I showed up for work the next day in a miserable mood. Within minutes of my arrival, everyone, including the densest, dumbest, the rudest, the crudest, the whole foul, ugly lot of them knew not to fuck with me. Their insinuating smirks and shouts of greeting were met with my silent glower and all conversation quickly diminished to whispers.

By the end of the workweek, the warm front that began Monday culminated into some decent weather. Over the span of four very long days, my anger had evolved into this sad, lonely despair that seemed magnified by the sunshine and the scent of spring in the air. Honestly, I preferred the self-directed anger that reverberated beyond me. It kept everyone away. My new self—drippy and pathetic—invited sympathy and wouldn't even scare away a butterfly from my shoulder.

So when Mike threw a lunch bag in my lap, I mumbled, "thanks," and let him ramble on, "wicked this, and wicked that," one idiotic phrase after another, and I did nothing to make him stop. I even pretended I was listening and not still lost in Skylar's sad blue eyes and soft lips. I missed her so much and she was only in my life for one lousy day!

"So, did you shag her?"

"What? No I didn't shag her! She's engaged to some rich prick. Like I'd even stand a chance!" I was loud enough with shock to turn a few heads, including Van Orden's, who grunted his disapproval, as usual.

"So nothin'? Not even a peck to say thanks? Is that why you've been such a moody son of a bitch?"

I let out a sigh that was bitter with resignation. "I kissed her. All right? And I think I scared her off. I'll probably never see her again." I sniveled that last part out so dejectedly, it was painful to my own ears. I almost felt like I deserved Mike's deep-gutted laughter.

"You'ah in love with that girl! You wanna lay he' down and make BEAU-tiful little MacRae babies!"

"That's not true," I muttered without any conviction.

"Hey, everyone!" he then shouted. "Scotty he'yah is in love!"

There were howls and whistles. I stood up, nodded, and raised one hand to accept the joke that was on me. Then, through clenched teeth, I said, "You're an asshole."

I walked away, angry again, but lucky for Mike and half the crew, I wasn't nearly as angry as I was a few days earlier. I was more prone to tears at that moment than I was to violence.

God! The unrequited love shit was just awful!

I went back to work—lost, friendless, womanless, loveless, and soon enough . . . homeless.

Hours later, when I finally stopped to look around, I realized almost everyone had left for the day. I was stacking the last of the lobster cages, distracted again by the work and the depressing reality that I had nothing to do for the weekend. Then, out of nowhere, there was grip on my shoulder.

I clutched my chest at the sight of Van Orden's cranky face. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"And you should be more careful, boy."

"What do you know, old man?" I turned back around, leaned and lifted, leaned and lifted, hoping he would leave me alone.

"You won't be able to hide forever, and when she finds you . . . if you think she'll leave that sweet young teacher alone just 'cause she's human . . . think again."

I stood up straight, my spine tightened. Then I turned my head to peer at him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Don't worry, boy. Your secret's safe. Because if she finds me. . ." Van Orden leaned his head down and pushed up his collar, revealing his fairy mark. "I'm dead too."

I only got a quick look, but I saw what I needed to. His mark was a diagonal, four-dotted triangle with a fifth dot aligned with the center two.

The spear, fairies of Viking origin called it. Those of them who settled in Newfoundland supposedly went extinct over a hundred years ago courtesy of Pyxis and the Sauvageau Dynasty. But, then again, my kind was supposed to be gone too, yet there I stood, living, breathing proof that Queen Andromeda, my VERY-ex-wife, could never rid the world of us all. She may have considered my kind and Van Orden's kind "unworthy" because we're wingless, but we would always have one distinct advantage—size-shifting. Van Orden and I are Modifiers. We can go between the fairy world at four inches tall, give or take, and a world Andromeda could never be a part of—the human one.

Seeing his mark made my own mark tingle—four dots in the shape of a diamond. I knew there were others like me out there, but Van Orden was the first one I had encountered in my seven "human" years. We couldn't exactly embrace our heritage and flaunt our marks with pride. So we lived in hiding, scared, isolated, powerless, no defense, no communication. We would need an army of thousands to end the carnage and building one was not practical or realistic.

Later that evening, I cracked open the window above my bed and moved the heavy curtains aside to let in some air and a dash of light. Otherwise, I was in the dark. I didn't want anyone to know I was there, not that anyone ever stopped by.

I sifted through my record collection and selected Pink Floyd. It was a Dark Side of the Moon kind of night.

https://youtu.be/mrojrDCI02k

Then I lit up a vice I'd rather not mention and collapsed on my bed.

This was how I intended to spend the rest of the evening. Some life, huh? How many more years, I wondered, could I live like this? Thirty, forty, fifty years? However old Van Orden was?

I would be just like him someday. It made me consider the alternative . . . surrender. I could go back to Pyxis and end the search. The fairy world would probably be grateful. Perhaps Andromeda might leave everyone else alone if she was no longer looking for me.

My thoughts soon drifted to Skylar . . . again. My imagination was stuck in a cycle. On the upswing was pure want, me acting upon my deepest desire, no inhibitions, no consequences. It was have, have, have and have again.

Gradually that fantasy was punctured with hard reality. She had a fiancé. She ran away when I kissed her. She had a difficult father and came from money. There were high expectations for her and I didn't meet any of them. Those were human problems, though, and I had a whole slew of ugly things going through my head as well. If something were to happen to her because of me, how would I ever forgive myself?

I did my best to push the blood, fire, and destruction from mind and returned to my happy place. The girl I wanted more than anything was beneath me, willing, eager, and. . .

Unexpectedly, I did get a knock on my door. I shifted to four inches tall, immediately, for my own protection and disappeared beneath my pillow.

The second series of knocks were accompanied by a voice. "Scott, are you there?" It was her! Not the bad her, but the good her . . . Skylar!

How did she find me? Maybe she asked around town. More people must have known where I lived than I realized.

I shifted back and not very efficiently either. I was stoned, anxious, and the transformation requires extreme focus and practice, especially during tense moments. I managed, though, and said, "Just a minute," once I was back to size.

I threw open the window as far as it would go and waved out the smell. Then I had to locate my clothes. My jeans and underwear were in a tangled wad on the bed, thankfully not burnt to a crisp.

I fumbled to get both on, zipped up, buckled, and then I couldn't find a shirt. I wasn't wearing one before, I hadn't done laundry yet, and . . . I picked up a questionably clean flannel shirt from the floor and started buttoning it.

After that, I flipped on my lamp, because me? Alone in the dark? That would just be weird. But then I saw the state of my apartment. It was worse than the outcome of a natural disaster—tornado, hurricane, whatever. Magic was my only option. I whooshed everything loose and light into my closet. The room was still a mess, but it was a dramatic improvement.

Before I opened the door, I took a deep breath. "Hi," I said, trying to play it cool, like I wasn't just picturing her . . . uh . . . well. . .

Her eyes went wide, her cheeks filled with color, and her lips were on the brink of laughter. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?"

I looked down at myself. I don't think there was a single button latched in the right location. And one flap of my shirt was tucked under itself, therefore exposing about a quarter of my stomach.

"Hold on." I backed behind the door and re-buttoned my shirt. "Is that better?" I said when I popped back out.

"Yes, better."

I raked my hand through my mop of overgrown hair, which I'm sure was a mess too. "Good. I wouldn't want this moment to be awkward."

She laughed, thank the fairy gods, and seemed more at ease after that. "Sorry to barge in on you like this. . . ."

"It's not a problem."

From behind her back she swung forward a picnic basket and I caught a whiff of what was inside—warm bread and something with home-cooked chicken in it. And suddenly I was soooooo hungry, and looking her over, it wasn't just for food.

Her hair was long and down, and she was wearing an eye-catching white blouse, her cleavage on display more than I had seen before. It was finally spring, after all! And the very, very best part about her was what she wasn't wearing. As she was settling on the right words to say, her fingers were twisting over the basket handle. They were beautifully in the nude.

Was her fiancé gone for now, gone for good, or unaware that his ring wasn't on her finger? It almost didn't matter. She took it off, and for that reason alone, I almost believed I was hallucinating.

"I'm here to apologize," she started. "I invited you out the other day. I insisted actually, and I probably gave you all the wrong signals. Then I ran off like that, without explaining, or thanking you for a . . . nice time. My behavior was inexcusable and I'm sorry. So this is a peace offering." She presented the basket to me. "And I hope you can forgive me."

"Forgive you?" I chuckled. "I'm the one who was out of line."

"No, you were . . . fine." She blushed and shook her head at her choice of words. "So what do you say? Are you hungry?"

"Starving..."

~~~

Pink Floyd. Breathe (1973).

https://youtu.be/mrojrDCI02k