Batofar

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan could feel his pulse work its way into his palms. Especially as Solange inched closer to him. Typically at this point in a conversation, she was rolling her eyes or walking off. And instead, her eyes seemed riveted to his. They were wider than Tristan remembered ever seeing them, as if they just couldn’t absorb everything that was happening right now. Tristan knew the feeling. How was Solange here? Why was she talking to him? Was she really headed his way? Why were his feet glued to the floor?

In the dim light of the bar, it even looked like Solange was smiling at him. Which couldn’t be right at all. She’d smiled at him earlier in the month, during the Great Hearse Debacle, and surely had reached her monthly smiling-at-Tristan quota.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you..." she said.

Tristan swallowed. He wished he had another martini or two for this conversation. Instead, he had an empty glass with an olive and a toothpick that he didn’t want to play with anymore because it looked nervous and fidgety and Solange was staring at him and she already probably thought he was nervous and fidgety enough as a general rule…

"What are you even doing here, Tristan?" she asked. "I wouldn't have exactly pegged you as the kind of guy who frequented a place like this."

“I can go out drinking wherever I want,” Tristan said. He rapped his knuckles on the bar to hopefully get the bartender’s attention. He was getting that second martini as if to prove that he had as much a right to be here as Solange with her fancy dress and accusatory tone. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be some place… I don’t know … trendier or something?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

“I can go out drinking wherever I want,” Tristan asserted, giving a rap on the bar to get the bar tender's attention. Obviously he was wanting another...martini? Tristan liked martinis? Another thing to add to the growing list of things she didn't know about him. Why should she know these things? He was her boss! Their relationship was to be strictly professional. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be some place… I don’t know … trendier or something?”

At least that's what he said. Of course, all Solange heard was him calling her stuck-up. Her jaw clenched and she did her best to level him with a glare. "I can go out drinking wherever I want," she repeated haughtily. She grabbed her drink again with every intention of storming off back to her friends, knowing this would only make things even more awkward come Monday morning.

However, as she whirled around she came face to face with a man about her age with obviously gelled hair and wearing cheap cologne. As he smiled at her, she recognized him as the man who had bought her drink for her. Apparently he had gotten the courage to actually come and talk to her which she really wasn't in the mood for at the moment. "Hey...I'm Garret," he introduced himself.

She composed herself best she could. "I'm Solange. Thank you for the drink..." she replied softly with a polite smile.

"Of course! Anything for a beautiful woman," he said grinning, obviously trying to play it smooth and not pulling it off. "I was sort of hoping that it might score me a dance with you, though..."

"Oh, I don't know if that's such a good idea..." she said, trying to come up with a way out. It suddenly clicked and instantly she knew she was going to regret it later. It would have to do for now. "You see, I'm here with my boyfriend. He gets jealous really easily."

Garret raised an eyebrow and looked around. "So, where is he?"

Solange took a step back and sat on the stool next to Tristan, looping her arm through his. "He's right here! This is my boyfriend Tristan," she said, turning to Tristan and giving him a desperate look, hoping he'd get it and play along long enough to get this Garret guy out of her hair.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

If Tristan had to imagine Solange out on the town, he imagined her in some place where people drank fine wines and the music was soft and swingy. She’d sit at the bar, drink in her hand, cool gaze fixed on the dance floor until a dapper dan swept her off her feet and out for a whirlwind tango. Or maybe she’d prefer a club where the only thing higher than the patrons was the hemlines. Electronica would pump through that bar, drawing Solange out to dance, pressed to a guy ironically wearing chinos…

F*ck. Why was he thinking about this? Why could he see it all so clearly?

And why was Solange glaring at him like that?

Oh, wait. That was normal. The world was still spinning on its axis. Life went on. Oblah-dee, oblah-dah. Still, was it something Tristan had said? All he’d said was that Solange didn’t seem like the type to settle for a place like Batofar, where the drinks were average and the DJ had fallen asleep at the turntables an hour ago. She wasn’t just looking for a cheap escape from the inevitability of death.

Right?

"I can go out drinking wherever I want,” Solange said, spitting Tristan’s own words back at him as though they’d left a particularly nasty taste in her mouth.

“I just meant—“

But Tristan didn’t get the opportunity to say what he’d meant. Solange was leaving and some douchebag with slicked back hair materialized beside her. Tristan smelled him before he saw him – which was a rare occurrence for a man whose sense of smell was so deadened by working with formaldehyde and decay seven days a week. Clearly, the other guy smelled something fierce. Tristan turned back to the bartender. Clearly, his time was up.

“Can I get another one of these?” he asked, shelling out a few bills. “Except maybe in a highball glass, extra gin?”

The bartender shook his head, but obliged, straining chilled gin and vermouth into a glass easily twice the size of the stupid cocktail glass Tristan had had before. He could still smell gel-boy and Tristan could only hope that the martini would kill his burgeoning headache. He took a swig, not bothering to toast since there really wasn’t anything worth celebrating tonight at all. He would go home soon enough to his empty apartment and Solange would remain the only girl he’d been stupid enough to engage in conversation. He was not making an *ss out of himself for anyone else tonight.

And then something warm made contact with Tristan’s arm. He gagged on his drink and set it down too hard, spilling martini on the bar in front of him and soaking his complimentary napkin straight through. Someone was touching him. He looked to see that it was Solange.

"He's right here!” she chirruped. “This is my boyfriend Tristan."

At least Tristan had made his scene with his drink already. Because if he’d had his martini in his hand right now, it would have sloshed all down the front of his white shirt or – perhaps worse – Solange’s fancy dress. He looked at his secretary.

No. Not looked. Stared.

His eyes now took up most of his face. Solange was looking at him like she’d never looked at him before. Like she needed him. And holy cow, did that look do number on him. Tristan felt tight tingling split him in half. How drunk did Solange have to be to call him her boyfriend? How drunk was she if she meant it?

And then he saw that gel-boy was still there, looking as if someone had just kicked his puppy.

“B-boyfriend?” he sputtered, practically squeaking.

It wasn’t as though the thought had never crossed his mind. It was all Torben’s fault, really, since he would sometimes ask if Tristan was ever going to propose to Solange. But Tristan had thought that was a joke, saying that they fought like an old married couple. Not that they were – not that they should… Well, she was very pretty. And she was smart. Much smarter than Tristan. He swallowed, hard, Adam’s apple clearly visible and easily felt on his throat. But he wasn’t her type. Her type could not be twenty-eight year old funeral directors who lived in shitty apartments with their pet Madagascar hissing cockroaches. Right?

“Solange…” he whispered. “I’m… um… I’m flattered. Really, I am. Like, you probably have no idea how flattered I am right now. But if you want to dance with this guy, I’m not gonna stop you. He looks harmless…”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

There wasn't anything wrong with Garret, really. He was probably a nice enough guy. Call it woman's intuition, but Solange had a feeling that if she gave into this request for a dance, he was the type that simply wouldn't leave her alone. The poor guy was trying way too hard and Solange was not exactly in the mood to be dealing with his advances all night. As far as she could see she really only had one option at this point. The same guy she had been storming off from before running into Garret had become her only chance at getting out of this mess.

He gave a start as she touched his arm, setting his drink down too hard and soaking the bar in front of them. At the introduction as her boyfriend he looked at her with his eyes were wide in shock, almost comically so. Solange might have laughed if the situation were not so important. “B-boyfriend?” he said, his normally deep voice reaching a squeak. Really, was the idea of being her boyfriend that repulsive?!

“Solange…” Tristan whispered. “I’m… um… I’m flattered. Really, I am. Like, you probably have no idea how flattered I am right now. But if you want to dance with this guy, I’m not gonna stop you. He looks harmless…”

Solange had to resist the urge to stomp on his foot or kick his shin...anything to make him realize she needed him to play along. Just for a short while. Garret was still standing close by and had likely just heard her 'jealous boyfriend' say it was fine for her to go and dance with him. The last thing she needed was Tristan to visibly react to any kind of prodding.

Solange gave a light laugh, moving to slide a hand over Tristan's. "Baby, come on. Don't be mad about the other guy! You know he's just a friend..." she said coyly. "Why would I want to dance with him when you are my boyfriend." She emphasized the last few words, willing Tristan to get the hint and hopefully play along.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Sometimes, Tristan thought he would absolutely never understand women. When he was in mortuary school in America, he’d had a girlfriend named Lilli. Lilli wore a lip piercing and fishnet gloves and she studied costume design at the art school a few blocks from the mortuary science academy. They’d met at a friend’s party, exchanged numbers, and then she’d started to send him texts asking what he was doing this weekend, telling him when she had days off, and once in the middle of the night texting him to ask what he was wearing. He didn’t realize those were some sort of sign she liked him until the next time their friend threw a party and they’d seen each other again. She smacked him across the face when he walked in before shoving him up against the door and making out with him in front of all of their friends. It was only then that Tristan realized that maybe she wanted to go out with him.

But Solange hadn’t given him any signs like that. Not really. Not unless you counted the Great Hearse Debacle, during which she’d told him he’d done something amazing and smiled at him in a way that made his stomach turn to putty. Was that a sign?

But there was absolutely no way Solange fancied Tristan. They fought too much. They fought constantly. They’d kill each other after a week of dating and then Tristan wouldn’t have a secretary. Actually, he would probably be the one dead. Solange was tougher than he was. She didn’t need a guy like Tristan in her life, other than to sign her paychecks.

But she’d called him her boyfriend, which was might have been the grown-up equivalent to making out at a college party. Tristan didn’t know. After he and Lilli broke up… Or, well… They never technically had. Tristan just graduated mortuary school and returned to France. After that, they just gradually stopped speaking. He hadn’t thought about this in a long time and now he wondered why Solange wanted to be his girlfriend, since Tristan was a really awful boyfriend. His only other girlfriend had been a French-Haitian woman named Aimee a year after that. She laughed at his jokes and didn’t get mad when the morgue called in the middle of their third date and instead rode along with him to transport the body. He’d thought that was going well for nearly three years until she told him she could never see herself married to a guy who “wasn’t a real grown up”. Whatever that meant. And though he was still essentially the same Tristan who wasn’t “a real grown up” four years ago, Solange wanted him. Solange, who deserved a guy who looked good in a suit instead of like an undertaker. Solange, who probably wanted romantic third dates with no corpses involved whatsoever. Solange, whose text messages read something like: “I can't wait for you much longer” about work, never about sex. Had he missed something?

You know, come to think of it… Tristan never had and never would understand women.

But he understood how he felt when Solange’s soft hand slipped over his and she laced her fingers with his. Something white hot and tingly pressed in his diaphragm and started to drip flames into his stomach. Tristan had to purse his lips and breathe out slowly to keep from doing anything stupid.

Because what man in his right mind wouldn’t be beyond flattered at this point? Solange de Grace was an educated, beautiful, sometimes-funny woman and she was calling Tristan her boyfriend and holding his hand and leaning in towards him like he meant something special to her. His mind was blank and suddenly, the idea of “signs” seemed stupid. Immaterial. Right here, right now, Solange was acting as if Tristan was really her boyfriend and not her maddening boss. Who cared what prompted this change? Who cared that she hadn’t shown an ounce of interest in him in the last eight months they’d worked together? She smelled really nice and her laugh was just shy of musical. She wasn’t laughing at him for once and when Tristan finally dared to look at her properly, he realized that there was a coy smile tugging at her lips. It was a kind of smile he’d never seen on her before; one he wanted to see more of.

"Baby, come on. Don't be mad about the other guy! You know he's just a friend..." said Solange. Other guy? What other guy? For a minute, Tristan had been pretty sure he and SOlange were completely alone. Because there was no way she’d call him her ‘boyfriend’ or ‘baby’ in public. But a quick, nervous glance over Solange’s shoulder reminded Tristan that they were being watched by a total stranger. He looked back at Solange and smiled. Nervously. Very, very nervously. "Why would I want to dance with him when you are my boyfriend."


So she was serious about being his girlfriend, then? Tristan didn’t need to be told twice. In fact, Solange never told him anything twice. A lopsided smile found its way to his lips. He ran his thumb over the sensitive, back part of Solange’s hand.

“I didn’t realize you cared so much,” Tristan murmured.

His lips felt like they were buzzing when he was talking, but his voice sounded like his own. Well, sort of. It was firmer, deeper than he remembered it being around Solange. It surprised him how well he was taking this idea; how calmly, how he was seriously considering this as an option. What about work? What if things inevitably went wrong and they broke up and they hated each other more than they had eight months ago and then he never saw her again? She’d quit and he’d be alone in the funeral home. And even though he hated it when Solange made fun of him, he had grown accustomed to her presence there. And now – despite apprehension – he was looking forward to seeing her at work, just to know that this had really happened. He leaned forward – not as fluidly as a more romantic figure would have, but as gracefully as he could given the circumstances – and tucked a stray strand of Solange’s hair behind her ear, just to make sure she was really here. She felt real enough, warm and soft with hair more touchable than cashmere. She was here and f*ck the consequences. She was his girlfriend.


Clearly a portal to an alternate universe had yawned open and swallowed them whole where things like this were possible.

“So, if you aren’t gonna dance with him, why don’t we... umm... hit the floor instead?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange watched as something crossed over Tristan's face. A new understanding seemed to set in and Solange almost let out a sigh of relief. He was finally getting it! All he had to do was play along and act like he was her boyfriend for a little bit, at least until Garret left, and everything could go back to normal. Really, she wondered briefly if she even had a right to ask him to help her out like this after the way she'd been about to storm off. Well, he'd been the one to call her stuck up! This was the least he owed her!

He gave her a small smile, his thumb running over her hand that rest over his. There was a swift feeling like she was suddenly punched in the gut and she had resist the urge to jerk her hand away. It felt surprisingly nice, but this whole situation was just so bizarre she couldn't help it. Still, the way he looked her, he could be a damn good actor when he wanted to be.

“I didn’t realize you cared so much,” he said and her eyes widened slightly as he leaned close and tucked some hair back behind her ear.

Wait...he knew this was an act, right? Suddenly Solange wasn't quite so sure. Surely he knew! Why else would be he so receptive to the idea? With a smile she leaned her head against his shoulder. Garret was still watching and looking none too happy. It was obvious he was completely buying their act. She just gazed over at him from where her head rest on Tristan's shoulder and gave a small shrug as if to say 'told ya'.

“So, if you aren’t gonna dance with him, why don’t we... umm... hit the floor instead?” Tristan suggested.

Solange lifted her head and smiled at him the way a teen girl smiles at her first real boyfriend, all giddy and giggly. Dancing would definitely be a nice touch and it would get her away from the bar. "That sounds great," she said happily, taking a last sip of her drink and standing. She grabbed Tristan's hand and pulled him in the direction of the dance floor. As they went she kept glancing behind her to make sure Garret wasn't following them.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange smiled at Tristan again; a different smile this time. As if the coy smile hadn’t surprised him enough, she now looked beside herself with excitement at the prospect of dancing with him. And that curveball threw Tristan more than the coy smile or the terms of endearment had. She smiled coyly all the time; it was usually a nasty coy, but coy nonetheless. And there was nothing that ruled out sarcasm. So why was she giggling now? That just didn’t seem like Solange at all.

It’s a trap, he thought suddenly, bottom of his stomach dropping out with a thud. She’s going to get you out on that dance floor and ask for a raise or something.

And even knowing that, Tristan didn’t think he’d be able to say “no” like a rational person if Solange did ask him for a raise. He’d probably agree to any terms she named for the brief and dizzying high he’d gotten at thinking for a moment that she could possibly be his girlfriend.

"That sounds great," Solange said, turning to finish her drink. Tristan grabbed his martini and chugged as much of it down as he could before Solange started pulling him towards the dance floor. Liquid courage. He’d need it. And it wasn’t nearly enough. Instead of feeling foggy and happy, Tristan was acutely aware of Solange’s hand in his and the way his stomach quivered on the inside. This was a trap, an act, a trick, a way to get back at Tristan for some perceived wrong. But whatever it was for Solange, whatever Tristan had felt when Solange first took his hand and called him “baby” had been real. And what he felt now – confusion, embarrassment, desire – that was real, too. Which was… fantastic. Because the last thing Tristan needed right now was to have a crush on his secretary and become a walking cliché.

Hell, the last thing he needed was to have a crush on Solange. She was bossy and sarcastic and irritating. He didn’t need her and her snark, her wit, her cerulean eyes—

sh*t. Did I just think ‘cerulean’?

This was worse than Tristan thought. She was going to ask him for a raise and he was mooning over her eyes. Which meant that he’d say “yes” and have to reallocate the budget tomorrow. And chances were, she wouldn’t be with him in the morning when he sat at his kitchen table crunching numbers. Tonight would just be another entry in the “Bad Decisions Made by Tristan Vidal” file.

They reached the edge of the dance floor, still holding hands. Now Tristan was at a loss. He’d asked for a dance from her and here he was, about to dance with her. And instead of making the most of it, he realized that he hadn’t danced in a long while and his two left feet would probably piss Solange off. He looked at her and gave a small shrug.

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking over his shoulder. He followed Solange’s gaze to see that gel-boy was watching them. And he still looked like someone had kicked his puppy. Somehow, that seemed to be connected to Solange’s sudden infatuation with Tristan…

Oh.

Tristan was disappointed that this wasn’t even about work. At least if she was pushing his buttons to get a raise, it meant that she was playing him like a piano and would possibly do it again in the future. Tristan had surprising few qualms about that, since he’d kind of enjoyed the attention. But no, it wasn’t even about that. It was about some tool at the bar. Tristan was a prop. He wasn’t even a person who had something Solange wanted. He was just convenient.

Tristan wondered if what he was about to do would be sexual harassment in the workplace. But seeing as they weren’t at work, and seeing that Solange had started this mess, he wrenched an approximation of a flirtatious smile to his lips and he put his hands on the small of Solange’s back, reeling her in close to him so that they were pressed to each other. He was going to make this as hard for her as it was for him.

“So, tell me, babe,” Tristan asked, dropping his voice down low and trying to keep his wounded pride in check. “Whatever took you so long to confess your feelings for me?”

But as he waited for a response, it dawned on Tristan that there was no way to make this more difficult for Solange than it was for him. What had he been thinking, reeling her in like that? This was the closest they’d ever been to one another and Tristan could feel the hair on the back of his neck and his arms stand on end, waiting in anticipation of something exciting that would never come. Earlier tonight, he’d wondered if he could still feel anguish.

Yes, he really could. And it was terrible.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

As they walked towards the dance floor, she was grateful to see that Garret wasn't following and was returning to his seat. Though she mentally cursed as she glanced back over Tristan's shoulder and saw that he was still watching the two of them with a pathetic looking expression on his face. It looked like their little charade wasn't going to end there. Not if Garret insisted on watching them the rest of the night.

Her heart gave a sudden lurch in her chest as Tristan pulled her close, hands resting on the small of her back. Looking up at him now she saw the flirtatious looking grin on his lips. He was still playing along with her...right? “So, tell me, babe,” he said, dripping with sarcasm, deep voice reverberating through his chest. “Whatever took you so long to confess your feelings for me?”

So he was mocking her now?! A brief glare narrowed her eyes before it melted just as quickly. She couldn't let Garret see it lest he come in to rescue her from a fight with her 'boyfriend'. Instead she slid her arms around his neck and did her best to keep looking happy. "Oh, you know...Didn't want things to be weird between us at work," she muttered with the same sarcasm he'd used.

Glancing back towards Garret she saw he'd gone back to his drink, but would likely be looking back at them soon. She sighed and looked level with Tristan's shoulder, unable to meet his gaze for the next part of what she was about to say. "Look, I just wanted to say, um, thank you...for helping me," she said. "I know you didn't have to play along, but you did, so thank you."

See, she could act like a grown-up when she wanted to.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Solange glared at him, Tristan didn’t feel his usual dose of self-satisfaction for riling her up. Instead, something cold and sharp pricked in his chest. He wasn’t funny; he wasn’t good at being coy. He wasn’t even a useful prop or co-conspirator in her plot to get away from gel-boy. And he most definitely wasn’t Solange’s boyfriend. He was just Tristan, her boss, the same guy who annoyed her every day. Nothing had changed fundamentally between them. And that was good.

Right?

But then Solange slipped her arms around Tristan’s neck and he knew – knew – that telling himself things like ‘everything is normal and good’ didn’t make them true. Electricity jolted down his spine and he could suppress a shiver, but he couldn’t say it was easy to do.

"Oh, you know...Didn't want things to be weird between us at work," Solange muttered. And though they’d both been sarcastic – and Tristan totally deserved a sarcastic response – her response stabbed deep into his pride. He smiled anyways. That’s what he told Torben when his teasing got to be too much. Solange and I work together. We’re professionals. And even though a large part of Tristan was saying “Hang professionalism!”, he knew that pressing the issue was bad road.

Because things would inevitably sour between them. He had to remind himself that. That if he was truly interested in Solange, it would be better to keep his mouth shut because nothing was built to last. At least, nothing Tristan had ever built lasted. Something better, something sturdier or shinier or handsomer always came along. And Tristan couldn’t afford to lose Solange at work over a crush that he might someday get past. She looked beyond him again, back at the bar. Tristan didn’t follow her gaze this time. She was looking for gel-boy and evidently, he was still watching because Solange still had her arms around Tristan’s neck. Why else would she stick around?

"Look, I just wanted to say, um, thank you...for helping me," said Solange. She didn’t look up or even try to and instead her eyes remained fixed on Tristan’s shoulder. It was probably better that way because Tristan’s eyes stung. He hated bars like this where they ignored “No Smoking” codes. And he hated talks like this, too, where everyone was supposed to be emotionally honest and he didn’t want to be. "I know you didn't have to play along, but you did, so thank you."

“Right, yeah. Of course,” Tristan mumbled. Then, trying his luck one last time, he added with a self-deprecating little smile, “For what it’s worth, this was probably the best relationship I’ve been in, even if it was fake.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Honestly, Solange couldn't remember the last time she had actually danced with a guy. At Cambridge she had been far to busy with class work and assignments to even bother going out dancing with a guy and after that she had been too busy taking care of her grandmother. And after her grandmother had passed away she hadn't exactly felt up to spending a night out dancing. In fact, this was probably her first night out since her grandmother had passed away, let alone her first dance with a guy. She couldn't exactly say she had expected that guy to be Tristan either.

She got the distinct feeling that Tristan was never going to let her live this down. It would more than likely provide him with material to use against her for a long time to come. She was kind of dreading going into work, knowing that he would probably just be poking fun at her about this the whole time. Still, he had helped her out in a tough situation and for that she was grateful. So she managed to bring herself to tell him thank you.

“Right, yeah. Of course,” he said and she looked up from his shoulder to see him give a little smile. “For what it’s worth, this was probably the best relationship I’ve been in, even if it was fake.”

Solange thought about that for a moment and suddenly came to the realization that it was the same for her. Not even going into how long it had been since she'd been in a relationship (for the same reasons as she hadn't been dancing in so long), her relationships had mainly been in her goth phase which was obviously meant they were filled with childish drama. At least in this 'relationship' she'd had with Tristan, she (or ever she had been pretending to be) had the typical giddy, head-over-heels in love kind of relationship. She wasn't sure if that was really what she wanted, but it was kind of nice for a change.

"I think it was my best one too," she said, shock obvious in her voice. She shook her head and sighed softly. Suddenly this was really getting to her. "Damn...what does that say about us that our best relationship was one that was fake?"

It was a rare moment of camaraderie with Tristan. It was like a breeze hitting you a hot summer day...nice, but she doubt it could last.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Of course, Tristan had a real relationship with Solange outside of this bar. He’d had a relationship with her for the last eight months. It wasn’t romantic, but it was something. And fake or not, it really was the best relationship Tristan had ever had with a woman. They weren’t friends in a conventional sense of the word, but they were unlikely allies in an industry that was viewed with mingled curiosity and suspicion. They were verbal sparring partners; she kept him on his toes, kept him from getting lazy or overly apathetic. She kept things interesting and made him simultaneously look forward to and dread going into the office.

And, of course, the next time they saw each other, that would be the relationship they had with one another. They would be irritated and irritating. They would probably snap at each other a couple times and not apologize. It would be business as usual.

Because there was no way Tristan would have the guts to mention tonight in the light of day.

If he brought it up, Solange would sneer. She’d remind him that he had been a prop tonight; that there was nothing there. No reason to feel anything about tonight. And if Tristan brought it up, it would be clear that he felt something he shouldn’t have.

So tomorrow, no matter what, it would be business as usual. And if Tristan smiled at Solange when she wasn’t looking, it was nobody’s business but his own. And hopefully, he would keep his mouth shut until whatever he was feeling passed and things really were business as usual.

Right now, though, this wasn’t “business as usual”. Right now, Tristan held Solange a little more tightly, a little closer than strictly necessary to create the illusion of intimacy. Because this moment wasn’t coming again and he had one shot at dancing with Solange and seeing this softer side of her. He didn’t want to mess it up.

But then there was silence. And Tristan thought he’d killed the mood, being too uncomfortably honest and taking things a step too far. He always took things too far. A little crease appeared between Solange’s brows. Tristan wondered if she was thinking, What kind of pathetic loser’s best relationship is a fake? Because now, he was thinking that and waiting for Solange to stamp on his foot or something.

"I think it was my best one too," Solange said.

She didn’t sound sarcastic at all. Instead, she sounded shocked. Like she couldn’t believe that she and Tristan had something in common. That they had this in common. Tristan wondered what kind of sleazebags she’d dated before him, if this was her best relationship. Surely, there had been a guy somewhere in Solange’s past that was her ‘one that got away’ or something. Everyone was supposed to have that one person who was so great that slipped through their fingers.

"Damn...” Solange said, still sounding totally gob-smacked. “What does that say about us that our best relationship was one that was fake?"

“Probably that we’re generally unlovable individuals with attachment issues,” Tristan said, totally deadpan. And then he cracked a smile and shrugged. “I have no clue, actually.”

Tristan wanted to know, though. He wanted to know why Solange had said that this – this ten minute, fake romance – was the best relationship she’d been in. She had nothing to gain by lying to him and she wasn’t the type to dole out flattery.

Tristan knew why it was his best. The women he’d dated, and those he’d failed to date, came second to his work. And to top it off, he wasn’t an easy person to love. He never had been; even as a kid, he’d failed to secure love from his parents and perhaps even from his uncle. And maybe it was true. Maybe he was a generally unlovable individual (Gwen would tell him differently if she could hear his self-talk right now). But Solange was not unlovable. She was irritating. She had a mean streak. But at least she was smart and pretty and told jokes that made people laugh. She was lovable, all right. And someday, she would probably fall in love. Maybe it wouldn’t be sweet or traditional, but it would be something and it would be better than the faux-mance she and Tristan were currently enjoying.

And Tristan would still be married to his job. That was the horrifying truth of it all. He was attached to something that didn’t love him back, couldn’t love him back. And he was falling into old patterns now, crushing on Solange.

You’re a glutton for punishment, he thought absently.

“We could swap horror stories sometime,” he suggested, trying not to sound as curious as he actually was. “Get to the bottom of it, if you want.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange was young. She was just 22. She obviously didn't have a ton of relationships in her limited past. And granted most of them had occurred in her teens which was a famous time for drama and angst. Still, by this point in her life she should have had at least one meaningful, fulfilling relationship, right? She racked her brain and could only come up with a handful of faces of guys she had dated for a month or so and then eventually broke up with because whatever had been there to begin with was dead already. Only once had she even cried over a break up.

In shock, she asked what it said about them that the best relationship they'd been in was a fraud. “Probably that we’re generally unlovable individuals with attachment issues,” he said dryly. Her head shot up to meet his gaze, a mix of horror and anger on her face that melted when she saw the teasing smile that flickered to his face. Still she shot him a look that clearly said she didn't appreciate him joking about such matters. “I have no clue, actually.”

Solange sighed, still caught up in the dance, totally having forgotten Garret and now focused on this troubling thought. Was Tristan, joking aside, actually right? Was she actually unlovable, at least in a romantic sense? Did she have attachment issues thanks to her teen rebel mother?

“We could swap horror stories sometime,” Tristan suggested, deep voice suddenly breaking through her musings. “Get to the bottom of it, if you want.”

Blue eyes searched his face, scrutinizing him, sizing up his intentions. If she were to tell him her own 'horror story' as he put it, would he use that as ammo against her in one of their future arguments? She supposed he had everything he need for that already. And it would be cruel of to use the information and that just wasn't Tristan. He was sarcastic, certainly, but not cruel.

"Okay..." she said slowly. "But only if you go first."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When it came to horror stories, Tristan had a few to spare. He hadn’t realized just how many until Solange began to study his face, as if trying to size him up. Tristan kept his gaze level. He knew so little about her, really. He knew how she’d react if he turned up to work late, what she’d say if she wanted to go out for lunch early, and that she had zero interest in checking out his embalming room. He knew that when she was mad at him, her eyes scrunched up and her index finger whipped out with the precision of a gun being lined up for a target.

But he didn’t know much about her actual past. He knew that she’d gone to Cambridge University in England – which baffled him, since no Cambridge alumnus in their right mind worked as a secretary in a funeral home. He knew that she was Jacqui’s granddaughter – also baffling, but less so because they had the same nose and the same cheekbones. But that was it.

Well… Sort of.

He wondered if it would be fair to tell her at some point that Jacqui had shown him a picture of her once, long before they’d ever met. The Solange in that picture had thick black makeup and dressed like the girls Tristan used to go out with. That Solange caused Jacqui mingled pride and grief. And that Solange had been who he’d expected to walk through his doors eight months ago. Instead of this Solange with soft brown hair and an elegant red dress. But the eyes were the same. And the cheekbones and the nose and the chin, though. And the lips, though different colored – a healthy reddish color, instead of waxy black – were the same. That Solange and this Solange were somehow the same person. But Tristan didn’t know how. He didn’t know anything.

And he wanted to. He tried to tell himself that he wanted to know as her boss. That it was only right that they know about each other, since they spent so much time together that it was ridiculous they didn’t know more about each other. But that wasn’t wholly true and Tristan knew it. He wanted to know who Solange was for the same selfish reasons he’d enjoyed the idea of being her fake boyfriend.

Which made him feel sappy Re sleazy at the same time.

And then there was the part of him that just wanted to know. And the part of him that wanted her to know him better. Then maybe they’d get along and they wouldn’t fight so much and then maybe if one of them dropped dead at twenty-nine, the other one would feel something other than regret. He hadn’t forgotten why he’d come to the bar tonight; if Solange wanted to hear his horror stories, Tristan could start there. With the wasted life he currently led.

But his life wasn’t that fascinating or special. It drove him to places like Batofar sometimes and there were things he still didn’t talk about with anyone. And that was life. It sucked, but it was better than the alternative. And if anyone was an expert on the alternative, it was Tristan.

Solange studied him a little longer, as if waiting for the wind to change direction. But it didn’t. Tristan looked back at her, still calmly.

"Okay..." she said slowly. "But only if you go first."

“What? Now?” Tristan asked, blinking furiously.

He’d expected this to be an equal exchange – of course he had, it was what he’d proposed – but here? Now? In this bar, while thef were dancing together between two couples grinding and another couple groping? Was this really the time for this?


He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. What else could he do? He wanted Solange to trust him, to like him. He couldn’t chicken out. He could never back down when she put him up to a challenge. Pride got the better of him usually. But this time, it wasn’t pride. It was something else, something softer, that hand him nodding. He wanted Solange to trust him, right?

“All right,” he said. “Where do we start? First loves or most recent break ups?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange took slight notice of the other couples on the dance floor with them. They were all pressed up against one another and moving in ways that were clearly meant to turn their partner on. She knew that she and Tristan must look quite out of place on a dance floor like this and she half wondered what they looked like to the other people around them. They probably looked like a couple on the verge of a break up with how subdued their dancing was in comparison...if they even passed as a couple at all.

She was wary of the game that Tristan had suggested. More accurately, she was wary of his motives behind suggesting it. Since when did the two of them go spilling their life story to one another? While she didn't think Tristan would be overtly cruel enough to use her past relationships against her in some way, she was still cautious. She decided to play it safe and made sure he would go first.

“What? Now?” Tristan said, obviously surprised. A small smile curled her lips and she nodded at him. He gave a nod in reply and suddenly it was settled. “All right,” he said. “Where do we start? First loves or most recent break ups?”

She bit her ruby red lip for a moment, thinking it over for a moment. Which one would be less embarrassing when it came to her turn? "Let's start with the most recent break up. We can move backwards from there," she suggested with a wry smile.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Whenever Tristan was telling Laurence something, his uncle would stop him midway through, remind him to breathe, and ask him to start at the beginning. It was an old habit; one Tristan wasn’t sure he wanted to break tonight. The first time he’d fallen in love, he’d been fifteen and it was easier to talk about childish rejection – about the painting he’d made her, its rejection, and the immediate fist-fight with her boyfriend that led to stitches, a broken nose, and three months of detention – than it was to talk about romantic failings in recent memory: the failed blind dates who looked disappointed when Tristan arrived, the times the morgue called during foreplay, and Aimee.

Of course, that was exactly where Solange wanted to start. She wanted to work backwards. Tristan groaned.

“Man, this is the last time I let you take the lead.” He shook his head. He didn’t mean it, of course. Tristan knew that Solange would still be Solange at work and she would have better, brighter ideas for running the funeral home – more efficient uses of money, quick-fix solutions to daily hiccups – and he’d listen grudgingly as he usually did. “Okay… Fine. My last real relationship – not date, but actual, long-term relationship – ended almost four years ago. Her name was Aimee and she was a nurse and it was good. For a while. I used to joke that I got her patients when she was done with ‘em. And we both had crazy hours, so when we both were free…”

They’d spent as much time as they could with each other. It wasn’t as often as it could have been and while Tristan had tried to drop hints that living together would guarantee them more time together, Aimee always said she wasn’t living with a man she wasn’t married to, just in case things didn’t work out. But since Tristan lived closer to the hospital where she worked, they practically lived together anyways. And when they were both home… well… Tristan felt his ears get warm under his hair. Sometimes, when they were both home, they were just too exhausted to do more than collapse on the couch. Other times, they were both so starved for human contact that all Tristan would find himself fumbling with Aimee’s shirt buttons like an over-eager teenager before remembering to hang up his keys. She’d also been the one to get him Isolde. Which had swept Tristan off his feet, the way he thought that flowers and chocolates were supposed to win a girl over. He’d been giddy for weeks. And he still had Isolde. Cockroaches could really survive anything: beheadings, atomic bombs, heartbreak.

There were other moments – moments that should have sent up red flags in hindsight – where Aimee didn’t really kiss him back or where he’d come home covered in streaks of red and blue and orange and smelling like spray paint and she wouldn’t even ask where he’d been but instead said, “Oh for f*ck’s sake, Tristan!” and go back home to her own apartment for the night. And as business took off – when Tristan hired Jacqui and things were going well – he heard that phrase more and more often. “Oh for f*ck’s sake, Tristan!” like he’d done something wrong, being successful-ish. She didn’t leave right away then. They usually shouted at each other until his neighbor’s dog started howling next door. That was the cue that the conversation was over and Tristan had lost yet another argument.

But then there would still be those days and nights where their schedules synced up and they’d get take out and stay in. And that was good enough – worth the yelling and moody silences, surely. Because all relationships had their problems and the way Tristan saw it, his problems with Aimee hadn’t been major ones. Sometimes, they really got each other. Sometimes they didn’t. But nobody was a human punching bag.

Tristan cringed – externally and internally – at that thought. It was true. And it was better than the example that had been set for him. Probably better if he didn’t mention that, so Solange didn’t think he was totally damaged. He cleared his throat.

“I thought things were good, anyways,” he sighed. “So I started saving up. You know, for a ring or whatever. I thought that’s what you did after a couple years or something. I don’t know. But then one afternoon, we were at my place and I was making lunch and she goes, ‘Where do you think this is going, Tristan?’ and I thought she was being… I don’t know… coy? I guess? And so I go, ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ And she said… well… ” Tristan shrugged helplessly. Aimee had said she couldn’t see herself married to someone who wasn’t a real grown up. Which translated to I can’t see myself marrying you unless you change. Which translated to I’m not marrying you. And then Aimee said ‘I don’t love you. I was trying to go easy on you.’ “She said it was over. That she couldn’t see us lasting. So I had almost a thousand euros squirreled away. Paid for the sound system in the hearse with it.”

And a bunch of cheap booze and expensive paints as a substitute for therapy. But Solange didn’t need to know that.

“I ran into her, like, a month ago when I went to sign a couple death certificates,” he said. “She’s married now, working regular hours, like a responsible adult.”

She had also been pregnant, which startled Tristan. He’d almost not recognized her. She’d stopped straightening her hair. She’d also taken the second and third studs out of her ears and Tristan noticed that they’d healed up nicely, which meant that she’d stopped wearing them a long time ago. He wondered if she still had the white-ink tattoo running down the length of her spine – the tattoo Tristan had paid for when they were twenty-three and had spent two weeks tending to like a war wound, since Aimee couldn’t reach it. He’d had a special fondness for that tattoo, loved tracing the abstract design with his fingertips and feeling her shiver. Did her husband do that now? Or had she lasered the thing off and started over with a clean slate? But before he could ask and make an idiot out of himself, the medical examiner called him back to sign papers. He hadn’t really thought about running into Aimee since then.

Thanks, Solange, he thought before remembering that this had been his idea. He wanted to apologize for his sarcasm, but since he hadn’t said it out loud, Tristan thought better of apologizing. Instead, he rubbed Solange’s back – higher, rather than lower – to show that he hadn’t forgotten that this was a conversation and not a monologue. Solange was still there in his arms, still listening. A quiver of affection – different from before, less lusty and more recognizable – passed through him. He really did like Solange.

Come to think of it, maybe he just didn’t like the looks she gave him when he came back to the funeral home after a night of tagging, with no explanation for the paint splatters on his shoes or the dark circles under his eyes. It was too familiar. Blue eyes instead of brown, but the same. Tristan surrounded himself with people who were good at making him feel bad.

But now that he had that figured out, he’d try not to take Solange’s chastising to heart anymore. He wouldn’t necessarily be successful, but if one thing was clear, it was that Solange wasn’t Aimee. At all.

“So, I guess I dodged a bullet there,” he said. As with the other lies he’d told, his grim smile gave him away. Maybe he was onto something earlier. Maybe he was at least a little unlovable. “But that is way more than enough about me. Let’s hear yours. I’d rather hear yours.”