Songs of Love & Death

She dried off a chair with a napkin and sat in a sheltered spot near the wall that housed the main part of the café, under her umbrella, drinking coffee. The petunias and daisies in the large planters at each corner drooped, and the sky grew grayer.

And there he was. He didn’t seem to mind the rain. The T-shirt molded to him a little more, and water dripped off his arms and the edges of his mask. Quickly she stood, then thought maybe she shouldn’t—she didn’t want to scare him off. But when he didn’t run, she didn’t sit down.

“Hi,” she said.

A moment passed. “Hi.”

He seemed nervous; he kept looking away. So he was shy. That made sense. He had secrets to hide, no one could know who he was—it was all very romantic, she was sure. Beautiful, even right down to his jeans, to his ungraceful boots.

Then he said, “I have to go—”

“Wait!” But for what? For her? How did she talk a masked avenger into waiting for her? “Who are you?” She winced. So obvious.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “I can’t say.”

“But—” And what excuse would she give, about why she was different? Why was she any different, except that he’d once plucked her out of the air? “Why are you following me?” she said, surprised to say anything, even the first thing she thought of. She’d expected to let him flee.

“To make sure you’re safe. That gang—they could come after you again.”

“Really?”

He averted his eyes. So the answer was no. She hadn’t thought so.

“If you’re looking for them, trying to catch them, you should talk to Dorian. He’s my—” She didn’t want to say the word. She didn’t want to shut the door. “My friend, he’s an assistant DA, he’s got the robbery case if it ever goes to trial. He’s working with the police. He may have information you can use. Maybe you could work together.” It seemed reasonable.

“I don’t think so.”

“Is it just because of the mask? Because you’d have to tell them who you are? I mean, do you really have to hide who you are?”

“It’s traditional,” he said, and now he sounded apologetic. The only expression she could see under the mask was a flat-lipped frown, a gaze somewhere between determined and resigned.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry, but it’s just—I’m sorry.” It’s just that he was strange, and she wanted to help him.

“I saw your play,” he said then.

She wondered, How? Was he in the audience? In the rafters? How had she missed him? But what she asked was, “What did you think?”

“I liked it.” What a sweet smile. He turned bashful again. “I’d never seen a play before.”

“Really? Really? Oh my God, mine shouldn’t have been your first play ever! How could you have never seen a play?”

“I guess I don’t get out much,” he said, which seemed ironic.

They just kept standing there in the rain. She lifted the umbrella and stepped closer to bring him under the shelter—he stepped back, as if afraid.

She tried not to be hurt. Tried not to take it personally. She swallowed her pride.

“I don’t know anything about you.” A statement containing all her questions. “I mean, where do you live? What do you do? Do you have a day job? A… a girlfriend? What’s your name?”

He might as well have been an alien, a character, a face on a billboard. He seemed uncertain, pain in his eyes—biting his lips. He seemed to consider. When he returned, taking back the step he’d moved away, closing the distance between them, she thought he’d tell her everything. He moved quickly, with the reflexes that had saved her from crashing to the pavement. Touched her chin with gentle, calloused fingers.

She closed her eyes, waiting for that kiss, and so didn’t see him run away. Only felt a draft on her face where there should have been warmth.

“Wait!” She saw a shadow fleeing through the mist, then he was gone, and she was alone, the only one stupid enough to stay on the rooftop in the rain.

THE NEXT EVENING, Dorian’s text message about working late came later than she expected, but it came. It rained again, and Charlotte imagined the masked man out there in it. She watched the news for an hour, looking for signs of him. But he didn’t seem to be busy tonight, or if he was, the network wasn’t showing it. They were more interested in the flashier heroes, the Invincibles and Red Meteors, who had a sense of style and public relations. And she thought of Dorian in his courtroom attire, which was just as alluring as a vigilante costume, in its own way.

Then she wondered. Dorian had been so busy lately.

The masked man had brown eyes, Dorian had brown eyes. They were about the same height, and their chins—chagrined, she realized she couldn’t say that she had ever noticed Dorian’s chin before. It was a nice chin, average. She noticed the hero’s chin because the mask drew attention to it.