midtier schlop writer

It's been a few months since you've last seen Schlatt. Months since that fateful night in his apartment where you stormed off in the middle of the night in a New York City winter. In the time since then, you've tried to blot out this memory until it became a tender smudge. The arsenal was simple: work, whiskey and worse lovers. Work was your daytime escape. With a newly expanded (and better paid) role, every billable hour was an excuse to avoid the tangle of emotions that threatened to entrap you. Whiskey and "whores" were your nighttime comforts. Every so often you'd go out on a date with a charming prospect. If they were particularly dazzling, you'd let them stick around for a few weeks even if the end result was always the same. Each failed Tinder match fizzled into the next. Your resolve never faltered. The distractions shielded you from the very ugly possibility that a potentially beautiful love has been ruined through your own failures. Worse, through your own failures on your most profitable skill — your rhetoric. You don't exactly recall much of Schlatt's apartment, nor his expressions when you made mincemeat of his heart. But you did remember every word you spoke. Every shoddy argument, every withheld word of affection. 

Schlatt had the courage to remember what you wouldn't. Every detail of those final five minutes were seared into his mind. The lingering perfume of your hair as you walked out of the apartment. The heavy thud of the front door closing. The clean sheets of the bed he didn't dare to sleep in that night. Memories whose pain were routinely consummated with the help of his Japanese whiskey. Schlatt waited for you on the couch that night alongside the Cats™. Midnight beckoned him to hope; dawn rose to tether him back to reality: you were really gone. You didn't do him the courtesy of leaving behind a shirt to trash. Every single trace of evidence of your time spent together was collected. Even the stupid fucking wrappers of the gas station honey packets. 

Schlatt considered breaking the ice with you when he arrived in Los Angeles a few days later. In retrospect, the excuse he savored the most (especially while drinking) was the filming schedule. The extra days of setback made everyone work harder, stay later. After 10 hours on set, Schlatt could barely stomach talking to Ted, Tucker and the other producers. Throwing you into that mix was a recipe for a disaster that would've been better off avoided. But, if he hit enough bottles, Schlatt could be man enough to admit that he was too scared. Of what you would or wouldn't say and of what he could and couldn't admit to you in person. If you shot him one guilty look, he'd be done for. He'd admit with no shame that he's cried over you, that he's fairly certain a large percentage of his body craves your proximity. No such meeting occurred. He came to LA as quietly as he left.

The weather's begun to thaw. Springtime on the West Coast is a breath of fresh air with warnings to follow. The wildflowers on the highways will have started to bloom. A blurry flurry of pollinated blues, pinks and oranges. Summertime with the famous devilish Santa Ana winds was just around the corner. Before LA became even crazier, your friends finally decided to end your endless cycle of hopeful pitying and forced you to take a long weekend off. The plan was simple: exposure therapy.

"Remind me, how is this trip supposed to help me process my emotions?"

"By changing your subconscious associations with New York."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her, which prompted your friend to throw an expensive airport M&M your way. The only reason why you even agreed to this trip is because your friends made you an offer you couldn't refuse. They scored a good price on an AirBnB and offered to cover your plane ticket. Besides, even if New York was ultimately Schlatt's city, surely it was big enough to hide you for a moment of catharsis?

"Exactly. Plus, there's like 8 million people there. What's the odds you'll bump into him there?"

Whatever emotion you might've felt regarding the situation was hard to parse based off of the only information Schlatt was given. Ted reported that you were too busy working on the back end to pop by set. That one morsel of information, however innocuous it might've seemed to Ted, encouraged Schlatt into a hobby he's long looked down upon. Insta-stalking. Schlatt's long considered the behavior reserved exclusively for bitter ex-girlfriends and teenage girls. However, in light of the absence of updates in the growing blankness of your absence, it became his favorite guilty pleasure. Your feed was beautifully curated. Posts upon posts of working diligently alongside overpriced bee pollen lattes at sunny cafes or of watching the Sopranos with your cat. None of what you shared online quite captured the idyllic picture he still had of you. These glimmers of his memory, however unrealistic they may be, meshed all too well into the facets of your life he desperately peered into every Saturday night after one too many whiskeys. You were living happily without him in a big city of your own. Despite the heartache, he was still quite proud of you.

That was until one of his self indulgent doom scrolling nights exposed a very recent dirty development. Fact: You were in New York again. With friends. Smiling in an Insta story, fingers spread delicately across a skinny wine glass. Radiant as always. 

Another fact: you were in his city again. Without telling him.

A sober Schlatt wouldn't have been so upset. It was reasonable to assume that you probably felt weird about reaching out, considering the state you left him in.

The phone only rung once before you answered.

"…um Hello?"

"Where are you?" Schlatt's tone was gruff, firm. You've never heard him like this before.

"Why do you care?"

"Why do you think?"

Taking in a deep breath, you allowed the words you wanted to say dissolve on your tongue for a moment into something more refined. They had to be just right because this time would be different. 

"For your information, I'm staying in the Upper East Side."

There was a small laugh on the other side of the line. A sweet, nearly forgotten melody.

"'Course you are. Park Avenue Princess."

The tension let up to allow a few minutes of idle silence. Neither of you dared to hang up.

"I moved into another apartment." Schlatt blinked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. "Queens."

"Is that wh-"

"You should come over."

Schlatt said it like he was ripping off a Band-Aid. His liquid courage was beginning to wane, plus small talk was never his forte.

"…Now?"

"Yeah. If you want."

It was in the breeze when Schlatt drove to the failed dinner reservations. Greens and reds painting duochromatic highlights on his face. It was even present on the very first night. On the coolness of the rusting city bench as you ate warm shawarma.

Unsurprisingly, you felt that subdued magic staring down at you right now. Festering clandestine desires that were ready to emerge at long last.

"We don't need to sleep with each other yet." Schlatt said, washing soap suds off a newly clean coffee mug.

"I think that ship has sailed." You said absentmindedly while drying off cutlery.

You weren't looking at him, yet you knew Schlatt was rolling his eyes.

"Are you scared I'll pounce on you if we sleep together in a real bed?" You said, trying to laugh off your embarrassment. There were still so many uncertainties about how far this thing could go. Maybe Schlatt's feelings for you were more platonic than either of you had realized. It wouldn't be the worse thing in the world if you held off sex until you knew for sure.

"It's not you I'm worried about." Schlatt finally replied.

In his view, there wasn't any need to rush this very new, very imperfect budding flower. Schlatt would've happily taken the couch for the rest of eternity if it meant you'd stay with him longer. Especially considering how even now, as you were dressed in one of his old oversized shirts from college, you looked like a flight risk. Your luggage was already packed, standing ominously in a corner by the front door. Handle standing taut with the promise of an impending flight back to California, away from this fantasy.

Had you told this very scene to the version of you from a few weeks prior, she would've laughed at the improbability. There was no universe that could possibly exist in which Schlatt was not only interested in you, but actively desired you. For the first time in your life, you felt happy to be wrong.

Before settling in for the night, you both went off to do the remaining important tasks of the day. Schlatt had a couple of things to approve for his editors. You had to take a urgent call from your assistant to confirm the flight details. More pressingly of all, you had a nap scheduled. Curling up in the very same spot on the couch where you slept the night before, you succumbed to sublime comfort. A few hours passed before Schlatt came out of his office. Jambo was curled on top of the side of your hip. Never in his life had Schlatt been so jealous of a stupid cat.

You were awake by now, idly doomscrolling on social media. Schlatt sat beside you, carefully avoiding sitting on your sprawled out hair.

"How'd it go?" You asked, not yet looking up from your phone.

Schlatt groaned impatiently. In response, you let out a small laugh. The question from before headed it's curious head into your mind.

"Not good?"

Schlatt nodded, clasping a hand over his face. You climbed into his lap (much to Jambo's annoyance), gently prying it off. Two kisses, innocuous and sweet, landed on each of his cheeks. Schlatt should've fought for his chivalry more. It would've done wonders for his peace of mind. But, he didn't stand a chance the moment you climbed into his lap on his couch. Skin still warm from the post dinner nap. Your legs straddling his hips was overkill. The real smoking gun were the kisses. Resigning himself to just be an easy slut, Schlatt couldn't help but pick you up, legs still intact, to carry you over to his bed.

"Again, we don't need to sleep together."

Schlatt said this against your bare collarbone somewhere in between a kiss and a bite. Your sweater was somewhere on the tiled floor of his bathroom thanks to his killer aim. One word from you could command saint like patience from him. But you pulled on his half-undone belt, whining softly like a bitch in heat. Your mind was too clouded to think of a clever response.

"Why waste the opportunity?" You whispered before pulling him into another kiss.

Disasters start slow, sometimes even innocuously so. Schlatt's mind went quiet as he froze at your kiss. Stepping back slightly — a miracle considering the state of his arousal — he tried to comfort himself with shoddy reason. He's never wanted anyone more and there was no need to think about the gravity of what you said then and there. By all logical accounts, Schlatt was in the clear to continue on with a night of frenzied passion. For any other girl, in every other situation, he would've.

"What do you mean?" Schlatt asked cautiously.

It didn't settle in just yet how hard you fucked up. Lawyers make their living thanks to their precision with language. A professor told you this the first day of Torts class. Precision is critical because the law is a delicate matter.

And so was Schlatt by the look of it.

His eyes were examining your every move, face taut with apprehension. Although he stepped back from you, his body was still peering closer in anticipation of your response.

Whatever you said next was make or break.

"It's not like…we necessarily know when the next time we'll be together like this again…" You began. Very word came out strained in its formulation. "I mean, I fly back to L.A. tomorrow…"

"We fly back tomorrow." Schlatt cut you off. "Last I heard."

As if Schlatt's stomach couldn't drop any further, he watched as you pressed your lips together before shaking your head.

"Mine's tomorrow. Yours is on Wednesday."

You were going to tell him, in post-nut clarity glow coupled with a few conciliatory kisses. Sara called you with the happy news that she got an earlier Monday flight for you and a later Wednesday flight for Schlatt. Everyone in the office didn't mind delaying the inevitable cranky podcast host if it meant they got to have you back a few days earlier than intended, filming schedule be damned. But the minor change in schedule only highlighted the crucial unanswered question regarding a potential relationship with Schlatt: logistics. Schlatt has a fulfilling life that didn't seem likely to mesh well with your own. Someone would have to give up some part of their career or renounce their city to placate the other's lifestyle. You loved him too much to ever fathom compelling him to even consider that level of sacrifice. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you weren't sure he would anyway.

Schlatt let out an exasperated laugh, closing his eyes momentarily before settling his gaze on you again. False relief washed over him. Maybe he understood you incorrectly. This wasn't a fling or another situationship memento for you, just a simple slip up of words.

"So what? It's a few days, it's not the end of the world."

"That's not what I meant." Despite the firmness in your tone, you were scrambling to find the right rhetoric strategies to get you out of this mess. "I work a lot, you work a lot, and realistically it'll be hard to get a few days like this again in the near future. And even by then, it's not like they're guaranteed."

A beat. Realization sunk in alongside a soft breeze from the window. Hair stood up on Schlatt's neck and arms. Tightness begun to grow in the middle of his chest.

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"Schlatt-"

"If you're worried that I'm going to change my mind about you, about this, because of a couple months of long distance, you're wrong."

"That's what you're saying now."

"I'm just saying I want to try. What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm not sure yet. That's all. The logistics of-"

"So you're okay with having sex with me even though you're not sure you want to be with me?"

An unknown heat found it's way on your cheeks. Embarrassment or anger, you weren't sure which one.

"I-"

"That's…" Another half hearted laugh. "That's pretty fucked up."

The heat morphed into the beginning of a few tears splitting at the corners of your eyes. There was no rebuttal, no counterargument you could've possibly presented at this time that would've resolved this tangle.

"I g-guess it is."

Bunny sprung the idea of a double date to Henry within a few weeks of being "official". Henry's "no" was the only veto that could've saved you from pained socialization, but alas it never arrived. Marion took to the double date idea far better than anyone could've expected. She loved your effect on Henry. You warmed his iciness to a tolerable chill. Since she insisted, there was truly no hope of declining.

The date went surprisingly well. The boys competed in their own silly way to see who was the better gentleman. You and Marion would sit pretty in idle pleasure, watching as they fought over paying the check, over pulling open doors or even to lay down a wool jacket over a puddle of water. Henry won in almost every instance. There was an unscrupulous seed of pride that lingered as Henry took you home. It bloomed later that night when Henry kissed the center of your throat. You hummed a simple note of approval.

"Love is madness." You whispered as Henry's lips trailed further down.

His breath hitched at the quotation.

"Who taught you that?" He grumbled against your skin.

His fingers gently latched onto your jaw, tilting your face upwards. The sharpness of his fingernails gently digging into your skin culled obedience from you. Henry's gaze fixated on the dull shine of your lips, awaiting your answer.

"My philosophy tutor."

Pinpricks of jealousy struck Henry's nape. He remedied the dirty words that came from your mouth with aa swift kiss. He was hardly a saint as his hands raked down the slip of your dress towards your hips.

"Let me teach it to you in the original Greek."

Late in bed, after a few hours of passionate companionship, Henry kissed your shoulder before nodding off to rare sleep. Sometimes, even now, you swear you could feel the searing warmth coupled by soft stubble. His kiss imprinted on your bones, his body on your soul.

Nights like these were always recounted in Richard's memory as a series of beautiful blurs. There was a rainy drive. Then, the uncouth deliberation of even attending the party to begin with. Francis and Charles went back and forth for a few minutes, trying to remember which frat was the one where Camilla suffered a thrown drink. The last thing Richard remembered was his time on the dancefloor being interrupted by the sight of Bunny and Charles dashing to the scene of two men fighting. Shouted swears were muffled by shifting of bodies hoping to secure inches of distance. Camilla's hand desperately interlocked with Richard to pull him from the cesspool of PanHellenic grinding. It took a grand total of six minutes to settle the skirmish. Richard couldn't believe the sight that awaited him in the kitchen. Henry's jaw —bloodied and purpled — was gallantly taut with rage. His lips worked themselves into a series of swears, some English others Sumerian, before finally acquiescing to Bunny's silent pleading to go outside. As the group stumbled outside to find the car, Richard couldn't help but shoot you a dirty look.

You were draped in Henry's overcoat. He didn't so much as insist but rather impose, resting the coat on your shoulders like he's done so many times before. It dragged slightly on the ground as you walked.

They found the car in no time. Charles and Bunny immediately begun their shittalking, working up hot shot stories of revenge that would never come to fruition.

"That's the last time we ever go to one of these dreadful parties." said Francis, lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

The bitching was lost on Henry, who was simply staring down, expressionless as ever. A few droplets of blood dripped onto the hood of the car, shining brilliantly against the stark white paint.

"What happened?" Richard piqued.

The question came out weakly and felt even redundant to say. Precision could've helped with receiving an answer. What happened was quite obvious, but why it happened wasn't immediately evident to anyone. The why was seated in the driver's seat of the car, her body obscured from view thanks to the propped open door.

Camilla abandoned the boys to join you in your makeshift hideaway as they went over the events with Richard.

"Where were you?" She asked coldly.

"We broke up."

No hint of any emotion in your voice. Factual. You might've well just told her that the Greeks built a wooden horse once upon a forever ago.

"So?" She said, sighing in exasperation.

You looked up at her, confused. Her grey eyes held a few tears at their corners.

"You left me alone. With them." Camilla continued. She sniffled a little before pawing at her tears. "You should've said something."

Silence hung. The chilly air felt suffocating. You had no answers for her nor any worthwhile excuse. Just one solemn offering.

"I'm sorry."

The apology felt astringent, not nearly enough. All the remorse you had was caught in your throat, unwilling to move. But for now, Camilla nodded her head hastily before reaching out. Her cold palm seared the softness of your cheek. Leaning into her touch, you felt yourself relax a little bit. There was at least one tranquil moment tonight.

Richard was barred from making any more decisions that night. Everyone was waiting on what Henry wanted to do. He alone held the keys to the rest of the weekend's destiny. After another few moments of banter, Henry finally cleared his throat to announce his decision.

"Eamus ad villam rusticam." Let's go to the country house.

The makeshift party did little to soothe his anxieties (or his raging headache for that matter). Richard was out with Bunny procuring more alcohol. Charles and Francis were at the beginning of a spirited argument. Henry's view of the debate was obscured by Camilla's hovering. Henry allowed her to do his makeup. Camilla though this gesture was sweet, vaguely romatic. But really, Henry just longed to have his hair tousled and gripped with a pressure he's begun to forget.

"Relax your face. You're being difficult." Camilla said.

She dipped the brush head into her mouth briefly, forming a sharper point with the aid of her spit. The sight alone should've aroused Henry. Scornfully, the glistening brush as it lined itself around his eyes just reminded him of the questions that haunted Henry constantly.

Where were you?

Were you trading spit with some other cretin by now?

Were you in trouble, in danger?

Would you let him buy you dinner again, just one last time?

Henry grumbled in response, breaking free from Camilla's grip to steal a swig of his drink. He sat with a strained "relaxed" face long enough for her to finish. The final product was strikingly editorial. Black eyeliner brought forth the lighter tones of blue in Henry's eyes. He looked horrifyingly intense and terribly handsome all at once.

Richard stumbled into the apartment accompanied by Bunny, reeking of cigarette smoke, carrying clinking bottles of whiskey and gin. Richard consistently found himself to be a vagabond between two worlds. The contemporary world with its newfound delights. The dorm rooms and his pitiful French class. And the world that only the Greek class kept alive. A world that venerated old books, Homer, and above all the zealous veneration of a certain kind of beauty. So, the very fact that Richard not only witnessed the corruption of Henry Marchbanks Winter firsthand but directly facilitated it on that fateful first date in the dorms and every consequential day since ate at him. How could he disturb Henry's clandestine aesthetic life with the anchor that is the modern woman?

To see his great Homeric hero lined with traces of disgusting modernity. The image of Henry in eyeliner made Richard realize how far gone Henry had truly become. There was no remedy, Richard concluded as he set down the liquor, other than to convince Henry to look back. To see your wretched place in the jaws of Hades. If there was any hope of Henry returning to the land of Grecian living, Richard figured he must proctor some resolute conclusion to this scroll.

The drive over to the frats was rainy. Fat droplets were flicked away by the BMV's windshield wipers. Francis was kind enough to steal Henry's keys. Henry sat in front, inattentive to the excited babble coming from the backseat. Camilla had her legs thrown over Richard's lap, her foot occasionally bouncing from the bumpy road to brush against Charles' knee. Bunny laughed at the indecency. Henry's pale cheek was pressed against the window. Freezing glass mulled his warm, drunken haze. There was enough Scotch in Henry to convince himself that there was still remnants of your perfume on the seatbelt. Residual sacred notes of chicory wood and vanilla beans. But he wasn't drunk enough to fool himself that you were still here, still his. The dying fragrance was evidence enough.

Henry was careful not to show his longing discomfort on his face considering it's how he ended up in this position to begin with. Richard saw a sullen, dull look in Henry's eyeliner laden eyes and poisoned the others of the idea that it was there too. A present day bacchanal. That's how Richard pitched it. Revelry on a day where the veil between the Underworld and corporeal realm was the thinnest was bound to reveal some sort of insight on current cultural depravity. The class needed to go for research purposes. While sitting on the couch, cocktail in hand, Henry let out a half-hearted chuckle upon hearing the ensuing debate. Richard wasn't grasping many concepts in class, that much was evident by his stricken face whenever Julian called upon him for an answer. But manipulation isn't a skill that can be honed on it's own. Richard has certainly become a scholar in that regard.

Loud music vibrated the walls from an undisclosed speaker. There were no books in sight. Any available table or counter space was occupied with near empty cocktails, forgotten beers and the occasional powdery shadow of an absent cocaine line. Charles, Camilla Francis, and Richard disappeared into the growing cesspool of party goers. Bunny opted to stay by Henry's side.

"Never took you for the heartbroken type." Bunny said, taking a hearty swig of a scrounged up beer.

"I'm not." Henry replied, his voice clipped.

"Yeah sure.” Bunny rolled his eyes, his spectacles glinting in the dim lighting. “You're not fooling anyone, you do know that right?"

Bunny's tone dropped, like it always did whenever he decided to be esoterically clever.

"The way I see it, old man, is you have two options. Either win her back or forget she ever existed."

Pairs of pretty girls approached the duo throughout the night. Bunny would play the kind gentleman role for a while, cooing praises about how sweet they were or how nice their hair looked before sending them on their way with a lighthearted rejection. A proper East Coast gentleman. Henry's lips remained suffocatingly silent. Eyes occasionally assessing the crowd for any trace of your silhouette. Eventually, Bunny saw a friend of Marion, which was a reminder to seek out where Marion was. With a hop and skip away, Bunny left Henry standing guard just outside the dance floor.

At last. Alone.

Lost in contemporary debauchery. Or rather trapped. Francis has his keys. Another drink. Accept the lot you've wagered for, so Henry thought. Three shots gone with a flash of a pale hand. At least, his girl wasn't here to witness all this uncouthness. She was a kept woman, his kept woman. Another drink to celebrate? In vino veritas. Domesticity was hardly a cause to rally for. Aristotelian dialogues tinkered in his brain. Family as a model for the state. The most delightful form of government was sure to be found somewhere between the nape of your neck and wrist.

A soft hand interrupts his shoulder, stopping his flurry of genius. Fingertips brushed against the rare exposed skin of his neck. Mortals who encounter the incomprehensible tend to die quickly. Henry turned his face to reproach the undead. His blood froze instead.

Saint. Sinner. Madonna. Whore, Lupa, Amica.

His favorite ex-girlfriend.

Modern sexual excitement wrapped itself garishly around your body. A Playboy bunny suit, to be precise. Waist cinched, black latex. Hair coerced into a fluffy blowout. Lip gloss glistening in the dimming kitchen light. Impropriety by all accounts.

"What are you doing here?" You said. The beautiful features on your face were crossed in frustration towards him. Any residual tenderness you held for him existed in the waning warmth of your hand.

"Futue te ipsi."

Henry took it upon himself to teach you Latin over the course of a few weeks. He was determined to get you speaking better than Richard. Only then would he introduce you to Julian to aid in his eventual private audience with Julian about the manner of kicking Richard to the conventional drones of the literature department to make room for your usurpative arrival. He taught decided to teach you the basics with poetry. Catullus, Horace, Ovid. Henry started with Ovid's Amores. Every night, for two weeks straight, Henry would make you recite a new elegy with him. He'd speak a line with his perfect diction. You'd repeat it back to him with staggering pronunciations. Eventually, you got better through his little encouragements. A kiss for a decent word or two, a kiss down south if you could really nail a whole verse. The Latin lessons stopped at Catullus. Swears were your favorite thing to learn, even if it felt a bit crass to admit it.

Futue te ipsi. Go fuck yourself.

A man walking behind you carried a toppling red Solo cup filled with beer. Reflexively, Henry's arm found itself wrapping around your waist to pull you away from belligerent nonexisrent danger and back to his safety. His hands recoiled slightly at the strange feeling of the latex fabric. Henry was used to feeling soft wools hugging your body, sometimes lace if it was a special occasion. A gloved hand crept up to brush his signature stray piece of hair away. You loved seeing his scar whenever possible. The thin white line kept him human.

You were at a loss for words. In no known universe could you have predicted Henry Winter would've been at a frat party left seemingly alone to his own devices. Descending the stairs, you saw Richard swapping spit with a sorority girl in some seedy corner. That alone would've been just an icy reminder of the man you left behind. It wasn't until you saw Charles and Camilla sneaking off Jove knows where that you suspected the entirety of the Greek classes unannounced visit. So you poked around the frat house. Opening doors that would've preferred to stay closed. The state you found Henry in was a sobering sight. Standing in the kitchen, body curled slightly towards the cup in his hand. An innocent, unsuspecting stag. Whatever words you've conjured by now have long since vanished. Latin swears yield intimidating power.

"Why are you here?" He finally managed to slur out. You bit back a giggle. Even while drunk, his Latin was far better than his English.

"I was invited."

Henry let out a laugh. A cruel, bitter laugh. Invited.

"By whom?"

Mourning doves were cooing, their woeful melodies stirring in the October breeze. The last autumn leaves pranced about Hampden's main quad in illustrious swirls, as though they were inked from a Japanese calligraphy brush. Autumnal beauty offered no pleasure, only guilt for the tarnishing to come.

Throughout your relationship, (with one small exception) Henry was the one who planned dates. There was an unshakeable, delicious thrill that came whenever the phrase "2 for Winter?" escaped your lips or the courteous nod you gave if that very question was poised at you from a hostess. It should've been the first sign of trouble: the reservation was made under your name. Hell, even the way you asked him to join you at the restaurant should've been a tell. Sending Richard with a note like a poor dog with a newspaper was ridiculous move on your behalf. But the pageantry of the invite alongside his annoying love for you blinded Henry to what should've been clear.

Henry's body was freed from ropes, from the ship mast. So approached the Siren's call with her impending doom.

The table you were seated at was rather drab. The wildflowers in the cream colored vase were wilted, on the cusp of developing mold. The tablecloth was wrinkled, soap scum lingered on the scratched up silverware. As he pulled out your chair for you, Henry was just about to gently scold you for your choice of restaurant. The playful tease never escaped his lips.

The rest of what he later came to find out was a mere 15 minutes was a gallery of glimpses of a whole memory. Coffees were served before growing cold. Their steam feathered around your definitive, precise words. Unlike Homer, you left no wiggle room for alternative interpretations. The entire ordeal felt particularly curated to inflict as much needless injury. Disgusting reheated coffee and lazily laundered napkins. You didn't even let him pick up the check. In a swift motion, while Henry was still trying to interpret the words you let linger in the air, you placed a fifty dollar bill underneath the vase. Kissed his cheek before finally departing. You left the restaurant the same was you ended your relationship with Henry Winter: abruptly, coldly, without releasing a shred of the dignity you hoarded for yourself.

If Henry were a normal man, he would've tolerated heartbreak with vices and indulgences. Sleazy hookups, insufferable amounts of cocaine or Scotch. Hell, maybe even the sitcom route: copious amounts of ice cream. All his wealth could've afforded him a happy christening to renewed bachelorhood. Alas, despite the growing number of his epithets "typical man" was not among them.

Henry's new pesky habit started off small. Almost indiscernibly minuscule. He started to follow you from afar, silently joining in your routine to and from classes like he always did. The original reasoning was rooted in supposed chivalrous morals. You were a lady. It was his duty, even as a slighted gentleman, to ensure your safety. This half baked argument was fooling no one. His habit was utterly self-indulgent. Henry relished in pretending as though he were still some unconquerable force that could still protect you. His habit trickled, slowly but surely, to "joining" you in other situations. He'd watch you in the library while translating Porphyry. Silently, always holding back a tsk about your reading speed.

Sometimes you would return to your dorm room, a place he always hated with loving glint. On your first date, you invited Henry to come over to your dorm to watch a movie. For the mere suggestion alone, he almost turned you down. But it was the manner of which you asked, which was more of an order rather than a request, that made him venture into the dormitories. The layout of the dorms although extremely utilitarian quickly became a confusing labyrinth. Henry stood in front of a faded fire map for a decent five minutes, desperately trying to decipher a path to the room you specified. Completely on accident, Richard stumbled across this unusual sight of a bewildered Henry and found himself too awkward to offer assistance. Retreating back to the hallway, Richard was deadset on taking this secret to the grave. Good fortune soured when Judy Poovey loudly pointed out Henry's presence from the other side of the hallway, causing Richard to painstakingly turn back to offer the help he should've to begin with. With as much feigned discretion as he could, Richard tapped Henry on the shoulder.

"Are you lost?"

"No."

"Just tell me where you want to go."

"Is that any of your business?"

"Do you want to see her or not?"

Richard had only himself to blame for this situation. Within the first few days of transferring to the Greek class, Richard picked up on yet another of Henry's quirks. Just before Julian entered the room ti begin instruction, Henry would take a small pause from whatever it was he was doing. Translating, reading, writing. None of it concerned him for a few blissful minutes. Henry would gaze outside from a classroom window to admire what was quickly becoming his favorite sight in Vermont: a wistfully beautiful girl reading outside. Last year, you made a habit of starting your day with leisure reading. This year, to change things up, you enjoy these thrity minutes of peace outside. Every morning you arrived to your conquered patch of soft summer grass. A rotating curation of readings. Sometimes your hands would be hidden by a plastic dust jacket, other times by rigid leather bound hardcovers. No one in the Greek class really understood what in particular about this sight enthralled Henry, so much so to even command his precision away from his coursework to studying you.

Richard on the other hand had a suspicion. A crude one at that. It was later confirmed by a quick remark Henry made one morning after returning to his seat.

"Dog-like."

Bunny scoffed, finding the musing to be nothing more than a pretentious, round about way of calling a respectable girl a bitch. Richard felt elated. Dog-like, Helen-like. A face to launch a thousand ships. If love were a fire, this comment was evidence of an early smouldering ember.

"She's in my French class." Richard interjected. No Julian yet. Henry halted his own reply. "She's not very good, tried to beg me to be her tutor once I think. But I've got enough on my plate."

Henry abruptly stood up and walked out of the classroom. With the help of long strides, he arrived to your perch, a bit winded from nearly breaking out into a full sprint. The rest of the Greek class huddled around the window to get a better look at the scene unfolding.

"Hello." Henry said, his voice strained.

"Hm?"

"Do you want a French tutor?"

In ordinary circumstances, you would've assumed this question was an indecent proposition. You've never seen him before, nor another man like him. Something about the umbrella by his hip or the fact he was in a full three piece suit in the middle of August clued you in about two facts.

This man was genuine.

This man was incredibly attractive.

You accepted his proposal and his conditions. Two meetings per week for the rest of the semester. Around the fourth meeting is when you decided enough was enough. In better French than you've ever spoken, you asked him out. He replied in the only Latin you knew at that point.

"Sic."

You opened your door to a lovely sight: Henry carrying a copy of Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, dried bouquet in hand, and pale cheeks slightly discolored with embarrassment. In front of an already awkward Richard Papen, you slipped a scrunchie onto the door handle before beckoning Henry to step inside. The dorm room was teetering on the edge of uncomfortably cramped. Half read books were littered on every possible surface which did little to relieve the ever present feeling of claustrophobia. On your makeshift dining table, fashioned out of a coffee table and the only nice tablecloth you had, was an Altoids tin, a bottle of red wine, and a frosted chocolate cake.

"What are the Altoids for?" Henry finally said, draping his wool coat over a chair.

"Open it and see." You said, barely containing a smile.

The Altoids tin held a few goodies. A joint, two gummies, and a little plastic baggie of an unknown substance. Henry opted for the herbal refreshment, you took the gummies. High out of your minds, you finally put on the movie selection for the night: Watership Down (1978). The night was gratifying for a laundry list of reasons. The chocolate cake was delightful. The wine and weed were pleasant. The movie though graphic was cerebral enough to capture Henry's inebriated attention. But the warmth he felt as your body slipped onto his was incomprehensible. His bones felt seared with delight. For a blissful moment, Henry found the indulgences to be wonderfully excessive, even if everything he did that night was in no way a meaningful tribute to Dionysus. How could a single person enjoy this much beauty without feeling a bit of guilt? Ever the dichotomous man, Henry felt gluttonous and generous whenever he was with you. Whatever you had to offer, he would selfishly take and then some. But whatever you wanted, whether it be a drawer in his apartment or one of the moons of Jupiter, Henry felt more than moral obligation to give. Every cell in his body compelled him to provide anything you wanted. It was the most sacred form of worship. You were his parishioner, saint, and God all mixed into one corporeal being.