The Sun the Girl and Goodbye

He opens the door.

Moving in from the balcony he notices the clock, which barely makes a hum, is far too loud for him to endure. He unplugs it and looks to the phone, hoping that somehow the two are connected. That if he can stop worrying about the finite amount of time he has here, that they have left, she'll call. She'll realize it too. That it's better to be with him, even if it frightens her, than to let the days ebb away.

He smirks to himself, our poor hero, thinking "they?" Of course after their last encounter there is no "them". She's made it clear. She's run off at the end of every encounter. The one time he got to see her, truly see her, she left under a lie.

Part of him knew she was going. Part of him still thinks she couldn't have been so cruel. All of him knew that wasn't her residence. There's nowhere in the world that a twenty-something surgical student/beginner of her practice, would set down roots like that. Even if she came from money. Even if...

Thoughts can race faster than the world spins. And there is no thought as friction-less as 'if'. 'If' has wings that flutter so fast you can't see a single beat of them. It is useless thinking, and our hero knows that; but what else is he supposed to do with the whole day where he cannot leave the room? She has no other way to reach him. He has no other person to see. So he orders room service for every meal. He showers with the bathroom door open in case she calls. He sits on the balcony; paces on it; moves back to the bed; and flips on and off the news.

He becomes even more of a caged animal. More of his whispers. More of his darkness. More of the things he fights beneath the surface.

'Maybe' is just as fruitless as 'if'. But he asks himself... Maybe this is what she wanted all along?

The phone rings twice before he answers it.

"I will not be seeing you tonight. I thought I should tell you that much."

When he asks her what happened, to tell him, that he deserves an answer — there is only the dial tone.

He looks out at the city; bathed in the sun so that it looks red, and waves goodbye to the Sun, his only friend. Then he lies in bed, hands behind his head and asks the ceiling what his next move should be. When it answers he wonders just who he's becoming.

Then he laughs because he knows he's not becoming anyone. He's reverting.

There are few things as easy to accept as a bribe from a foreigner. Even in the hospitality industry you can always deny it. Allegations are common from finicky customers. He imagines this is more true for Americans; both because they are under more scrutiny; and because there is some truth to the notion of the 'Ugly American' traveler.

So he explains his situation to the girl behind the desk again, this time pulling out his wallet.

"The problem," he says, "is that I keep getting calls that are very short. Very quick short. I feel that there is a problem on the other end of the line but I can't quite make it out."

"Yes sir. You said, sir." Her tone is even. Dutiful. She's a good girl and he's a bad man from another country.

Then, he opens the wallet and pulls out a large bill of local currency.

"But I haven't just been called once." He places it on the counter. "But a second time;" He repeats the process. "And then a third tonight." And the third bill comes down. He stares at her face in such a way that says that he's not even looking at the money. It's not even there.

"I just... I don't know what I..." She looks to the money, to him, to the money.

"Oh that's a very easy answer. See, someone here does your tech. Probably a guy, yes?"

She nods.

"Well, he's going to have access to a switchboard. And that's going to have access to all the numbers that have called me in the last week. If I had that number, I could solve the problem. And if I could solve the problem, I could sleep really, really well. Forget all kinds of things that are weighing me down." He pushes the money over to her now, still not breaking eye contact.

Still, the desk girl hesitates; but at least she doesn't look around. "You say that they called you?"

"Three times."

"And you just want to call them back?"

"I just want to talk to them."

"I mean...." She shrugs, she debates, and she looks to the money again before back to him.

The first two drivers who show up are far too upstanding. They don't know what he could mean, sir. No, they don't know anyone like that, sir. Yes, I'll be happy to take you to another busy road, sir.

But the third? From the moment our hero sees him, he knows the kind of man he's dealing with. The driver seems to know as well. Instead of asking for directions or making small talk in the rear-view he turns all the way around to face the back of the cab. He has a small, slim grin and speaks without the booming greeting that you give foreign money. "And what can I do for you?"

When our hero says that he's looking for a friend that's "good to have when it comes to finding someone", the driver nods. He doesn't even negotiate. He simply turns around and pulls into traffic.

Even when you have no idea what you're expecting, you can still be surprised. The apartment is small, but the building is nice. The walls are only slightly chipped and the neighborhood is quiet. It is more official, less hidden away, than he would have guessed.

He knocks on the door twice with the ball of his fist.

When there is no answer he does it again.

And again.

There is shuffling behind the door. A split-second shift of the light that denotes movement. When nothing happens after that he pulls out his phone, dials her number and calls. There is a faint ring from the inside and then he hears her sigh. Heavy steps bring her to the door. It opens without ceremony and by the time he sees her, she is already turning around, slumped over.

He closes the door behind him and follows her.

The living room is cozy as a nook. It is much simpler in any way than the settings they've been to so far. But it is also honest; real; her.

She sits in a large chair, curls her legs up so that her feet touch the same cushion she rests on, and then wraps her arms around them so that only her eyes peek out over her knees. The fabric she's in, he doesn't even know what to call. It is loose, and looks to be a kind of pyjamas. It hides her.

Our hero takes a step toward her, only to find a cat is in the way. It is docile, and friendlier than its owner by a fair amount. He strokes it and it falls onto the floor, stretching its legs and offering him its belly.

"You are good with animals" she says after a prolonged stroking session.

When he looks back up at her she seems terrified. He believes that cannot be the case. Why allow him in. No, it seems to him that she's playing possum. So he rises, moves over to the other chair in the living room and sits down beside her.

"I knew this would happen, you know? That's why I'm an idiot. I knew that you'd find me, if you wanted." She shrugs, or does as best as she can to imitate it, from her iron-clad position.

He observes her for a few moments longer; his eyes playing over every part of her as she stares ahead.

"That's not what you're talking about, is it? Me finding you isn't what you knew would happen."

She offers a smile to that, rueful as it is. "That's My Mister. Always on."

Finally, she looks to him, eyes puffy. "There's no end game here. There's nothing for us besides the fun we've had. That's what I realized yesterday. I don't want to get any more hurt than I have to... hurt you any more than I have to. So you should go."

"No."

"Compelling argument." She nods. "I can see why you had to fly halfway across the world to find a woman who could put up with you."

"You think that's going to do it? You're going to twist the knife a bit and I'll fly off the handle?"

"No. I just think what every other woman thinks about you. That you're great. That you're wonderful. That you're not worth it." Her eyes are clear, focused. Attacking suits her much better than defense. "You should leave."

"I'm not going to."

"Not here. You've made that clear and you are as stubborn as I am. I mean the country. I mean in three days. You should get back on your plane and remember this as fondly as you can." She rises with poise, ease. "The couch is comfortable but the cat will sleep on you if you stay. Goodnight."

She starts to walk away and he jumps up, getting in front of her. Our hero can see the rage in her eyes.

"I swear," she says, spitting the words, "if you try and hold me; touch me; kiss me... You will go to prison! You will become what your limited vocabulary would call, "an incident", in the media. Go on then. Try me."

Her slap across his face isn't nearly as hard as her words. So he endures it without touching her.

"You mean nothing to me." She slaps him again. "What? Too weak to even stop my hand? Or even, too slow?"

This time she steps forward to slap him again, raises her eyes up to look at him, teeth bared. "Are you fighting yourself? Your nature? That thing you hold back?"

"I'm not."

"Do you know how many men I've lured here?" she laughs. "I can't even keep track anymore."

She raises her hand to slap him again but then makes a fizzling gesture with her fingers. "Not worth it. Goodnight."

Then she walks around him like he's a piece of furniture, slips down the hallway and into a room. It's only after the door doesn't close that he knows what he must do. He walks in after her, moves into the bed and lies down. He makes sure there is distance between them. Silence. Starve the flame. All it wants is for you to give it something else.

So he ignores her mumbling, the things she says out loud, the insults and jeers. He ignores as she takes up the blanket and removes it all from him. How she twists and turns and grumbles.

He ignores the tantrum for more than an hour.

Then, she turns to him and they look at one another. No words, no fury or insult or touching. Just looking. A few minutes pass, though it would be romantic to say it's an hour. But it's only a few minutes, it just seems like more when you're not distracted.

She slides over to him, puts her head against his chest and her free arm over his stomach. "I'm scared of being hurt." It is a small whisper in the night, louder than a gunshot.

So he strokes her hair until she falls asleep and quite a long time after.