night. For example, I still recall exactly how the ballroom smelled. As I expected, there was the potent mixture of dozens of different designer scents pitted against each other to draw the most notice and make the biggest entrance, but the smell of hair also figured predominately in the air.

Although the elements that went into the scent of the room were expensive and posh, and the mixture as mundane as anything, it still smelt hot and rare. Merely breathing felt like it was costing someone a fortune. I firmly believe that if ice water hadn’t gone out of style when the heat wave broke, a cold glass would have sweat wine instead of water.

Most of the evening was rather formulaic, if still glitzy enough for the social elite. We scowled for the society photographers and politely acknowledged our hostess’ delicate accusations woven into a snide greeting at the door. Sylvia laughed off the governor’s faintly interested questions about what the two of us were exactly coming as, friends or lovers. Sylvia made a point of neither confirming nor denying. I tried to follow suit.

The almost storybook schedule of the evening proceeded inevitably, we were seated together where virtually the entire room could see us. As far as I can gather it, the dried up, decadent upper classes were just waiting for the son of the colonies and the daughter of the Alliance to bump into one another. I couldn’t help but feel like the two of us were on the spotlight, almost a game to the socialites.

Soon after the initial discomfort of having flickering eyes all around, we were propositioned for our choice of meals. I ordered the steak, and Sylvia asked for the lobster.

That was when I started to sweat. It seems silly to me now, but I was worried that something so minor could actually drive a wedge between us for the evening, not because that’s how I thought, because I didn’t, but because I didn’t want Sylvia to think that way. I can still recall – as embarrassing as it is to recount – that I didn’t want to her to think that because I would have red wine and she would drink white, the taste of our lips might be incompatible.

You’d think that after all this time I’d have learned to stop blushing when I thought about that.

Whatever pangs of guilt came out of that had dissolved after long. She was still smiling.

What else can I say about the evening that’s not storybook to the core? We dined, danced, toasted the speakers whenever we had to, scowled again for the society pages on the way back out, and as we joked about what had happened during the more affluent and egotistical socialite’s speeches . . . and as one might say tactfully, ‘entered a new phase of our relationship’.

To be more frontal about it, she spent the night. Sorry, but I balk at giving details. I’m just not the type. Yes, she was incredible. Beautiful, breathtaking, I could list adjectives all day and never get anywhere.

I woke up the next morning with my head still in a rush. I was alone in bed, but I knew Sylvia hadn’t left. The bittersweet aroma of coffee was drifting on the morning sun, mingling with the subtle damp tones from shower steam that lingered in the air.

Throwing off the sheets, I did what I immediately could to make myself decent and stumbled from my bedroom in search of the source of the delicate fumes, found my remarkably uncertain way into the kitchen door, and impaled myself on Sylvia’s gaze. She was sitting at a pristine little table was a steaming cup unnoticed in front of her. The morning light danced through the open windows that lines the east wall and enshrined her where she sat.

Her eyes were locked on the door, waiting patiently for me to walk through and spring the snare. She wasted no time just staring at me, and clicked each vowel when she said, "You lied to me, didn’t you Quatre?"

I wasn’t certain what she referring to, but from the first instant I froze under her stare in the doorframe, I knew that she knew something that I wished she didn’t. Well, it was morning, and I was still very groggy, so all I could put forth was my most innocent "Huh?"

"Last night, when we came back here, you told me that you hadn’t been with anybody before. That you were a virgin too." She drummed her fingers on the tabletop once. "That isn’t true at all, is it?"

This wasn’t fair at all. For the first thing, she already had her hands on her morning coffee, I didn’t. That was a crueler interrogation process than putting someone under that huge light. "I . . . said that?"

From the where he eyes almost started smoldering for when she heard my wary tone of voice Sylvia took that as an admission of guilt. My ankle was starting to itch, but I couldn’t possibly scratch it now, not with those too-big eyes taking in every move I made. "Yes, you did. And it was a lie." She did sound rather sure of herself at that point. Sylvia stood up slowly and took a sip from her mug before walking slowly towards me, the slippers she borrowed from me padding softly on the cool tiles.

By now, my leg was demanding me to satisfy it, but I ignored the burning and tried not to fidget. I began remembering, or at least trying to, and even if I did say what she claimed I did . . . "Yeah. That wouldn’t have been true."

Her eyebrows were cocked and her expression cold as she slowly closed the distance between the two of us across the bright kitchen floor. "Out of curiosity, who was it? Who was first for you?"

"Dorothy Catalonia." I answered without hesitating. "That was a long time ago, though. In retrospect, it didn’t mean anything. We were simply together and misled." I hoped nothing more than that she wouldn’t ask me anything else about Dorothy.

"Then, why didn’t you tell me the truth last night? Did you think it wouldn’t be the same? Did you think it would be less romantic if you’d have come clean?" Her expression wasn’t as hard-set, and her eyes weren’t as cold any longer.

I had to think about that answer. She stopped a few steps away from me. If we’d both reached out, our fingertips would have touched. "I don’t know why I said it. I’m sorry, if I disappointed you."

"Quatre," She breathed, almost peacefully, but not totally.

"I’m sorry, Sylvia. I really am." I gave in and bent over to scratch my treasonous leg. Feeling the fire fade away was pure clean rapture. It felt too good, I wasn’t supposed to be relieved, Sylvia was still trying to bore a hole in my forehead with her eyes. I bit my lip. "If you want me to leave, I will."

When I straightened back up, there was a confused smile on her lips. "This is your house, Quatre. Your kitchen, your house."

Somehow, hearing that managed to surprise me. I must have really needed a few more hours of sleep or something hot to drink. "Oh . . ." Was all I could manage.

Sylvia dove at me, and buried her face in my shoulder. I hugged her tightly, and she said, barely over a whisper, "I think I love you, Quatre. Don’t ever lie to me again. Please?"

"Alright. I won’t ever again, Sylvia."

"Promise me!" She demanded. Her voice was brittle, and she sounds as though she was on the edge of tears.

"You have my word. Nothing but the truth."

After I said that, she cried into my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she was sad, or happy, or both, but I just stood there with her in the doorframe and held her.

We never make it to work that day.

It wasn’t for months that I was in that kitchen. Not for any amount of time, anyway. From that point on, our days became all the more rushed. There was so much work to be done that came out of nowhere and had to be redone to death to get everything perfect. I didn’t understand why I never realized how painful my job could be before, but that was probably because I never before had a driving reason to free myself from my duties.

Now, I had Sylvia to look forward to. Usually. Her schedule was also growing more and more hectic, and the times when our openings coincided were dropping out of sight, one by one. We kept canceling dinners, writing scrawled notes to apologize for leaving before the other than woken up, and whenever possible, conveniently forgetting our prior appointments.

But for all we tried, the time we shared became increasingly sporadic. For all our efforts, we grew further and further apart. We were still devoted to each other, I have no doubt of that, but our relationship was turning into a game to match gaps in our datebooks and the odds against were going up by the minute.

I had woken up after one of our nights together. I had half expected to be alone in a warm bed despite all my plans for today, and although I was, I was still disappointed. Once I worked up the nerve to climb out of bed, I pawed the bedside table where I knew the note would be and stuffed it into my housecoat’s pocket, and went down to the kitchen to make coffee for myself. Black and regular, I had never figured out why she liked to drink that stuff.

Once the coffee brewed, I just poured it into a random mug, took to the table and sat myself down, simply staring at it. It looked absolutely vile, but it smelled divine. The gossamer fibres of steam floated out of the vicious brew, like silk from the spider or diamonds from the depths.

Time passed as I sat there, watching the coffee turn cold, whittling away the day. I had taken the day off completely to spend time with Sylvia. It hadn’t been easy, dozens of appointments had to be juggled and timetables reworked, but I wanted the time. I had everything waiting, I had gone all out. Just today, I wanted to do something regular couples do and go on a picnic to some secluded clearing in the park, or on the estate. The champagne flutes, the food, and the red and white checkered blanket were all packed away in the handled wicker basket, all fresh from whatever outlet store my secretary could scour them up.

But now, it just seemed like it wasn’t meant to be. Sylvia had promised that she had today open too. Everything else was moot.

As I carried the cooling mug to the sink, I pulled the little note out of my pocket and held it with passing interest. I dumped the drink down the drain and denied what I knew again. It wasn’t over, it couldn’t be.

I read the note.

It said, "I’m sorry, but its big today. Just turn on the news, you’ll see what I mean. Luv, Syl."

I shrugged to myself, tossed the note onto the counter, and clicked on the radio that sat unused on the shelf over the kitchen sink. It shouldn’t take long to heat another pot of water, so I shoved the spout over the faucet and flicked the tap on.

The newscaster was already in midsentence. "—of President Dorlian’s mental illness was released early last night, and the country has been in near-turmoil after news that the senate had decided that the President, who was currently in the second year of her term, was no longer fit to carry out her duties and must be impeached."

I banged the lip of the pot against the faucet. Relena hadn’t been herself lately, but I had never expected that she would have to be removed from office.

In hindsight, it was a good time. It would only be a few months before she finally snapped. Poor girl.

"After the President was honourably stripped of office this morning, the Vice Ministers have been delegating which off them will succeed President Dorlian—"

I didn’t like the sound of it at all. The teapot rattled against the faucet in my hands.

"—but preliminary opinions guess that Vice Logistics Minister Sylvia Noventa will replace President Dorlian. However,"

The radio debated with itself, changing voices periodically, for a time afterwards. I didn’t hear it. I didn’t hear the coffeepot overflowing into the sink, either. Everything was silent and dead as far as I could know, even between my ears. I couldn’t hear myself think a word. I didn’t feel anything at that point, not grief, not the façade of joy and congratulations I’d have to put on later, not knowing that once and for all, it looked as though it was all over.

When I came to my senses and sorted out the silence in my head, I emptied to the coffee pot and clicked off the radio once I heard the confirmation that my darling Sylvia was going to be thrust into another role with even less time. I just wanted to preserve the fragile silence. I just wanted to mourn. I must not have moved for hours, and I didn’t get around to making another cup, either.

We were only doomed to get plunged into an ocean of flashbulbs and banquet tables again during Sylvia’s inauguration., buried in a auditorium on Mars to raise awareness of the Terraforming project that was President Dorlian’s legacy. When the time came, she glided to the podium and delivered a marvelous speech, and from what anyone could see, she preserved the calm grace under pressure of her predecessor. That’s all anyone really wanted her to be, another President Dorlian. Hopeless, all of them.

I’m sure that nobody else could see that her eyes were flickering in the spotlights that she really wanted to cry. Still, her voice never wavered for an instant. Not until she was out of the spotlight again.

Once her unemotional speech ended on a final promise – a mere repetition of everything Relena ever said sliced down to a fifteen second sound byte – Sylvia turned without acknowledging the applause and tore to the edge of the stage as fast as she could walk, her heels clicking shrilly against the hardwood platform and sounding through the storm. I tossed the linen napkin off my lap and tried to go to her, but the blasted crowd had seen me stand and thought I was calling for a standing ovation. Not a pretty sight when there was barely room to weave through the mess of tables and chairs while everyone was sitting, but before long I had effectively trapped myself. I watched Sylvia recede into a ready room tucked behind the stage on the televisions in the auditorium.

I had to wait far too long for the crowd to settle down and sit down. They must have wanted to coax their new President back out onto the stage, to smile reassuringly for the cameras. They gave up slowly, and whipped out cell phones and made their comments. It wasn’t five minutes since she almost ran off the stage and the story must be already flooding the Earth Sphere. I didn’t care about the President, but I didn’t want Sylvia to be by herself. The people were still reluctant to give me an easy path to the green room door. They must have been slighted to have recognized me but not to hear me apologize for bumping their chairbacks. Let them think what they will.

The guard outside the door didn’t give me grief, though. I was thankful for that. I think I went back and tipped him before we left.

The little makeup room was in discord. The lights were buzzing softly because the walls were all soundproofed. Sylvia was sobbing on a little green sick couch in the corner, her almost ceremonial dress suit cast off piece by piece on the floor in front of her, and the blouse and pants she found were creased and already spotted with the occasional teardrop. She didn’t lift her eyes as I came in and let a wash of murmur in through the door with me, just unclasping her hands to wipe her nose with a glove from her suit.

"Quatre, I hate this. They never even asked me." Her voice was still unbroken and smooth, just like how she was talking during her address. "They was said to me they decided that it had to be me to succeed Relena and that was that. I couldn’t stop it."

I went to her, careful not to step on the pieces of her dress suit scattered on the floor, and sat beside her on the little green couch. "I know you, this isn’t like you. You can do this job, you can do it better than you or anyone else realizes."

She chuckled dryly. It sounded very weird coming from in between choked sobs. "Dear, you missed the point. I don’t care about being ‘President’. If they want me, they’re going to get Sylvia, not a replacement for Relena. That’s not want I’m worried about. That’s not what I don’t want to put on the line."

"You mean ‘us’, right?" I clasped my hands in my lap too, mimicking her.

"Yes, us. Or whatever scraps of us we have left." She wiped her nose on her discarded glove again, sniffling.

I could feel my own eyes starting to get wet, so I looked between the tiles on the floor and traced the edges from where I sat. "I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault, if I tried harder we wouldn’t be having this problem,"

"Quatre." Forcefully, she quieted me. "I was warned about that reflex of yours. Knock it off."

There was a longer silence in the green room than I would have liked. Sylvia had quieted herself now, and threw the glove to the floor. It landed on a navy blue jacket with a subtle whiff.

"This can’t be happening for real." I pleaded, keeping my voice down to try and preserve the quiet. "It can’t just come to an end like this."

"Then why are just letting it? Circumstance, or some other excuse?" She wiped her nose absently with the back of her hand. "My grandfather would probably throw a raging fit if he knew that I was using petty excuses."

"My father would probably be the same way. He had such high hopes for me."

Sylvia started tapping her foot against the cold floor. "If we know we’re both right, then why are we arguing like this?"

I sniffled too, lightly, but the room was still quiet and acoustic. "I don’t know. Because we were being torn apart by the cosmos?"

"Oh, please." Angry shame filled her voice, dry and smooth as cigarette smoke. "Don’t kid around with me. Haven’t you ever read any old literature? When that happens, it’s only because they didn’t try hard enough and gave up too quickly. But still," She arched her back and looked up at the speckled ceiling. "Maybe that’s not true. Maybe they weren’t to blame, and maybe neither were we."

"So, you’re just going to give up?" I asked incredulously.

"What—" She sniffled, louder this time. "What other choice do we have? Run away together and throw away all our obligations?"

"Well, why not?" I tried to think through what I was saying, but there was no use to hesitating. "This is Mars, isn’t it? We could disappear here and nobody could ever find us unless we wanted them too."

Sylvia’s eyes were boring into my forehead, although I wasn’t looking back at her yet. I was still tracing the lines of the tiles in my head. "Are you feeling alright, or are you just joking with me? You’re the leader of lord knows how many colonies and I’m – good lord – I’m President the of Earth Sphere. We can’t just leave so many people to fend for themselves in a heartbeat, even if we know deep down that we’re both nothing more than figureheads."

"Then, just for a few days. Just a couple days by ourselves, with nobody to bother us, nobody to get between us. I want you to myself for a while, and I’ll do whatever I have to do. Please, just think about it."

Sylvia was nearly in tears again. I could see a distant glimmer when I looked back into her eyes to try and finish my appeal, but she finished it for me. "You mean, just to be the two of us for a while? And," Sniffle. "To go on that picnic you wanted?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that to. I can take care of everything."

By now we were both in tears, sobbing who-knows-what to each other, and in each other’s arms again on that little green couch. I don’t recall for how long, and I don’t recall what I tried to say when I was being cut off by my own breathing.

Sylvia was the first of us to regain her senses. "I’m sorry, Quatre. I—I don’t mean to cry. I don’t want to—"

I shook my head lightly, even though we were almost cheek-to-cheek. "No, you don’t have to stop. Cry all you want to, cry if you feel you have to. Just remember that I’m here with you, Sylvia, and I always will be."

"You—You can’t lie to me." She repeated rapidly. "You promised, remember?"

"I know. I did." Only the truth.

Everything was falling into place in my mind then and there, how to make it possible, how to make it happen. Just for a few days, we could be the two of us. I don’t think I was ever quite as happy.

+++++++

And finally, the pointless drivel that is supposedly the thin black line between myself and a lawsuit. Nobody reads these bloody disclaimers either way, so do yourself a favour and skip down past it.

And write me a note or two about what you thought. At this point, I’d be more than willing to take a sentence and be satisfied. Besides, if you don’t do it for others, you can’t expect anyone to do it for you.

I don’t own these characters, this universe, or even any of the merchandise. Anybody reading this already knows that so well from reading a billion other disclaimers that I could claim that I owned the whole GW shebang, but nobody would believe me. There, finished.