Under My Boss's Authority (Under Him)

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“But I did. It might not be right, but it was true. They had trusted me, Delphine trusted me and look where it got her? That was why I went funny when you said you loved me. I know it is a very different situation, but, in my experience, those who love me most die. Young and horribly.”

“You think you’re cursed?” Vega asked, without judgment.

“Now that you put it that way, yes. At least I did. Kind of silly, hey?”

“No, it’s understandable. You’ve been through a terrible trauma. People don’t to tend think clearly under such circumstances. Perspective can be a powerful thing.”

“True. I suppose an artist should know that better than anyone.”

Vega looked at the pad, her expression flickering from confusion to delight. Realizing what she was seeing.

“So it’s true.”

“The rumors that I’m an artist as well as a writer? Sure, for the last few years, anyway. I didn’t have any great plan to hide it. It just sort of happened when I was looking for something to do. Much like my first novel, honestly. Not to say there wasn’t any effort involved. Just no particular aspiration.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I was hoping to capture the serenity of sleep. I’ve only done a bit of it and never saw it from the outside.”

“You don’t sleep?”

“Not for a while, although lately it feels I’ve done more of it than I have in like the last year combined.”

“What changed?”

“You.” I admitted, “I can’t quite explain it.”

Her warmth enveloped me once again as Vega kissed me tenderly, filling me with a sense of peace and calm.

“I love you,” I finally said, the words coming naturally.

“I know.”

Chapter Thirteen - Vega

The end was near. There were only twenty pages left. Even though I had a good idea how the story would end, I was still dreading its arrival. Part of the problem with powerful prose. It felt real. Even more so than television, which seemed odd.

Despite the realism of things like television or film, there is always a disconnect. Maybe it’s something about the audience knowing, at least subconsciously, what is really going on. Actors, reciting lines in front of a camera. Particularly if the actors were exceptionally bad or the shot composition especially clumsy. The sudden appearance of boom-mics was the bane of any amateur production.

Text had no such tells. There was no major immediate distinction in terms of the actual pages between a history text and a fantasy novel, except in how the exact words were used.

Which can be gotten around. As in cases of creative non-fiction in which true events are presented in a creative way, and novels which go out of their way to feel like realistic accounts. Especially when based on real life, it can be easy to engage with the characters and events on an emotional level.

Knowing the real story behind Hugo’s novel made it sadder, while also adding to the imperative to get it right. It was his goodbye letter to Delphine. I was honored he had trusted me with it.

“Fuck,” I choked, putting down the manuscript.

My fingers pressed hard, willing the tears not to come. I didn’t know if it would work but figured it was worth a try. I didn’t want to cry in front of Hugo. I didn’t want him to think he’d made me sad. He had, but not in the way he thought.

“Any changes?” he asked.

“No, not one.”

I tried to smile, despite the tears. It was a bit like attempting to walk and chew gum at the same time, only ten times harder.

It was warm in his embrace. Calm and comforting. It was beginning to feel a lot like home.

“Hungry?”

My stomach rumbled, as though reacting to the word. We’d skipped breakfast and had an early lunch, creating that confusing between-meal void, where you were hungry but weren’t sure if you should eat or not. Not that Hugo seemed to mind that much. He generally seemed to eat what he wanted when he wanted, whether it was one of his regular meal times or not.

Food always tasted stronger after crying. There must have been something about a good hard cry that cleansed the pallet, leaving things open for new experiences. A new beginning.

It was a team effort. Matilda wouldn’t be on again for a few hours, so the kitchen was all ours. Rather than trying to one up each other or claim our territory, we came together in the spirit of unity. The connection between us, there from the beginning in a more subtle form, was stronger than it had ever been. It was almost as though we knew what the other needed before being asked. The process of cooking becoming like a dance.

Like magic it appeared. A meal possibly too big for just the two of us, laid out on the table in a flash.