The Taste of You

I paced the sidewalk in front of Will's apartment. It was almost ten o'clock, and Will would be ticked if I didn't show up soon. Will's Rules of Proper Party Etiquette stated that you should arrive between fifteen and thirty minutes late. You could leave when you wanted, so long as you stayed long enough to greet everyone, have a pleasant exchange with the host and/or hostess, and devise a subtle exit strategy.

I wanted to show up an hour late, talk to no one, and bolt for the door after ten minutes. But mostly, I wanted to stamp my foot into the concrete and shout, "I won't go."

But it didn't matter. In the end, I'd still go inside, still hug Will, whisper a happy birthday in his stupid ear, and pretend to enjoy myself.

I remembered that I hadn't always been so hermit-like. I'd been quite a party girl in college and in my early vampire life, mostly because I was hanging out with Will, and that's what Will did. Science and celebration. Biology and bash.

I tried to imagine a pre-vampiric Will, twenty, a student by day, hippie by night, sure that freedom and love and heroin were what kept the earth spinning, sure that if he were still and quiet enough, he could feel it spin. That picture made sense with the Will I knew, but I didn't know if it was true. Maybe his nine-to-two parties emerged later as a way to show off his boringly clean apartment.

Go inside. Don't think about it. Just think about the stairs. Just think about how you walked up them just last night and there was nothing more terrifying than poorly-conceived innuendos at the top. And those only hurt for a little while. Then you can go home to Mary Higgins Clark or M. C. Beaton. Make a cup of apple cider to make the house smell pretty, then wash your mouth out with it before you pour it out. It'll be like Christmas.

I kicked a lamppost and climbed the stairs.