For a month, at the beginning of October, the clouds rebel against the sky; so the air smelt of rain and blew its chilly currents over the heat that lay, prostrate, as a remnant of the day’s furious summer spirit. No matter how much spring wanted to be summer; the clouds and the wind would still coax the rain. No matter how much the freshly bloomed flowers yearned to shrivel into mounds to escape the overbearing heat; underground waters spurred their roots to drink deeply. In this time, a year before this moment, the balance was perfect between purity, thought and the future. This afternoon; the ground spattered with rain and the parking lot silent with lifelessness; there is no purity and there is no future – there is only thought.


Every moment, every person, every situation; is a room. Every room is bare with four walls, one door that can be locked from the outside, and one small, high window. This is Sebastian’s theory. I found it once, written as a paper for which he received only sixty percent. I had not been meaning to look for anything, but he had left me alone in his flat. Waiting for his return only lasted an hour. Hunger and its satisfaction lasted half an hour, and I could stand to watch television for only an hour after that. His music collection and modest library under went observation for forty-five minutes, at a stretch. Finally the tall, slim cupboard, that mimicked his rigid self so perfectly was the only object undiscovered. Once he returned, Sebastian was angry. He left his car angry, he walked past into the kitchen angrily and he made coffee, two mugs, angrily. Although I was aware that this should be intimidating; I knew that his mood would settle once I asked about his paper and flattened even further as I insisted that he had been mark far below the standard of his work; but the eventually expressionless figure of Sebastian Wren was more comforting than the queasy smile he enjoyed mocking me with when I was antagonistic. He ended up explaining his theory to me, related it to various successful encounters he had had, and showed me how the theory helped him fit to me. It was an infallible, catastrophic, wondrous theory – so I left, quickly, and thought about his suggestion to try it.


Sebastian and I met at an autumn dance in a Baden-Powell Scout Hall. We were both guests and seemingly equally listless about the idea of meeting other members and their guests of the hunting club. My brother, Robin, was a ruthless pilot and the only reason I had attended the dance. We stood together for the beginning of the evening as all good attendees to a party do; every person darted too and fro between the wall and the buffet table with their partner or friends at the heel. The dance was designed for the younger member and children of the older members of the hunting club and so, by eight o’ clock, the two generations were split by a thin, wooden folding door. The door must not have kept much of the music out, but once the dance began few, if any, adult members ventured into the auditorium. Some of the girls and braver boys collected in the middle of the dance floor, the girls dancing together and the boys watched, captivated; but the rest gradually slipped outside or towards the table of food again. I felt no compulsion to leave the buzzing, lit room and eventually, without even noticing, Sebastian and I ended up standing together behind the once superfluous, but now puddle-like bowl of salad.
“I only like the croutons.” He said to me, leaning closer to avoid shouting. As if to support his statement he picked a large, chunk of crusty bread between his fingers and let it crunch into dust in his mouth.
“Me too,” I smiled, shouting to avoid leaning closer, and ate the crouton next to the one he had taken.
“Why?” he asked after bobbing his head to the music for a few counts – enough time for my brother to notice me talking to him and give me a thumbs up in full view.
“Because he thinks I am socially inept.” I replied.
“No, why do you like the croutons?” he asked, leaning down again. I watched the crowd, larger than when the music first started, and thought about what he was asking.
“They’re the odd ones out. They are not grown, they are not fresh – they are hard, cooked in oil, and only have to touch the green bits when they have to.” I told him, trying to impress him and repel him with my answer at the same time. He looked at me for a while, so I looked at the floor expecting him to leave as my comment had obviously achieved one of the two options. In the time it took to wait for his reaction I considered both walking away and talking to him again; but I realised that I had been standing here first and that I had no obligation to leave or to entertain my visitor.
“That was a metaphor.” He said into my ear. The initial aversion I had felt to his contact was starting to ease, but a new sense of uncertainty over his intentions was welling.
“Yes.” I laughed, suddenly comfortable as I realised that after each encroachment into my territory he had stepped back, out of it. “Were you deciphering that the whole time, or was there something else that slowed the process?” I asked him. Unaffected by my sarcasm he flashed a lengthy smile and popped another crouton into his mouth.
“I was considering all the interpretations.” I smiled, sincerely, at his rebuttal. “Sebastian Wren.” He introduced himself, shaking my hand gently. I hesitated, considering his ability to hold a conversation and tendency to omit hovering.
“Olivia Vaughn.”
“Oh, not the sister of Robin Vaughn?” he asked. I nodded and he dropped my hand in the middle of shaking it. “Part of the bottom third too, I see.” He continued, looking at me amusedly, and without giving me a chance to react to his first comment.
“Who are you to say such things about me? You don’t know me and I doubt that you know my brother.” It irritated me when I was under pressure to defend my brother, because I seldom saw merit in it at the best of times. My brother was a misguided young man with much potential and equal amounts of laziness to allow his abilities to waste away. There was nothing unique about that, of course, and the only error he had made was buying into the cliché. It was a form-fitting stereotype, and exactly his size. Sebastian smiled and mouthed ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying’. He pointed to the pair of doors closest to the table, indicating that we should go outside. I followed him, slowly, and had allotted a fair amount of time to decide what I thought of him before standing beside him on the step under the light. When he moved over the threshold, into the darkness and headed towards a group of people, who had ditched the dance to sit around a small fire, he doubled back to find me stationary under the light. Darkness stretched out endlessly into the pine plantation. The pine needles on the floor and on the branches infused the night air with their smell. With each step back towards me Sebastian encouraged the wafting of the damp, earthy smells to surround me. Each time the plantation breathed, a chill swirled through my dress and into the hot, loud hall – the dancers oblivious to the mystical, silky darkness beyond the toes of my shoes. Sebastian gazed at me, now only a few centimetres taller than me, and motioned for me to follow. “I meant the bottom third of the alphabet.” He called, as the music was still too loud to hear him from just a few paces away. I stayed still, uncertain of the way that his smiles were attractive even though he smiled near me and not at me; his comments were clever, but not sincere; and his intentions seemed clear, but allowed for ambivalence. “You don’t trust me.” He said.
“No.”
“Do you think that you ever could?” his face was imploring but not yet hopeful, until I smiled.
“I think that, one day, I could.”
“Fine then,” he murmured as he settled next to me on the step, “Until you can trust me, we can do things your way.”
“Suits me,” I almost sang.
“Exactly.”

“You must be joking!” Sebastian crowed. I could hear that he was walking and the sounds of shopping drifted through the receiver. “You brother actually agreed to let Ron cook? Is she using a recipe at least?” his voice echoed my thoughts perfectly, a trend among our conversations. At first, once he had bargained my number for a large scale abduction of all the croutons in the salads left at the dance, calls from Sebastian had been sparse. He would call when appropriate; when he saw me in passing or needed to ask of my brother; but became more calculated over time and then, suddenly, on a Tuesday night, calls were no longer formal. Once I had accepted the fact that Sebastian would be suitable as more than a pushy acquaintance, with a due amount of insistence from Robin, calls came at regular intervals. Over time subjects that I had prepared, in anticipation of his call, and tried to introduce casually into our conversations, grew unwanted. Sebastian was interesting, and he seemed content to listen to the amount of information I supplied to him; his tolerance for my rambling was exactly right in proportion to the amount I could mentally designate to talking about myself. He had kindly let me court the idea of him, and this was to his favour. I did not like to be pushed into things, and I took encouragement from only a carefully trusted minority; Sebastian had performed his extended introduction by the book, and for this I admired him.
“I’m not sure I feel safe eating whatever she makes.” I said, without intentionally providing an opening to him. In that stomach clenching second, moments that I frequently endured, I realised that I had given him a chance to affirm or deny me.
“Hang on,” he said, and I heard him move the phone around and argue with someone about a cut of meat. In this short squabble a million worst case scenarios ran across my mind; they were the unnamed pedestrians running across the road at the cross because of my green light. The phone tapped and whooshed back to him ear and he spoke with a smile in his voice – the first opportunity I had had to imagine what Sebastian considered a triumph: “Can I assume that you eat meat?”

He took my jacket, let me choose music, and offered me a drink. I am a fairly comfortable plotter and recognised the motions that he was going through to make me comfortable. Although his means were poorly concealed, the intention led me to smile at him more sweetly than I had intended.
“I’m seventeen.” I answered his offer.
“You kids don’t drink at seventeen?” he asked amusedly. I smiled and accepted whatever he was having. “I don’t drink,” he replied.
“Not even water?” I countered. He grinned and left me to forage through his music collection. Instead I took the chance to examine his living area. A kitchen, small from what I could see from my position, followed an invisible route from the front door, across the carpeted floor of the lounge. In time to come this route would be engraved by Sebastian’s motion, and I too would follow its course. Later in the evening I had leave to uncover a small, neat, tiled bathroom, a messy bedroom and a pokey, dark study. All of his walls were white, and only the lounge and kitchen had pictures. Sebastian lived in a state of bachelor minimalism. It suggested simplicity, honesty and propriety. Neatness was out of obligation, but the state of his bedroom assured me that that pressure was alleviated for tonight. The very realisation of this echoed a distant inflection of sex; like the drop of water into water in an empty house. It was quiet, hollow and concealed, but it existed. Sebastian sat with me on his ratty couch, which was warm and allowed you to sink into it, and remained polite. It was not an insecurity that led him to maintain this, nor was it propriety. I was sure of these to things. Sebastian and I were dancing; I was leading. When I stepped back, he stepped back. He stayed at arms length, when my arm was bent or when it was full extended. He let me choose the music of our dance, a convenient reality to the metaphor I concocted in my mind; because the music dictated the steps, and the steps led to the finale – one that he let me determine.
We sat close; eyes touching lips and hands; but not close enough that hands touched hands and lips touched lips. Our dance ended, at 10 o’ clock, when Robin knocked on the door – promptly as I had asked him to.
“I see that she’s well fed and,” Robin leaned towards me to inspect my face, “Not at all drunk…” he looked puzzled but stopped embarrassing me immediately, as my face turned redder than it had been from Sebastian’s closeness and warmth.
“Goodbye,” I turned to Sebastian, blocking my brother from my view, “I enjoyed this.” I tried to be soft and delicate, but I sounded typical and flippant.
“I’d like to see you again.” Sebastian smiled, “Preferably not as an escape plan.” He whispered. I yielded to his closeness and absorbed his smell. “Can I walk you to the car?” he asked quietly. I pulled away from him, my skin starting to tighten.
“That won’t be necessary.” Robin said behind me. “We haven’t had quality time in a while.” He settled his quick reply into its languid explanation, the rubato of his mind ensuring a neater expression. Robin took me into his coat and I closed my eyes as we walked out of Sebastian’s house. I did not turn to look back, but Robin waved over his shoulder. Robin helped me into the car and switched on the small light above my head. I opened my eyes just as he entered his own door. “Cheers!” Robin called to Sebastian, framed by the light of the house behind him.
Half way down the road I allowed myself to breathe and Robin squeezed my hand. “Do you want to turn on some music?” he asked tenderly. Robin toyed between insensitive, selfish boy and gentle, bright young man. Even he is not sure which he wants to be.
“Not really.”
“So do you like this guy, or what?” Robin glanced at me before he turned the first corner. Seven more corners to go. “Is he your type, I mean, do you even have a type?” he grinned out of a fiendish mirth; “Did you do it?”
“Yes, no, because no, and no.” I said, comforted by his joviality. “Did you?”
“Not after that food. The smell of burning flesh throughout the whole house detracts from the mood somewhat.” I laughed at his bluntness.
“How did she take it?”
“Better than expected.” He turned the second corner. Robin did not say anything for a while because he was giving me space to elaborate on my night. To me his expectation felt less like room to feel comfortable, and more like multiple points of compression that threatened to squeeze the information out of me in unison.
“His house is tidy.” I commented when I could bear no more of the squeezing.
“Is that so, why do you think that is?”
“He likes tidiness.”
Robin made the sound of a buzzer in a game show. “Wrong!” He turned the third corner. “He wants to impress you.”
“Is that good?” I humoured his brotherly input.
“It could be,” he smiled at me and the street light flashed against his teeth, “But is he isn’t really neat, why should he lie about what he is? If it impresses you now, the truth will only disappoint you later.” This irritated me. If Robin wanted to know what I thought about Sebastian, which he did, he did not have to negate the things that I admired. The selfish brother was starting to ware through the thin outer layer of sympathy he had for me. Robin’s night had been mediocre, so Robin needed to make Olivia’s night equal or less than his; that is how Robin’s mind worked. Whether it was the competitiveness of his lifestyle that had worked this into him, or the nagging of successive girlfriends that made misery love company; this was Robin’s worst quality and it irritated me.
“What’s the issue between you two anyway?” I asked.
“Nothing, I don’t know him. It’s not like I have a problem with every person that you know Olivia, I just have high standards for my sister and myself.”
“Oh please, you have bad blood between most people. I’m surprised you have any friends.” Robin turned the fourth corner. Half way and we were already arguing.
“People like me, because of how I am.”
“Then you must be different around them. If my friends were as selfish as you are, I’d never stand to be around them.”
“You stand to be around me.” He replied irritably.
“I suffer through you,” I snapped. “When you’re being pig headed.” I corrected. Robin was quiet for a while, until we turned the next corner. I expected a dismissive reply to my confrontation, one that he was taking his time to formulate.
“Maybe I am different around them.” He said slowly. “One would think that I’d be fairer to you.”
“I know you mean to, but one has to work harder to keep friends around.” With that there was instant forgiveness between us. He turned the sixth corner.
“Are you thinking about joining the orchestra?” I asked, remembering a conversation we had had before I left for Sebastian’s.
“I’ll see how Ron takes it.” He said shortly. I knew that he was cringing at his own reply, embarrassed to be under the command of a harpy like Ron.
“You can do better than her, much better.” I told him.
“So they tell me.” He mused, turning the seventh corner. “I’m not sure I want to decide what she is, because then all the parts that I like will be tarnished by…”
“Her insanely controlling persona that you refuse to see.” I filled in his blank.
“Who says that I don’t like that part?” he grinned sardonically and turned into our road and into our driveway.

I saw Sebastian a few times after this, most equally uneventful but pleasant enough for us both to consider repeating the experience. Robin grew less inquisitive as time went onwards until one evening, with the power of Ron behind him, he held an intervention. I was sitting, reading a nook that my mother had converted into a sunny window seat when my father had been promoted several years before. It was a strange place from them to catch me: both choosing to dampen the sunshine with the apparent morbidity of my life choices.
“Olive, I’m very worried about your relations with that Sebastian guy.” Ron started, “He’s really creepy and I’ve never seen him when we go out.” She simultaneously lost all credibility she had started with and made me change my mind about looking up from my book. “Olive, I know that you love to read,” she said with tremendous severity, “But you must listen to me, darling.” I ignored her for a while and heard intermittent sighs of frustration accompanied by whiffs of her gaudy perfume.
“Come on Olivia.” Robin said. This was the first time I had noticed him, Ron’s overpowering noise and scent too great for my disinterested mind to perceive him behind her. This, after looking at his endearing, hen pecked façade, tipped my carefully tuned scale of politeness. I placed my book in its place, open on my lap, and swivelled so that I could see them completely when I ended this intervention.
“Listen here Ron,” I said, catching a glimpse of my parents scuttling away. They had seen me see them and felt guilty; maybe not as co-conspirators, especially as I knew that they and Robin were happy with Sebastian, but because they had done little or nothing to reign Ron in. I have no place to feel cheated by them, not even Ron’s mother could do anything about her, let alone my own, soft mother. She and my father are architects – eco-friendly pseudo-bohemians, trying to be something great apart and together at the same time. I was never completely sure about their ideology, as they often seem more conventional than I know that they would like to – but, as neither Robin nor I bought into their version of Bohemianism, they are doing their best to raise us without forgetting who they always wanted to be. In that I admire them, because they are trying to be true to what they value. Robin caught onto that, I am still waiting for something to value enough. There is no doubt in my mind that what you begin to see as comfortable, good and usable in the way your parents interact and live, you will aspire to in your own way. Robin gave me a ‘be nice’ look, but I ignored it. He should have thought about that before he encouraged his crazy girlfriend to approach me. “My name is Olivia not Olive. Don’t ever call me Olive again. I’m ignoring you, not because I enjoy reading. I you paid any attention to anyone other than yourself, you’d realise that you’ve never seem me reading before. I am not your darling, so don’t call me that either okay?” She flicked her artificially blonde hair insecurely and I felt a gentle nudge of satisfaction as my brother straightened his little hunch at my rude response. He was offended, of course, not manning up – but I was tired of his pathetic facial expression anyway. I thought that I should give them something worthwhile for their intervention: “You are not my family, their opinions of Sebastian are literally the only opinions I care to hear.”
“I know what I’m talking about Olivia.” She countered, weakly.
“Well, considering we’re giving advice, you’d better keep and eye on your man, Veronica. You never know what might happen if he catches onto your scheme and dumps your sorry ass out on the street.” I felt mean now, my words tasting like acid, but I liked it. I liked how her face crumpled slightly as Robin looked at her, all confused and innocent. She walked towards a door that led outside. “Careful,” I called to her, “I heard that plastic melts in the sun!”
“You are horrible to her, Olivia.” Robin berated me. “She was just trying to help.”
“Help what?!” I exploded. Even I was not prepared for that, and we both stared dumfounded at each other. “Man up, Robin.” I said quietly, “You’re letting her get between us. She’s not even worth it.”
“How can you lecture me on my relationship choice, but we can’t present a notion to you without you tearing her throat out?” He yelled, angry now.
“You really think that she’s a good choice?” I asked him, rhetorically, “And you really think that I’m making a bad choice? There is no way that you can answer yes to both and expect me to take you seriously.”
“Do you even know what he does?” Robin asked.
“I expect he bums around like you until he goes to class.”
“So what’s he studying then? Is he even studying?” Robin looked at me severely, but his look changed to one of sadness. “I know about the ‘scheme’ you’re talking about. That is why we’re staying together.” He frowned. “One of the reasons.” He corrected. He glared at me, in concern rather than rage now – his temper always passed quickly. I still seethed – unashamed about what I had said to them. “Ask him,” Robin said as he walked to comfort Ron outside, “Rather get it from the horse’s mouth than discovering the lie yourself.”

A week or so later I walked to the library to returned book I had been reading. It was one that Sebastian had suggested and taken out for me. He had handed it over reluctantly, making me pledge to return it by the correct date. What Robin had said bothered me. I could not remember is I had assumed that Sebastian was studying English Literature, or if he had to me so. He made it clear that he read more than he breathed, as the list I had to read far exceeded that of my school set list. I made myself read the ones with interesting covers, defying the proverb, or the ones that were shorter. I stumbled into the library, blinded by the low sunshine of the afternoon, and searched for signs to tell me where to go to take the book back. I found a sign indicating that green stickers were children’s books, and red were from the adult’s library. A red arrow, ad if I had not caught onto the colour scheme already, pointed the way to the adult library. I shuffled in and, noticing the lengthy line for returns and remembering the clumsiness with which I searched through libraries, decided to find the next book on my list. My policy was as follows: find the first five books, usually with help, and determine which was the shortest, most interesting looking of the five. This worked in the school library; but in the public library, easily ten times the size, I knew that more time was necessary. The first book took ten minutes to find, despite the distractions of happier looking novels along the way. The second and third were both positioned close to the multimedia area of the library – and incidentally both were available on DVD. As tempted as I was to rent the films instead, I decided not to cheat the system Sebastian had set in place for me to ‘recover my love for literature’. I had assured him that children’s books to a child were not the same as meaningful literature to some one like me, but obviously I needed to be more persuasive. I gave up after the next hour and the fourth book as it was getting dark and the line was getting longer as people rushed to bring their rented material back before it’s time limit expired. The music section of the library was well stocked, in sheet and media forms, and I allowed myself a quick browse of the repertoire.
“Excuse me,” a man interrupted my quality time with the CD selection.
“Mm,” I replied without looking up. There was a pause as the man began to realise that I did not intend meeting his gaze.
“Could I check the due date of your book? The line is long and we want to save time as it is almost closing.”
“Yes, thanks, it’s the one on the top.” I said, vaguely grateful for his consideration. I would have looked at him, had I not found Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade I had been craving since Robin had performed it almost two months before. I had forgotten that the Classical selection was always well stocked at public libraries in hope that teeny-boppers who were too cheap to buy their music would run out of pop CD’s and move onto Classical in desperation.
“This date is exceeded by a week, Miss. Vaughn.” He said once he had time to check the date. I help the CD tightly, ecstatic to have found it. My face warmed at the excitement I felt.
“I’m sorry, I’m quite a slow reader and my friend insisted that I read that.” I said as I turned around, chatty because my cheeks were brimming with a smile and my heart tapped enthusiastically at the idea of rushing home and listening to this piece until I could sing it by heart. “How long can I –” I stopped short as the face I had spent to time putting to the voice was Sebastian’s. How long had it been since I had seen him that I failed to recognise his voice?
“It’s been a while,” he said on cue, tapping the book on the bookcase that he was leaning against. “You didn’t call me back.” Unused to Sebastian being confrontational, simply because there had been no subject to confront until now, I held my mouth shut and decided to bide my time and think about an appropriate response. I had been hoping, since Sebastian told me that he had been on holiday for the past week, that I would have read at least two of his books by the time he had returned. Unfortunately I did not even have one under my belt. The book he was still tapping against the bookcase had overdue and unfinished.
“Hi.” Was all I came up with, “I thought you’d be away for at least another two days.”
“Surprise,” he said, slightly mockingly.
“Sorry about the book.” I said, “I really had trouble becoming literate again.”
“No problem.” He smiled, breaking the hardness that I had never seen him wear. “What did you think?” he asked without allowing for a moment of further defence.
“I haven’t finished it.” I said, touchy now that he was prying into my business. I noticed that, with the relative intimacy we had reached in our last visit, this reaction of mine was strangely out of place. Sebastian appraised me for a while and then smiled.
“Reading is not your thing,” He stated.
“Did I not tell you that already?”
“But music is.” He put the overdue book under his arm and motioned for me to give him the CD. “Your brother played this the other day.” He caught on quickly. “You liked it that much?” I nodded. “Doesn’t he have a recording?”
“Even if he did, I wouldn’t ask for it.” I said quietly. Sebastian studied me for a while.
“Why not?” he asked me eventually.
“It’s his thing and not my place to intrude.” I was unsure if he would be satisfied with that answer, but he just looked at the CD again and smiled.
“You need not intrude; just adapt.” He replied, but walked away before I could reply. I followed him to the checkout counter, and jumped the line as the desk that he sat down at was empty due to his absence.
“You work here?” I was surprised, and it showed in my voice. In the shock of seeing, and not recognising, him I had overlooked the neat golf shirt with ‘Librarian’ printed above his heart.
“Well deduced,” he looked up and smiled seductively to show that he meant no offence. “I was shoving books down your throat; surely you didn’t think that I was just a book nerd.”
“No; only a professional book nerd.” I teased.
“Then why were you so confused to see me?” he stamped the CD’s date card and flashed his eyes between me and his work.
“I didn’t think that you’d have time to work, with class and everything.” I took a chance at letting my assumption seem innocent, and hoped that he failed to recognise my true intentions.
“I take evening classes.” He said, so briskly that it took a moment for me to catch the weight of his confession. The institution of study meant little to me, as long as he was studying and I could prove that he was better than Robin thought that he was. He turned his back to me and scratched around in a dimly lit room to his right for the correct CD. The line had grown behind me and the elderly man next in line was too close to stand and wait comfortably. I turned sideways, pretending to look at a poster on contraception on the far wall, to gain a little bit of space for myself and the expense of a nudge to the old man’s walker. Apologising for his own closeness, making me feel bad for inconveniencing a pensioner in his state, the old man moved backwards slightly. He had droopy, kind eyes and so, as reparation, I commented on his book choice which set him off on an extensive explanation about his grandchildren. As sweet, and sometime tedious as it was, I enjoyed the way grandfathers and grandmothers always found a way to relate any topic back to their grandchildren. By this time Sebastian was back and, on his return, his once smug look of catching me out had soured into one of guilt. Sebastian’s service was done and I had no good reason to linger to hear the justification he was psyching himself up to give me. I could see it in the way he tried to touch my hand as he handed over the CD and held my gaze for longer than a very friendly librarian should. “So, I’m not in university.” He mumbled eventually, “Big deal, I’m still as smart as I was before you knew this.”
“Oh, I know; it’s fine.” I said, unrealistically calm, in his eyes, about being lied to.
“Stand in the courtyard and I’ll meet you there in a moment.” He commanded, less kindly than he could have. I stood for about a minute before he joined me.
“You didn’t have to,” I said, “I was just going to go home anyway.”
“Do you want to go out tonight?” he asked me, ignoring what I had just told him.
“Not really. Do you want to come to my place?” I was irrigated that he was being so presumptuous.
“Fine, around six then?”
“Yeah, fine.” he didn’t leave, even after I had agreed. After a while f him staring at me a asked, “How did you get away? You had a line.”
“I asked for a smoke break.”
“You smoke too?” I asked, more offended by this than anything else he had or had not said today.
“No, but my boss does. She lets me take break whenever I want.” I looked away from him, confused as to what else he wanted me to say. “You don’t have any questions about what I just told you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I thought I’d never see the day that Olivia Vaughn was all out of questions.”
“I do have one,” I said curtly, “Since when do you think that you can boss me around?”
“I’m not bossing you around.”
“You’re telling me where to go, what to read, how to deal with my brother. Who do you think you are?”
“Apparently only your friend.”
“You’re the one that left on holiday. Things were great between us; I even tried to read – not something I’d do for just anyone I’ll have you know.”
“So what’s the problem then?” he asked, moving closer to me.
“I don’t know anything about you.” I asked, honestly not the biggest issue on my mind but not the lightest.
“Nor do I about you; so it’s fair.”
“When did this have to do with fairness?” he was quiet, he had obviously learned the Robin trick. Sebastian was more solemn though, he glared against the setting sun with crossed arms. He was scarier than Robin by far. “Whatever, just leave it.” I tried to walk away from him, tired of the prerequisite effort for this entire interaction.
“Why?” he called to me. I stopped my escape out of courteously – it was not as though he had done anything even close to unforgivable. The wind ruffled his hair. “I don’t want to leave it. I want to know you, more than just as my friend; because you never were that, and I was never just your friend.” He was not wrong, but I was uncomfortable with the direction of his thought.
“I don’t like to just tell people things.”
“That’s right; you’d rather push them away at every chance you get.” What he said made me angrier and I stamped slightly closer to him. “We’d fight,” he said in defence, obviously choosing this moment to demonstrate his point. “You’ll hate me, and I’ll hate you – but not all the time, not even some of the time.”
“If you boss me around…” I warned, hollowly, but he took the hint.
“I don’t plan to. I was just trying to impress you.”
“Don’t,” I said. Sebastian smiled, unconcealed in the outdoor light. This did not detract from how annoying he was being, but it softened most of what he had said. The build up to asking him about what he actually spent his time doing, by Robin and Ron’s fault, and the embarrassment of not recognising him had made me overreact.
“I feel so stupid, about all of this.” I muttered, blushing slightly as I relived the last hour’s events.
“I’ll try to be more honest with you, if you’ll do the same for me. It’s not easy, throwing open every door of yourself and allowing someone to inspect every crevice.” He clarified, redeeming himself for making me reveal one of my many issues with companionship. At least we would have the logic to potentially understand each other’s secrecy.
“I can only promise to try.” I cautioned him, lowering his expectations to accommodate me.

That night Sebastian came over. Ron had cooked and my parents, Sebastian, Ron, Robin and I ate together. This type of behaviour was customary in our household – not only as the initiation of a new boyfriend, but as our family’s sole meeting ground. As Robin and I grew up our parents found few ways to keep our personal agendas synchronised and, around the time Robin turned sixteen, we took an oath as a family to eat as many meals together as we could. Luckily, for all of us, my family was not unpleasant to spend extended amounts of time with – until Ron moved in. None of us are particularly sure; though, as we do not yet consider her an integral part of the family, no one felt in the position to ask; whether Ron in pregnant or not. We all assumed, as Robin’s motivation to let her stay in our home was vague. My father certainly would never venture to ask, as at the table of Sebastian’s big reveal, for he is a shy, non-invasive soul. He designs area efficient buildings to house stray animals and gives free consultation to farmers who are clever enough to realise his space management genius; while my mother is slightly more conventional. Even she, from whom I learned to ‘say what you mean when asked, dear’, does not dare breeching the subject with Ron. My theory, from overhearing heated debates and the grating screeching travelling to and from cell phone calls to Ron, is that Ron was pregnant. Her mother kicked her out for choosing to abort, and this is why she is living with us. Of course, as Ron and Robin have far exceeded their parental dependency date, neither of them had the sense to grow up and ask for help. There is nothing more precious than advice; whether it is good or bad, a wise decision is never made without advice. I suppose; while looking at Ron’s insipid, poorly shaped face under the warm, dining room light and supporting the abortion; my theory should also condone her intervention. I smiled at her, across the table, which seemed to scare her more than flatter her.
“So,” Ron piped up, obviously under the impression that someone should grill Sebastian on his first night, “You and Olive finally got together?” I chewed loudly on my carrot and stopped smiling at her.
“Olive?” Sebastian teased; he squeezed my hand, “How sweet. I didn’t know that I could call you that.” He grinned, knowing that I hated it when someone shortened my name by the countess times I had moaned about Ron to him. “Yes, it took some convincing.” He continued, wincing as I looked at him pointedly and dug my fingernails into his hand.
“She’s a handful.” Ron went on, still smarting from our argument over her intervention. To be fair to her, I had given her a hard time about it, but she should know that my tolerance was thin.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Sebastian assured her, smiling kindly. Ron had paused in her furious manner of eating, obviously distressed at the way Sebastian was making light of her warning. Robin, seeing this, tried to coax her back to her food.
“The meat is perfect, Ron.” He said adoringly, distracting her with a kiss from my hasty release of the piece of beef I had reached over Sebastian to put on my plate. Sometimes I felt guilty about detracting from every compliment Robin paid Ron, but other times I did not. I defended my brother healthily, but I disliked the person she changed my brother into almost as much as I disliked her.
“You’re scarier than you seem.” Sebastian whispered into my ear as I retracted from the platter of meat. I pulled a face of obvious disgust, complacent enough for that to be my only response. My father cleared his throat, a man sensitive to tension in his home, and turned to Sebastian. He meant for his expression to appear hospitable, but his muted features could only perform ‘relatively surprised’. Sitting next to Sebastian, I grinned an encouragement to my father, admittedly grateful for his rescue.
“Sebastian,” My father began, “Olivia tells me that you’re studying in the mornings at a college down the road. How are you faring?” I had told my father no such thing; Ron had tattled to him. My father was never one to hide his true meaning, and so I was relieved that he took the right stance on her information. As long as he and I had no issues about Sebastian I was content – my mother believed that any choice I made, as I had been brought up correctly by her standards, was the correct one. She always promised to be around to handle the aftermath. Neither would judge a suitor on the conventions he was defying, if I was content with them.
“Fine,” Sebastian replied, without hesitation, “The hours suit me, because I can still work after that.” My father took his time to digest this information.
“Well, that’s quite a responsible way to look at it. How do you find the marking system there?” My father continued, “I understand you’re taking Advanced English and Philosophy; I know that opinions are strict, from working there for a few years myself.” I waited, Sebastian’s feelings on the marking system mirroring mine on Ron.
“I little more leeway could be given, especially in English,” he began, a characteristically calm introduction that usually torpedoed off into something a lot less calm. “But no one can ever be satisfied, right?” his rhetoric worked and my father smiled, decidedly more naturally now.
“Quite right,” my father chuckled, and looked at me slyly, “I’d quite like to read some of your papers, Sebastian,” my father ventured. “Olivia says that you have some intriguing ideas.” This I had said, but in confidence.
“Is that so?” Sebastian asked, turning to me with a smug grin slapped across his face. “She’s never told me that.” He accused.
“Your head would continue to swell. I’ll not be part of the rally to shorten your prognosis.” I smiled slowly at him, to soften the blow I was crafting, “Narcissism is fatal, you know.”
“Ha!” he laughed. To my horror, and distantly with a twinge of contentment, he smoothed away my fringe with his hand and kissed my forehead. In my recollection I am certain that Ron gasped at this, merely from her disapproval of him, but I may have altered the scene over time. When I was released I looked around the table, bashfully, at the effect this had had on my family. My mother seemed impressed, obviously righting his affection off as chivalry; while my father and Robin, who I believe had assumed that Sebastian would never get on my good side, wore subdued looks of panic. Sebastian had not parted his gaze from my face, despite my anxious once-over of my family and a vehement blush, and, because of this, I met his face with all of the adoration I could muster. It had been a strenuous and prolonged chase, but Sebastian was finally starting to win me over – the least I could do was reciprocate the effort.
On leaving that night, Sebastian was content with the outcome of his visit; he almost pranced along the footpath, all the way to his car, and do not fail to make certain that I would remember our date the next day. He was so overjoyed, in fact, that he sped away from his car door at the last minute to gather me up into his arms and kiss me. It was a pleasing feeling, but ruined somewhat as I crept back inside and sat on the wicker chair at the front door. I breathed slowly, completely unaware of Robin’s presence across the way from me. I was startled when he spoke, in his disapproving, brotherly way that was malignant in its truth: “When are you going to tell him?” he asked.
“I’m not.” I whispered.
“You’re putting an expiring date on him already?”
“No,” A flicker of anxious, palpitating concern sat foully in my chest. My heat was light, so that all that I heard was the high-pitched buzzing of silence. My face and hands were hot; my lower back pricked with heat and adrenalin. I sat up straighter and turned away from the window. The perspiration on my neck had started to cool slightly and sent a chill through my body.
“You can’t have both, Olivia; you can’t stay with him and not tell him about your –”
“I can.” I stopped him. “There are other options.” I grasped around for what exactly these options were; but my head was already overflowing with thought and I gave up. I cried a little, after Robin watched me for a while and the adrenalin faded from my system. Had the dose last just a few seconds longer I could have escaped to my room, but I did not and Robin lifted me out of the chair and sat down, putting me in his lap. He put his chin on my head and hugged me, but stopped talking all together. I stopped crying, but the flicker in my body got worse and I started to feel sick. As if to torture me more, I heard Ron calling Robin from somewhere in the house. I would like to add this terrible habit to her list of flaws, but I think, regrettably, that we taught this to her.
She finished her shrieking when she found him, and, to my relief she went away without asking anything, probably in a rare moment of Robin’s dominance. We sat together for a few minutes until the flicker started to die.
“Thanks.” I said into his neck, once I was feeling stable enough.
“I love you.” he replied. The fact that my brother, whose girlfriend, he considered to be the main asset of his life, I harassed, could still say that he loved me was evidence enough that I should give up my issues with Ron. I should forget, if I had to simply ignore her to start off, the reasons I could not live alongside her; and forgive that he gutted my brother every chance she got. The only reason I should do this was; even though I knew that Robin loved me, he did not skimp on saying it. Saying it made it real, and reminded me that it was true. I got up and walked to the arch in line with our door. I could see the staircase within reach and thought I could make a run for it before I started crying about what an ungrateful sister I was – but, because he sat silently in wait of my retreat, I knew that I owed much more to Robin than negligence.
“Despite my terrorizing habits,” I started, formal in feeling awkward, “Please remember that I always love you too.” Robin chuckled.
“I know, Olivia.” He sighed.


My room was quiet, because Ron and Robin had stopped bickering next door and my parents were asleep. I had grates one of the pairs of parallel walls that let the sounds of the house and sounds of the garden in according to its orientation. At any moment that I chose to sit still and listen, I could get an indication of what was happening around me; or so I like to think. I still had Sebastian’s paper in my hand. It was scrunched where my fingers gripped it, so I straightened it out slowly on my unmade bed and prepared myself to read it again. The concluding paragraph was the one that was exciting and chilling at the same time:

As a whole, this principle could be applied only in the circumstance of entire rejection of definite personality, thoughts or any other defining characteristic the performer may be restricted by. In this, as it is unrealistic to fully defy one’s original self, separation and ‘boxing’ of one’s own thoughts, traits and ideals may be an alternative to full rejection. Thus the principle can never be applied as there is no alternative to momentary reversion back to one’s true self.

If I could do this, as the rest of the paper that thoroughly expressed, any social interaction would have my desired outcome or something close to it simply by achieving a large scale manipulation. Of course, the down side was, Sebastian had been applying this theory since he first met me. When he had tried to explain his way out of the obvious conclusion I was going to make, he told me that the theory had been new to him close to the time of the hunting Club dance. Recalling its events, and his persistence, I realised the lack of finesse he had had when executing the principles of his theory. He had improved over time, toning his chance down to simple similarities as the nuances worked themselves out; as he had expressed, but not applied before he realised the absence, the most important feature of this theory and its success was noticing general trends in your subjects behaviour and applying stereotype. When you walk into a room you place the furniture, windows, lights and people in it in your mind. The orientation of your body is now set to the latitudes of the room. The most productive way to exist in the room is to be comfortable in it; should this be moving to avoid a draft, sitting down or any other manipulation of your placing. People were predictable, which brought comfort, if only subconsciously, to most people; thus, manipulating yourself to be comfortable in the room that is your subject is priming the interaction to achieve the most productive outcome. If you assumed that other people were likely to feel about, react to and aspire to things in similar ways to those you can notice by being vigilant; you probably were not too far off and could safely assume a relatively small number of outcomes for a particular event. Something had flared the argument between Ron and Robin and I decided to use their interaction as my first case study. Luckily Ron had become so agitated by the silence, probably lying next to Robin and seething while he thought that everything was hunky-dory, that she stormed out of their room into the passage. This let me hear the full exchange. My lucky streak continued as Ron managed to draw substantial evidence from what sounded like a handful of minutely incriminating events to support her argument, and spur her jealousy, that Robin was ‘looking at other girls’. As typical, and perfect for me, as this was I was irritated that Ron would suggest something so unlikely. I halted my train of thought, knowing that I was being failing to be the most vital element: impartial. Not that I had figured out what it was yet, it was a certainty that Ron was painfully insecure with her relationship with Robin. As ungrateful as I seemed, to have a boyfriend that spent every moment with her and gave up most of his ambition to keep her safe from what ever it was that she was escaping; Ron’s reaction was simple, common and easy for me to follow. Every instance she gave for Robin alleged debauchery, beat him into less and less participation in the conversation. Eventually, though she was repeating herself, an obvious sign of a waning of the evidence bank, Robin replies constituted only of pitiful sighs and, because of his physical nature and her outraged bursts every so often, I assumed a few minimally evasive physical gestures. By assumption I deduced that the outcome of this argument would be one of two things; Ron would start crying and Robin would comfort her, or Robin would man up and sleep on the couch after defending himself. I was hoping for the second option, only realizing that this was against the rules after the finale of their exchange. In the end Robin tried to comfort her, but the hag sent him to sleep on the couch. He left quietly, and I imagined his boyish features melting away as he licked his harpy inflicted wounds downstairs. Once he was out of earshot I decided that I should sleep; unsatisfied with my performance and deducing skills, and willing to rest my crusty eyes. To my surprise, as I lay in the warm, eerie night that snuck up in the hours after midnight, Ron started sobbing. To let my own mind rest, as considering her upset as something close to guilt would misalign my image to the point of my discomfort, I let myself assume that they were tears of self-pity instead.

I refrained from calling Sebastian, receiving his calls or meeting him at the door when he called on me three times in the week it took for me to decide what I thought about his theory. On the Monday, two months after his induction supper, I found a pocketbook in Robin’s room and wrote down the pros and cons of the theory and decided that they were even. Where the theory constituted mainly of lying flat out to every person you ever interacted with, including yourself, insufficient social manipulation was the main cause of all failure. By my rationale people like happy people, thus pretending to be bright and sparkly was a natural affinity among most. Faking happiness was an expectable prerequisite to the social contract. If every other emotion, justified like happiness in the social contract, was applied to the same rule there was no lying in this theory. By all measures this theory would benefit more than harm. Although finding out that Sebastian was not a real person and simply a garment tailored to my fit did not sit well with me. As flattered as I was, because it was evident that this theory was designed to suit short term relationships, that Sebastian was still interested in me and even shared his theory with me; I decided by Wednesday that I was sceptical about whether I was comfortable with spending any time with the imaginary Sebastian. However I closely involved mentor would be invaluable. Deliberation over the theory was like a young girl on a rope swing – back and forth in its frolicking, but inescapable as it hung onto my psyche of dear life. The torment lay in the illusory nature of my decision. Fretting over a hypothetical life choice was ridiculous, but, in its seriousness, distressing and exhausting. Friday came and I welcomed the clarity it would bring, because Friday was the deadline I had set for a decision. I called Sebastian, pensive as the phone rang in a purring, robotic way that was comfortable and predictable.
“Hello?” Sebastian asked. His voice fluctuated with signs of stress and business which meant he was at the library.
“How is work?” I commenced the interview as apprentice.
“Olivia,” he was surprised and mildly irritated, “Its fine thank you.” his side of the line was quiet, perhaps as he asked for a break. After a muffled, shuffling moment he lifted the phone to his ear again. “You never called me back.” He accused with a hint of hurt in his tone.
“This is me calling you back.” I sounded grating even to myself. I was nervous. “Were you in pain?” I asked, feigning amusement.
“Writhing,” he joked back easily, obviously an easy method to gain leeway in a conversation. That made sense, appealing to the ‘happy person’ inside.
“I have a proposition for you.” I cut to the point, unsure if I could dodge any more manipulation.
“Oh yes?”
“Meet at my house?” I asked as whimsically as I could muster.
“Fine.” I could hear him smiling.

It was early afternoon. The sun was cooling as the year pressed on, but its warmth was not so weak that I could lie in the sun comfortably for more than an hour. Ten minutes before I had shuffled my picnic blanket a meter upwards under the shade of a tree. When I heard Ron answer the door, it took every once of self control to remain where I was and let Sebastian find me. After he and Ron exchanged greeting and he asked how she was, allowing her to warm up to him, she flew into a rampant discharge of all the terrible things that had happened to her just today – the convenience store was out of her favourite shampoo, I was causing trouble with her, naturally, and other unimportant inconveniences that sparked the bomb to the end of the world – while Sebastian listened quietly. I, being a substantial distance away, caught only the very worst of Ron’s problems due to the unhappy shrillness of her grief. Fortunately, with a generous helping of false apology, Ron excused her venting and directed him outside. Had Robin been in at the time she would have skipped right to the last sentence and found someone else to abduct and torture; because she happened to feel sensitive to accusing Robin misconduct and then offer herself emotionally to another fine young specimen in his presence. Perhaps some kind of relatively unselfish thought whisked through her mind every so often. As Sebastian stepped out of the double French doors into the garden I began my study of him. Firstly, as his paper had stated, much is learned about a person from background study and the way they present themselves; tying in their stance, manner and dress with the knowledge of their probable previous engagements was key to designing your apparent demeanour to suit them. Sebastian had his hair brushed neatly to the side, across his face, rather than the scruffy manner I knew that he preferred and was more comfortable with. From my memory of his appearance at the library he had seemed relatively neat, but not as neat. The motivation behind his neatness, where his pale blue shirt and black dress shoes matched his hair, threw me and took too much time to decipher. He was not wasting anytime as he approached me, obviously suspecting my motivation in setting myself so far from his entry.
“I ask you to meet me and you don’t wear a tie?” I addressed him, hoping to gain some information from his answer. As I was in the shade and he in the sun, walking towards me rendered half-blind by the change from the inside of the house, I hoped that I had the advantage of extensive examination.
“You ask me to meet you and you don’t wear shoes?” he deflected neatly. I halted my smile at his skill and stared up at him, as he stood at the edge of the picnic blanket, flashing a girlish look of ‘come and get me’. He smiled back; which meant that my tack was dead on, or that he had the upper hand. “May I sit down?” he inquired suavely, but sat down immediately without waiting for a reply. I shimmied closer to where he sat, at the very end of the blanket, and nestled my forehead into the curve of his neck.
“You know the box,” I began, knowing that he would follow my thought pattern, “Do you still have it?” Sebastian sighed, out of relief or reluctance.
“I like to think so,” he murmured. He sounded calm and uncommitted to any specific emotion.
“Well,” I triangled my legs over his, out-stretched and the perfect image of control, leaning back to let him see my face, “The conservation for that box is the cornerstone to my decision.”
“You’d rather have the box Sebastian than the one I’ve made just for you?” he teased, brushing my fringe out of my eyes, playing the same game I was.
“No, I want the box because, if you can keep him in there, I can do the same to Olivia.”
“How will you know that I’m telling the truth?” he tested.
“You have this theory, I want this theory. You want me, I have you. Trust is the only thread that will tie those things together.” I said. Nerves collected in my stomach, my finger and my back; his acceptance of this was, actually, what would tie these together but if he had not already known that he would not have given himself the choice.
“Fair enough.” He laughed gently.
“What?” I asked.
“You are much better at this than I thought you would be.” He grinned again. “I think that, with a little bit of training, I may have met my match.” I studied him carefully, unsure of whether or not he was sincere or simply duping me. “I slip up more than I like to admit,’ he said, “Some emotion has to be real; even if it is just the indulgence of success.”
“So, you’ll teach me?” I ventured, flicking on the female charm once more.
“I didn’t realise this was an interview, maybe I should’ve worn a tie.” He waited for my pithy reply, but I mirrored his nonchalance and pulled a Robin-Sebastian wait on him. He rolled his eyes away from me and tossed his head as if making a difficult decision. “On one condition; we can call for the boxes and they must be legit.”
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wren.” I stuck out my hand to shake his.
“And with you Miss. Vaughn.” Sebastian gazed at me, in a way that I guessed came from his box, and said, “You know, all the great deals are sealed with a kiss.”

“I suppose you’ll want to start immediately,” Sebastian whispered into my ear. We sat on the couch, pretending to want TV, but in truth we were studying the relationship between Ron and Robin. Sebastian was used to this set up, though I doubt that he had often included an apprentice in his vigil. Before they had come in, he had positioned himself so that I sat under his arm, within neck-craning distance to his ear. This way we could exchange information in a seemingly innocent way. Nevertheless this plan was flawed in that Robin was my brother and whispering between ‘lovers’ as he called us was not seen as innocent. By luck, though I would scarcely doubt it was not by design, Ron took our interaction as competition. She could not bear to see me happier than she was, or so I presumed by the look of rivalry that soured her face.
“You watch her and I’ll watch him.” Sebastian continued. I swivelled my head to give him a look of disgust, but he simply raised his eyebrows in a distinctly teacher-like challenge. I ground my teeth, but unwillingly eyed Ron every so often. She noticed this, subtlety was a learned gift, and look as badly as she could have. In a stomach-turning twist she pulled herself up and started to kiss Robin’s neck. I looked away, frankly repulsed. Robin, who had been sleeping, woke up suddenly and, embarrassed by her impropriety, excused himself. As much as he tried to be gentle about it, there was no way to avoid the blatant rejection.
“Stupidity comes at a price.” I whispered to Sebastian.
“Reserve all judgement, until its over.” He reminded me. At this exchange the heat in Ron’s face exploded out of her mouth in an outraged shriek.
“How dare you whisper about me?!” she screamed. Sebastian and I were shocked, because neither of us had been looking at her since Robin left.
“We weren’t,” Sebastian purred, pulling me closer to him and kissing my cheek to reinforce his alibi.
“She was.” Ron hissed.
“I wasn’t,” I looked at her wide-eyed, “I just asked if he wanted to go upstairs.” I blushed, genuinely as Sebastian shifted uncomfortably underneath my legs. He had warned about relating a situation back to yourself was a dangerous method, simply because maintaining the farce took effort, but I had failed to think of anything else in the time I had had. It worked, Ron’s fury dissipated abruptly in diffusion of a fight she craved.
“Oh…” she muttered and walked away. Once she had left I could not help feeling elation at the outcome of the last section of the event. Of course, I had done everything completely wrong, but it was especially exhilarating to have done something other than fight with Ron.
“That was terrible,” Sebastian chuckled.
“It wasn’t terrible,” I protested, “Only moderately unproductive.”
“Whatever you say.” He teased, twisting my hair.
“Um,” I felt my hands dampen a little and my cheeks blush again, “I wasn’t kidding about the upstairs part.” I said under my breath, “I mean, if you want to.” I added hastily.
“It depends,” he looked at me without smiling, “If ‘upstairs’ is a euphemism for something else.” The bravery that I felt before melted slightly and pooled as insecurity. I moved out of his arms and sat next to him, facing the TV.
“If you don’t want to just say so; yes or no would suffice.” I snapped, louder than I had planned to. He had put my out on a limb and was shaking the tree, so I thought that opening the box was justified.
“Oh I do,” he assured me, a smile flickering across his lips. He stared past me and added rather wistfully, “I really do.”
“Except there’s a ‘but’.” I interjected.
“Yes; I don’t know how comfortable I am with the student-teacher relationship.” He chuckled, but I was smarting and had not intention of joining in. “Okay, honestly…”
“From the box?” I felt like a child, but ridicule does that to you.
“Yes, from the box;” he sighed and swivelled to face me. His face flickered with the blue, green and white of the TV on one side and gave his face a serious look; probably less serious than he intended though. “I only know a few things about you; nothing very in depth though. I want you; simply, because you’re attractive and smart, but I don’t just want to want you simply. You aren’t simple, and I’m not simple so our relationship shouldn’t be simple. As horrendously offensive as this is to the guy code; I want to know you better before we have sex.” He was uncomfortable in the box, but he appeared to be willing to persevere because he looked me in the eye once more. “I mean, you know my theory so it’s not like I can charm you with something fool-proof. I let that chance slip, because… I think that I knew that, amongst the girls that set themselves up for easy picking, you weren’t, because you’ve held my attention the longest.”
“What, so I’m worth the effort because I don’t bore you?” I asked him.
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He was frustrated, his fists balled slightly and he ruffled his hair. “You know, it’s addictive; boxing reality.” He said fervently, “I’m not trying to excuse myself; I’m just saying that it’s difficult, to get back to the box. Maybe I haven’t been honest, not with what I’ve said, but with how I’ve acted. I want you, but it’s easier to be a nice, polite boy and make girls think that it’s their idea. I don’t want to be like that to you, but that has already passed; so,” he took my hand and squeezed it, “I’ll try to be, admittedly, not what I think you want, but what I owe you to be. You amaze me; you forgave me for this and you are willing to support me in it.” Sebastian smiled, his charm precipitating from his awkwardness, “The least I can do is be a bit of an arse.”
“Thank you.” I smiled up at him and kissed him. The only part about this moment that I regretted was that I too would have to start being honest. Maybe all people have a box that they store themselves in but not consciously. Sebastian sighed and look a deep breath, expressing the literal ‘weight off his chest’ and kissed my hand.
“I’d better be going.” He said. He got up and the slant of the couch changed ever so slightly. I followed, tiptoeing, nervous about the night. “Tell your parents that I say bye.” He murmured.
“Um,” he turned on his heels to face me as I caught his attention. I kissed him, more severely and intensely than I had ever ventured before. I needed him to stay just a fraction longer until I worked up the nerve to tell him what I had been planning to tell me the whole week.
“I know what I promised,” he whispered gently, “But sometimes the virtue of Box Sebastian is staying boxed.” He swallowed.
“I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asked, sensing the unease in my voice – which was an inconvenience. I wanted to be strong and direct with the clumsiness and the frustration that he had had when I gave my revelation speech. It irritated me that Box Olivia was just a coward.
“I have this thing,”
“Like a disease?” he jumped into in, shocked.
“No, well sometimes you could say it is,” I chuckled pathetically but he was quiet. He looked down at me expectantly, holding my arms to make me fell surer of myself but ultimately making me feel more cowardice that I retained. “It’s just a little thing; sometimes it’s worse than other times. It’s like a fear,”
“Like a phobia?” he suggested.
“Yes,” I laughed because it was stupid that I kept stopping myself from saying it. “This is difficult.” I smiled at him; he simply wore a poorly concealed look of concern back. I wondered if he was genuinely worried about me, or whether this would affect his experimental apprenticeship, or perhaps whether I had suddenly become too much to handle. I did not let myself shy away from the fact that he made the effort because I was worth it to him. The exact area of value was unknown to me, but logic tells that excess complication loses to care-free simplicity that he could easily have. “Oh, uh, actually I’ll tell you another time,” he looked at me disappointedly. Suddenly I felt slightly hopeful, because his disappointment meant that he wanted to stay or that he wanted to hear what I had had to say. “I was interested about your clothes though.” I supplied awkwardly.
“I met with my parents for lunch,” he said. Then, with no prompting, an expression of determination wove into his face. “Listen to me; I want to know about his phobia. I guessed something was up; you don’t like going out. You prefer me to be at your house, and I know that you like m place; so it’s not that. You don’t like to open up to people, because you don’t need them. I don’t like to open up to people because I don’t need to. We’re both sacrificing our comfort here.” He pleaded with me. “You’re crying.” He started, but leaned in to wipe them with his finger. I had felt the prick of tears but I had not realised that my eyes had taken it seriously.
“It was a moving speech.” I tried. He laughed this time, but let go of my arms.
“Tell me, please,” he whispered, “If you’re being silly enough to think it; you won’t scare me away.”
“It’s no fun competing with an expert,” I admitted to his deduction. I braved up and swallowed hard enough to send the lump in my throat to the pit of my stomach. “I have Agoraphobia, but –” I discontinued the clicking of the cogs in his mind that tried to piece this information into our interaction. “Only dark, open spaces. On bad nights I can’t look out of windows or open the door, or go to the bathroom without a torch, without having a panic attack. On good days I can’t walk further than the streetlight lamps or the moonlight shines. It got worse when I started high school, I like to think that it’s getting better.” I held my finger between his face and mine, “Fingers crossed.”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.03.2011

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