Five –
The restaurant was elegantly furnished with a traditional Asian motif, and was buzzing with sprightly conversation. The sweet smell of grilled, sizzling meat subdued the clouds of wispy smoke from the charcoal grills drifting through the air. Natasia prodded at the slab of meat on her plate with her chopsticks. Wei watched her from across the table, as his chopsticks flitted from dish to dish. He scarfed down the slabs of meat – the rarer, the better.
“You okay, Natasia? You seem distracted. You're not touching your bulgogi.”
“Hmm? Yes, I'm fine – sorry. This place is great,” said Natasia, stuffing the piece of meat in her mouth. The savory, marinated flavor seemed tough and dry in her mouth. She swallowed reluctantly, washing it down with cold tea.
“What's on your mind?”
“Oh, I'm just –”
Natasia jolted in her seat, her face suddenly reddening. Wei's foot slithered up her calf, slowly, deliberately rubbing against her leg. He leaned forward and gave her knee a tight squeeze, the craters of his dimples deepening as his lips curved into that lopsided grin she liked. She fiddled with the amethyst pendant on her neck shyly, a coquettish grin spreading across her face.
“There's the smile.”
“Here,” said Natasia, giggling as she leaned forward with a napkin, dabbing away at the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks.”
“So, where are you from, originally?”
“I'm an American – what's that supposed to mean?” asked Wei, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh – I'm so sorry – I just thought –” sputtered Natasia.
“Chill, I'm kidding,” said Wei, reclining in his chair, flippantly spreading his legs.
“Jackass,” said Natasia, suppressing a smile.
“I was born in Texas,” said Wei in a terrible southern drawl, “but my parents are Chinese immigrants.”
“Interesting,” said Natasia thoughtfully. “If you don't mind me asking – how old are you, anyway?”
“How rude,” said Wei, smiling angelically at her as he cocked his head to the side, “Well, how old are you?”
“I'm twenty-five, but that's beside the point! It's not everyday I meet a – lycanthrope,” said Natasia, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“I'm thirty-eight. Sorry it's not more impressive. Like I said, it's different for everyone. We age differently. We're definitely much stronger and we heal much quicker than the average person, but we're not immortal,” explained Wei.
“Right. I'll stop grilling you now, it's like taking Lycanthropy 101.”
“Don't be sorry. I don't mind. In a way, it's like a weight off my chest, you know? I've finally got someone to talk to about all this.”
“What about your parents? Do they know?”
“No. I was infected at seventeen. My parents are immigrants – they've given up practically everything to come to the United States, to make a future for me. I had to leave. I couldn't put that burden on my parents after everything they've done for me. I don't know where they are, and I've been on my own since.”
Wei's face was sullen, and there was a flash of remorse in his eyes. Natasia softened as emotion lingered in his voice. The wrenching pain of abject devastation was something she knew all too well. She reached for his hands across the table, their fingers interlaced, and stayed silent.
He looked at her in fascination. She wasn't like anyone he'd ever met. He knew she wasn't someone you could just cross paths with, and the thought scared him a little. He thought himself a lone warrior – strong and self-sufficient – yet here she came along. It was like a reverse damsel-in-distress situation. He was the damn damsel.
“Enough about me, Natasia. I'm really not that interesting. Let's talk about you – but let's go out for a smoke, yeah?”
Natasia agreed, following Wei out the door. She accepted the stick of cigarette from him, and there was a brief silence as the pair sparked up. Tufts of smoke poured out the end of their cigarette, dancing into the night. They sat down on the curb.
“Where were you before Cedar Creek?” asked Wei.
“Oh, just a little town in the middle of nowhere. It's not important,” said Natasia, her eyes lowered.
“Wait – you were just giving me the third degree –”
“Okay, but listen – I'm only talking about this once. I was engaged once upon a time at the age of nineteen. Before you start – I know, I know, I was young and stupid. I don't need to hear that. It's a very common story, really – girl meets guy, guy fucks girl's sister, guy impregnates girl's sister. Basically, my life would make for a great Maury episode,” said Natasia, laughing darkly.
“That's not even the worst part,” continued Natasia, her eyes glistening, “He abused me for years, and it took me forever to get out. I don't talk about this because I don't want to seem like damaged goods, like –”
“Hey, hey, shh – I'm not going to try and fix you. You're not damaged,” said Wei softly, sliding both arms around Natasia's waist, pulling her close to him. He tilted his head gingerly, pressing his lips against hers. The sweet friction of their lips connecting engulfed her senses. She moaned softly as his hand clutched the back of her head. Her toes curled at the passionate, yet tender way he nibbled her bottom lip. His fingers slowly wandered up the soft flesh of her stomach, suddenly stopping short as he neared the cups of her breasts. He cleared his throat.
“You've had a long night. Let me take you home.”
Natasia tossed her handbag on her sofa as she kicked off her stilettos. She shut the door of her apartment behind her, and flopped down on the sofa, holding her chest. Her heart was still racing from the kiss she shared with Wei, and she found herself unable to wipe the goofy grin off her face. She was in such high spirits – something she found rare lately – that she decided to get a head start on the students' journals.
Natasia slipped into a pair of badly worn, but comfortable pajama pants. She settled herself on her sofa, hoisting the stack of journals onto the table. She poured milk into a bowl of honey oats as she began to go through the students' entries, laughing at some of the silly poems a few students came up with, scribbling down obligatory teacher's comments on each entry.
Natasia sighed as she opened Aurora's journal, expecting to find it either untouched or marked with profanities. She smiled, surprised, as she found what appeared to be a lengthy entry, inked in beautiful cursive. As she read on, the smile on her face slowly vanished. Her eyebrows furrowed as it began to dawn on her – it was all here – Vicente's apparent late nights, his sudden change in behavior and appetite. She dove for her phone. The number went straight to voicemail.
Natasia whispered into the receiver, “I know what you are.”