#mortepure

kanacorp officials invite aurora to an informal chat over coffee, in the cafe within kei's hotel. they add (jauntily, revelling in the mischief of a secret) that kei has a terrible sweet tooth, and should she fancy cake, he'll take little convincing to spring for it.

of course, they don't divulge that they included that detail in a cynical ploy to humanise their negotiator. nor do they divulge that kei selected his hotel precisely because of its cafe; after all, he's researched her. gleaned from the press and social media, it seems the menu will be to her tastes. at noon he's waiting; he rises to greet her with a polite bow and his usual introduction: ...but you can call me kei.

Not two feelings are ever the same, not to an Angel. Not even when they come from the same person. Perhaps one of the reasons he’s become so fond of her is that no matter what her feelings are, there’s almost always something pleasant about them. He’s having a time (not a bad one, just a time) placing this one.

It wouldn't tug at him if it weren't genial, yet there’s some melancholy to it – the sort you get when you hear a bell that’s almost like your old primary school’s bell and you’re about to march yourself back to your classroom then think silly me, I graduated decades ago – and a cheery anticipation, almost. The scent of birthday cake waiting in the back of the car.

He lets it envelop the two of them, pours each another cup of tea – bergamot, steeped three minutes precisely – and exhales a content “quite so, I’d say.”

The fact (and it is, a fact) that the candlelit yellow of his shop somehow came to mind second, and the pure, unrelenting white of heaven came third should worry him.

It should, since headlights, traffic lights, and the odd light emitted by a specific tiny green lamp that always sat on top of the table of a small late-night restaurant Crowley and he had frequented for most of the eighties – unfortunately closed for good by the early nineties – came first. Albeit so quickly and so naturally he hadn’t had the time to, making it easier to then focus on the other two.

He does wonder, however briefly, how that thought would appear to her if she could sense it.

Her bills swish and coins clatter on the table – he’s only too pleased to confirm once more how she’s a generous tipper – and she turns in her seat, reaching for the hanger and her coat, ready to stand up and leave.  They’ve arrived and left many times prior, over many different scones and madeleines and jams and spreads, so where, exactly, is this sudden wave of melancholy coming from?

He suspects it's her hands. Humans may believe it’s the eyes, or the hair, or whatever feature is currently most fashionable that shows any inwards growths and changes and sudden spurts, only no. He’s found, through the very, very few human acquaintances he’s allowed himself to have (that aren’t strictly correspondence), that it’s the hands that most often show the first signs of just about anything.

Hers move and grip so surely as she turns to go, that he’s beginning to worry that meeting with him – the whole ‘End of the World’ crucible over and done with – might be slowly starting to get past her now. She’s human, ever-changing. He’s ethereal.

 Probably would be for the best, getting too attached can’t possibly be of any benefit to either of them, yet he finds himself missing her already. Who else would bother to tell him there’s a new cinematographic rendition of ‘Emma’ for him to watch, let alone go through the trouble of forcing him to sit through it and babble along to his endless commentary?

 “Please, don’t ever become a stranger” he finds himself saying in earnest warmth, in lieu of his usual ‘Goodbye then, see you soon, I hope’ .