Prometheus (LGBT+) ✔

7. Ἐντυχήματα (Encounters)

"Again?" Emile laughs.

I fall in step with him. "How was your day?"

"Good, actually. The students were in a good mood. Asked questions, answered questions. You know how it is. What about you?"

I draw a blank. This is why I had better followed him to his house or rung the bell – anything but talked to him. "I decided it'd be better for my health to take some time off."

"Your health? You shouldn't go out if you're ill!"

"Uhm ... Mental health?"

Emile draws out a moment of silence. "So ... What do you do then, if you're not teaching?"

"Mostly my Bacchylides translation."

"Right. You mentioned that already. He was a poet, you said?"

"Yes. Sixth century BC. He wrote choral songs."

"Songs? But you just said he was a poet."

"Most genres were poetry back then. We know they were meant to be performed with music. That's why it's called lyrical poetry – they were accompanied by a lyre. We just don't have the music anymore, only accents."

"What do accents have to do with music? I'm sorry; I'm not a musician."

"I'm not one either; only a former choir boy. But in Greek, there were accents for different pitches."

"I remember that! It's clearly been too long since I even thought about Greek."

We keep chatting about Greek and Latin and Emile's school-time and arrive at Emile's house way too soon. It'd be suspicious to ask for the bathroom again and I already feel guilty for what I'm going to do. When he turns to face me, I step up and bite and drink, but every swallow has to pass through a block in my throat. I'll never get used to this. I don't want to because if I do, it means I truly have become a monster. The guilt often feels like the last thread of my humanity, so I cling to it even when it hollows me out from the inside.

Emile slumps and I fish his keys out of his pocket and drag him inside. I'm not strong enough to do better. I leave him on the couch in his living room and look for the pills. There is a full bottle. Dammit. I'll have to take less and come back sooner, so they don't notice the bottle is too empty.

Should I pour in a glass of water for Emile?

I leave Emile on the couch, no water. The fewer traces that I've been inside, the better.

***

"Hello, Dante. In need of a conversation partner again?" Emile smiles at me and the familiarity of his wrinkles is like a stab in my heart. My victims should be just faces in the shadows and the taste of blood. The only one who wasn't, turned into a recurring nightmare. I don't want Emile to be another nightmare.

"How are you doing? Have you been working on your translation?"

"I have. What about you?"

"I went to see a play yesterday. Best I've seen all year."

"What did you see?"

We're several streets farther when Emile finishes talking about the actors and the text and the music and the décor. He's so ... enthusiastic. He always asks questions, but he never tells something about himself. Neither do I – at least not spontaneously – but I've got more reason to be secretive.

When we're at Emile's door, he asks: "Do you want to come in for a moment?"

An invisible fist squeezes my heart. Such trust. "I'd like that."