St✶rFxcker

Besides, I don't often get the chance to enjoy that time of the day. I start work at 9:00, so I get ready at 7:00, which is when the sun starts setting, and sitting on the beach and watching the sky doesn't pay the bills. I've become sort of nocturnal, but I like bartending. It's not the worst job I've had. The downside is the people. Rêve is a luxury hotel that hosts many exclusive guests, which is code for 'ultra-elite, Hollywood, old-money assholes'. I should know; I'm the one serving them.

As for my other work, I have not been as...successful. I...have no report on Subject #6251. His last public sighting was his trip to Bermuda with the Culkin family in June. He's reported to be here in California now, but Mr. Jackson keeps a strictly personal security team, and public appearances are brief and scarce. But for the past five months, something I heard when I hitched has been bouncing around my mind: I'll see you in July. Maybe it didn't mean anything at all. Maybe it did. I guess we'll see.

You groggily stir out of bed at half past five to the unbearably familiar sound of your alarm clock. You unplug it altogether after you miss the button a few times and groan as you're forced to move out of your comfortable position and plug it back in. When the analog numbers appear, a voice crackles through the static.

"-so it's looking like a nice, summer night over here in West LA," the newsman announces as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, "with partial cloudiness around 11:00. Now, to Alice on entertainment."

The station continues on your other stereo in the living room, which you must've accidentally left on last night. Strange, though. You don't remember turning it on. You shrug it off; this forgetfulness hasn't been uncommon lately. Even five months after hitching, your memory still gets a bit fuzzy at times. It comes off as ditzy and air-headed to your colleagues, a role that you begrudgingly play into; you've started to wonder how much longer until the side effects wear off.

You pop a slice of bread into the toaster while flicking a small lighter in your hand. Holding the flame up to the overhead light, you watch as the reds and yellows turn translucent and jagged, crystallizing into the air before your very eyes.

Not all light is different now. Electrical energy holds up just the same, but the sun and fire─untouched by humans and completely, naturally of the Earth─are luminescent in ways you never imagined possible.

When you've finished admiring the flame, you pop a thin cigarette between your lips and . You aren't a smoker─at least, you weren't. But with time in your hands, the reversibility of any harm is enough reason to allow yourself a vice here or there.

Truth be told, you've changed ever since you arrived. You wear your hair a bit differently now, but beyond physical changes, you've had a strange sense of self that the 21st century could not provide, the kind that can only come with a slower pace of life, no alerts and notifications, or mindless, short-form media. You're more mindful of your surroundings, more present in the given moment. Contentedness suits you rather well.

"And this just came in, folks," the newsreader continues, "Earlier today, Michael Jackson was spotted in Tom Toy's, a toy store in Beverly Hills that the popstar is known to frequent. Less than a minute after fans first noticed him, a crowd of approximately two hundred gathered..."

A cloud of smoke surrounds you as you exhale slowly, despite the fever rising in your blood. It quickens your heart and leaves your mind racing.

Tom's Toys in Beverly Hills...You sort through the mental map you've made of the city. Tom's Toys on N Beverly Drive. The very road you pass on your way to the Hôtel de Rêve─with the very man you'd hoped to see. Quite possibly the closest you've been to him, and, dishearteningly, you've just missed him.

That voice repeats itself in your head again. "I'll see you in July."

Nicotine settles into your bloodstream quickly. Out the window, motor vehicles of all kinds─trucks, SUV's, limousines, and taxis─maintain their routes on the city street with blaring bass lines and the periodic, angry honk. Your toast pops into the air, but your stomach is suddenly sour with guilt, and you've lost your appetite.

You leave your flat promptly at 8:34, sparing twenty-six minutes to get to the bus stop. It feels silly to be so adamant over a schedule when you know now that time is so irrelevant.

Try telling that to your boss, you think to yourself as you hurry down the sidewalk, swiftly maneuvering past others moving slower than you. Ever since hearing the news when you first woke, you've been excessively hard on yourself. Self-criticism certainly does nothing to help your case, yet you can't help but give into the overlapping thoughts that race through your mind like the cars on the road.

You wouldn't have missed him if you didn't have this fucking job.

A job that you need to pay rent.

Rent that you pay because you went and sent yourself back in time. Do you even hear yourself?

Contrary to your earlier mishap, you luckily arrive at your stop just as the bus pulls to the side. You and the usual others─a short grandmother who didn't speak English, a moody teenager who always wore black, and a man twice your age with a prosthetic leg; you love to subtly watch these stranger and the intricacies of these small moments you share with them─file onto the bus. You take your seat and recognize the intro of a familiar song playing through the driver's radio.

"Whispers at morning. Our love is dawning. Heaven's glad you came."

You enter the hotel through a back door. It takes you through a hallway lined with fluorescent lights. If you think for too long, you can feel yourself back in those halls they'd led you through. Those last moments of normalcy, though surely there was nothing normal about it.

Nevertheless, you shake off that nasty feeling as you cut through the kitchen, waving hello to the chefs. In the break room, you stash your bag into a locker as quickly as possible and tuck your top into your pants. The uniform is undoubtedly comfortable, but high-end dining calls for high-end appearing staff. "Don't forget, Margot," your manager says to you in the back. "Special guest at 10:00."

Another Hollywood prick to bless your night without leaving a tip. You don't say that part out loud.

Your night continues like any other. Hotel guests linger at the bar, some alone, some with company. Some strike up conversation, though most don't. Around an hour in, you find yourself craving a smoke break, which a coworker encourages you to. In the dark alley behind the building, the two of you briefly talk about his recent engagement to a girl he met in Vegas. He swears that she's the one.

When you come back, you return to the kitchen and bar staff frantically scrambling around as if the place were on fire. Servers are frantically cleaning, the cooks are arguing, and someone runs by with a bag of ice. Your manager asks where you've been and, before you can answer, points to the clock on the wall. The big hand points at 10.

You mentally curse at yourself.

"My other bartender just fucking fainted," your manager complains and tells you to take your partner's spot.

Quick to comply, you messily tie your apron around your waist and hurry towards the bar. The doors push open with ease, and the first thing you notice when you walk out is the silence. The Hôtel de Rêve is not usually a boisterous place; etiquette calls for a low, respectable volume. And it isn't unusual for private guests to rent out the bar to themselves. But this complete quiet that blankets the air envelopes you into the room as if nothing exists outside of it─nothing but you and your guest of the night.

And when your eyes finally land on him, your heart stops.

Because it's him.

Undoubtedly and sublimely him. His raven-black suit jacket is adorned with small, onyx jewels that reflect the bar's amber lighting almost as much as his lusciously dark eyes. Within them is a depth too vast to scale, and when they meet yours, and you feel yourself teetering over the edge. He wears the softest glint of a smile.

And, most profoundly, a thin, lucid line of opalescent light traces his figure─the same light that reached for you five months ago and has touched your soul ever since.

I'll see you in July, you think to yourself.

In his presence─and no one else's─you cannot move. You don't try to. You stand there, behind the bar, in your apron and uniform, completely still. Composing yourself, you move to follow the same formal script you've generated during your time at Rêve: "Good evening, sir" and "What would you like to start with?"

But before your voice can even find itself, his fills the air, soft and quiet as if to himself.

"It's you."

His words debilitate you, and you are utterly and horribly helpless in his gaze. You remain there for seemingly an hour, but what is an hour to a minute in the grand illusion of time?

He doesn't await your reply. He doesn't even appear to expect your professional greeting. The moment is as startling to him as it is to you, and you cannot determine why; but the moment lives on, along with the pulsing glow of his aura.

When he finally notices the confusion in your eyes, he breathily chuckles.

"I'm sorry. That was strange of me to say. I just-" you approach the bar, and he smiles in awe. "I saw you today."

You're intrigued. "You did?"

"I was on Ruemorth," he nods. "You were walkin' down the street. I could see you were in a uniform of some kind, but I wouldn't have guessed it was the Rêve."

I was pickin' at my nails and lookin' out the window. Bill had the jazz station on, which was calming and all, but I still had such an awful feelin' in my stomach. I don't know where it came from, or when, really, but, as I was lookin' out the window, I saw you. And the sun was angled so perfectly on you─y'looked so pretty. Unreal. I couldn't even believe my eyes. It was you...But Bill kept driving, and then you were gone.

"I live on Ruemorth," you concur, fulfilling your commitment to conspicuity. Though you would be lying if you said the truth of the moment wasn't short-circuiting your mind. You'd walked to the bus stop earlier this evening in such agitation that you'd forgotten to mind the cars on the road and the people inside them. But even if you had, would you have seen him? How many times had he been just out of your reach, so close yet so far?

"Well, how about that," he leans back in his seat with one arm rested on the edge of the bar.

You smile, "What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Jackson?"

"Please, call me Michael."

"Alright, Michael," you smoothly muse despite your racing heart. "What would you like?"

"A coke and vodka, please." You gracefully drift further down the bar to the rail and pluck a bottle of Stolichnaya. The crisp snap of a cold Coca-Cola cracked open; the quiet fizz once it hits ice in a crystal glass, the blur of fluids mixing together. But Michael doesn't miss the way your nose crinkles in distaste as you garnish the glass with a slice of lime. He grins, "What, you don't like it?"

You place the drink on a napkin across from him with a small smile. "Vodka is just an...interesting choice," you politely rib.

He hums as he takes the first sip; his eyes never leave yours. "How many Cuba Libre's do y'get asked to make in a night?"

"Quite a few," you reply once you think it over.

"Does it ever get boring?"

You want to disagree. Provoke him a little more so you can talk a little more; God forbid you were having fun. "Actually, it does," you nod, much to Michael's satisfaction. "Thanks, you’ve really made my day." The hint of sarcasm excites him, but you mean every word.

"You're welcome," he raises his glass. “Anything for the pretty girl walkin' down the street.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as a warmth gathers in your cheeks. Your nails dig crescents into your palms to fight the flutter in your stomach. Guests often flirt with you. Most of them are men twice your age who hide their wedding bands in their pockets. You’ve learned to smile and accept their unsolicited remarks without encouraging any more. But with him, you are speechless.

And, by the way he watches your drawn-out reaction, you realize he’s rather accustomed to this.

“What can I call you?” He asks, balancing the glass between his fingertips.

You smile bitterly, hoping he doesn’t notice. “Margot,” you offer; it feels vile to say it so plainly. As soon as it leaves your mouth, you wish to tell him that’s a lie─that’s not your name.

You aren’t who you say you are. You aren’t where you belong.

But he looks at you, and his eyes─deep, velvety voids—are filled with such adoration, you can’t imagine you belong anywhere else than here.

“That’s a lovely name,” he says before taking a sip.

A serene silence falls over the two of you. With no other guests or customers to wait on, no glasses to clean, no mess to sort, you idly stand to the side as Michael continues with his drink, only to stop halfway, his body suddenly stilling.

"Y'know what?" He catches your attention. "I think I will take that with rum."

"Right away," you nod and move towards the liquor rail again before Michael interjects.

"When I got here, your boss mentioned a rare collection in the back. Said somethin' about a bottle of Clément by Tournaire in the back. From 1966, I think?" Michael ponders to himself. Then, he looks back at you with those deep eyes again. "Would y'be a doll and grab it for me?"

Though his words make your knees weak, you internally groan at the request; the rare bottles are kept in a locked compartment whose key belonged to your shift leader. You explain this to Michael, who instructs you to, “Tell him I wanna give him my autograph".

When you warn that it'll take a bit to securely retrieve the bottle, he simply says, "Take your time."

If it were any other customer, you would have─but now, there isn’t a moment to spare. You’ve waited almost half a year for a glimpse, a scrap, and now you’ve been graced with the whole feast. You fetch the key from your manager. You try to ignore all of the fluorescent lights in the hall. The unit hisses open, its crisp air instantly biting your exposed skin. It threatens to freeze your fingers as they nimbly sort through the various bottles before finally landing on the Clément. With it securely tucked under your arm, you lock the unit door behind you and trek back down the awful hallway, through the kitchen, and towards the bar.

As you approach the doorway, your manager barges through with an unsettlingly keen look in his eye. He muttered to leave the keys at the bar.

But before you can question his manner, you enter the dining room and Michael's eyes land on you again.

"There she is," he beams.

You hold the bottle up, allowing him to admire its golden concoction as you prepare a glass with ice.

"Make it a double," Michael interjects your train of thought again.

"Expecting company?" You ask, reaching for another cup.

He shakes his head but waits until you crack two more cans of soda open to speak. "I got good company right now."

The ice crackles underneath the rum as you process his sentiment. Your soft smile soon disappears. You furrow your brows, but Michael's expression is steadily patient. "Oh," falls from your lips as it dawns on you. "I- That's very nice of you, but─I'm on the clock."

"Then don't drink. I'll pay for it anyway." He insists, so you continue with both drinks. "I'd like for you to join me, at least, in conversation."

"Weren't we doing that already?"

"No, you were serving me. I'd like for you to sit with me," Michael affirms. His kindness is perhaps the most unusual part of the night. "And, as of...right about now, y’not on the clock anymore."

"What did you-"

"It's alright," he reassures you. "I told your boss to send everyone else home. They're closin' up for the night right now. And, while I have you here," he reaches over the counter with long, lean arms and grabs one drink at a time, placing one across from himself and the other at the seat beside him, "I wanted t’get to know you."

Your face has undoubtedly gone red by now. Surely, he can hear your heart thumping in your chest. A part of you, buried and unearthed until now, eases into his proposal despite your best efforts.

"Does this work on every girl y'see?" You smirk.

"Dunno," his expression matches yours. "I haven't tried it before."

With that, you slowly untie your apron from your waist and leave it on the counter. Michael's eyes remain fixated on yours as you glide around the bar, meeting him on his side. And now that he's finally up close, you swear your heart stops again.

You can see the layers of color corrector and concealer blended and dusted onto his skin with perfection; the inky black line around his eyes; the way his dark curls have begun to loosely fall in front of his face, shadowing the contours of his cheekbones and nose. He’s unbearably real this close to you.

He asks you where you’re from. About your family, your parents or any siblings. Your favorite album, your first record, your favorite food. Through it all, you remain as loyal to the truth as you can, providing only fragments of it, and Michael’s eyes watch you as if there was nothing else in the world to see.

Eventually, the conversation veers from personal to casual and comfortable. The two of you shift as you talk, soon relaxing into the ease of the moment.

"My mother wanted me t'get rid of him," Michael chuckles to himself. "Said 'it's not right for a monkey to live in a house!' and made a big fuss to Joseph."

You smile as if you'd been there. "And now?"

"Now, she loves him. She won't say it," he points his finger matter-of-factly, "But I know it. I listen to her singin' to him, sometimes, or laughin' while he plays in the living room."

"Bubbles, the Chimpanzee," you smile to yourself with the rim of your glass between your lips. "Now, I want to meet him."

"You should," Michael enthuses.

Conversation comes so naturally with him that you wonder why you ever bothered interacting with any other guests. Occasionally, you crack a small joke, earning yourself a glimpse of his infectious laughter. And despite your earlier hesitation, you allow yourself one drink, which appears to be enough for the words to start spilling out of your mouth before you can stop them.

You don’t try to. You let the evening run its course, whatever it has in store. And, as Michael talks about himself ─a recent feud with one of his brothers or his stress with his upcoming album, which he refuses to speak more of ─you watch him.

The angelic aura surrounding him is no longer reminiscent of tessellated light. In fact, it isn’t reminiscent of anything. Not even the strange light of the sun or fire. His light glows in its own beautiful way, and it suddenly hits you that you aren’t looking at him through a magazine page or the static on your television, and you aren’t seeing him through the tessellation─you’re seated beside him, and however unreal he was to you before tonight is now the opposite.

Yet, there’s still a space between you and the present moment. All of it─the bar, the dining tables, the hanging Murano lamps, the shelves of luxury liquor─is horribly far away from you. Unreal.

Apart from him.

He who sits beside you like starlight, glowing and chimerical, yet present nonetheless. Flesh and blood, just like you. He who draws the same air as you, filling it with his light for you to take in, and from it, you feel an inexplicable sense of euphoria.

And, as hot, heavy tears begin to collect at your eyes, it dawns on you just how precious this moment is. An epiphany.

And a single question rattles around your mind begging for an answer.

How can I save you?

“There’s people out there who need real help, y’know?” Michael says, now rambling. You wish he’d never stop. “And I can reach them all─isn’t that beautiful? They listen to me, they love me…and I love them. I don’t want anyone to hurt. I have the power to really change their lives, to take away all that pain. I should try, shouldn’t I?”

He looks at you then, noticing how your eyes have turned glassy, but he doesn’t question it.

“Of course," you blink the tears away. "Is something stopping you?”

Michael thinks to himself for a moment. "No. I s'pose not."

Any tension you felt an hour ago has dissipated by now, though the shot of rum has certainly helped. His glass is empty, while yours is nearly finished, leaving lumps of watery ice and diluted Coca-Cola swimming at the bottom. It stays quiet for a long moment that fades into minutes, each one extended by the way his eyes remain on yours.

It makes your heart flutter, but you're oddly calm. There's something about it all that feels right─the first comfort you've felt in the past five months─as if you were meant to be here all along.

As you take the last sip of your drink, you realize that Michael has been waiting for you to finish. "Would you like another?" You instinctively ask.

He chuckles, "I told you, you're not serving me anymore."

"So, what now?"

After a few seconds, he finds the words, yet he still speaks them hesitantly. "Well, Ms. Margot, I hope it isn't strange of me t'say that I've had a very pleasant night with you. And-" He cuts himself off, now letting the words find him. "I'd like you to come home with me."

"You only met me tonight."

"I did," he nods. "I want to continue our conversation."

You squint at him.

"Not that kind of conversation," Michael gently laughs, taking your glasses and setting them on the other side of the bar. You watch his slender fingers reach back and offer themselves to you as he offers his hand. You feel yourself swooning, peering over the edge of the void again. This time, one foot dangles above the abyss.

"I can see plain n'clear how beautiful you are on the outside," he says while you place your hand in his; Michael's thumb rubs over your skin. "I'd like to see more of what's inside, if that's alright with you."

And, into the abyss, you fall.