you're real enough to me

On Tuesday evening, as arranged, Mordred is settled at a table in Three Sheets, waiting for Alex to show. By now the place is almost familiar, by now most of the staff recognizes him: Alex's latest thing, a little standoffish but never any trouble.

While he waits he's studying the paper he's brought with him, handling it carefully for all that it's cheap copy paper, the kind Gaheris uses for his constant offhand sketches. It is a sketch, a girl with masses of curly hair, an upslanting glance; he took it for more of Morgause at first. (He's avoided too much talk with Gaheris, since that last disquieting conversation; he's going to have to figure out what to do about that.)

Alex has joined Alcoholics Anonymous in the last week, and he's already feeling better for having made a responsible decision--after all, nearly twenty years without a drink and then he just starts again for Anna, and immediately turns reckless, well, that bespeaks a problem greater than a need to return to social drinking.

The change in his mood is easily reflected out, Alex being the person he is; he's been more cheerful and flirty than ever this week, his walk almost like a dance, and he has been an absolute joy to live with.

Right now he's in front of the mirror straightening his tie. He's meeting Mike for drinks this evening (it's a Tuesday, not his shift at the bar), but it's only three in the afternoon and he has plans to kidnap his daughter for some time together.

It's sweltering. They've been home with the baby for less than a week, and already Anna feels restless. The apartment has two window air conditioners, only one of which works, and so of course they've moved Annika to where she can be most comfortable.

The whole thing has Anna in a less than cheerful mood. She's managing the baby as much as she can stand to, though to Alex's credit he's been waiting on the both of them hand and foot. For the first time since she confirmed her pregnancy, Anna's wishing she were elsewhere. At the moment, however, she's pretending to nap on the couch.

It's a week or so before they arrange to get together again, and another week before Alex's erratic schedule lines up in any way with a normal one. On Saturday evening Emory rings the doorbell at five minutes of nine. ("Excited" is possibly the mildest applicable word.)

Alex has been doing job interviews all day, but the day is over and about three places have made very promising noises about hiring, so by the time he finally drags himself back to Anna's apartment he is at least feeling fairly positive.

He uses his key to let himself in, throws his jacket over a chair, and goes to pour himself a drink.

Molly is all for parties. Both on principle, and because you meet people at them. As her current career completely hinges on meeting people, this is reason enough to be enthusiastic.

This, though, does not mean she does not plan to have fun. After all, what is the point in being 20 if you don't take advantage of it.

She's lost her friend Janice somewhere or other; Janice may or may not turn up again, and this is more or less understood whenever they go somewhere together. As for Molly, she's nursing the whiskey sour and circulating through the room, talking to someone who looks interesting until one of them gets bored, and then moving on.

Anna takes her time walking home from the subway, carrying a bag of what passes for groceries. Just the most basic necessities, as well as cigarettes and the rum she knows that Alex likes, even though she finds it sort of dreadful.

It's been six weeks and she's given him a key to her apartment. She loves him, she thinks, and this is a poor decision on her part. But it's been so long, too long, since she allowed herself to have anything like this. It can't last, she knows this, and she shouldn't let it go too far. Perhaps it's gone too far already.

She reaches the apartment building, and fishes out her own keys. It's one of those old, poorly tended buildings but it's cheap and no one asks questions or looks at you too closely and this suits her. She goes quietly up the stairs, half wondering if he'll be there, waiting for her.

Alex is only twenty-one, still a young man, and his beard has just come in decently enough that his friends have stopped making fun of him--which is, honestly, ample justification to celebrate. He's still in his self-destructive phase; at least, he hasn't yet admitted to himself or anyone else that he's limited by his illness, and he pulls all-nighters and drinks with his friends and pounds coffees on exam nights, unmindful of the consequences.

It's Friday night and he's in a nightclub in the college district, three sheets to the wind and fully willing to embarrass himself at any opportunity, and for any pretty face. He's got his balance astonishingly well, all things considered. A man his own age flirts for a while at the bar, and Alex reciprocates, but after a while the man moves on, and he subsides, leaning with his back and elbows against the bar, watching the dancers.