Transylvania

T W E L V E

Alexander made it back home before the morning fog had burned off. When he entered his apartment, the shades were all drawn and Marco's door was shut. He knew he should go into his own room and get some rest, but his chest was buzzing with too much emotion. Shirley was out in the world somewhere, and he needed to get her back.

But how?

He racked his brain. What was a romantic gesture that would work? Should he get a boombox and blast In Your Eyes outside of Shirley's window, a la John Cusack in Say Anything? Hire a skywriter to pen his apology in the clouds? Send her enough flower deliveries to fill her apartment? Show up at her work and serenade her? Even if antics like that worked on film and screen, he doubted they would work in real life.

First things first, he decided. What did he know about her? What would hold sentimental significance? There was the first song they danced to in the club and that message she had sent him on Supr. He knew her profession, and some of her interests: cooking, photography, her cat. But, a cat mug saying, "I meow for you," or something corny like that, just didn't seem like the right brand of romance.

Then he remembered something Marco had said: It's all about the profile picture. And, because he knew her favorite photograph, inspiration struck.

Alexander's photo editing skills weren't that good. Technology wasn't his strength, after all. But he had given himself darker sideburns in his first Supr profile picture, so maybe, just maybe, he could pull off what he was thinking.

He got to work immediately.

A feverish intensity overtook him. He hadn't felt this awake during the day since when he was human. He stared at his computer screen, fiddling with files and reading "How To" articles. When his progress slowed, he thought about waking up Marco, but then thought better of it. Waking Marco was like trying to rouse the undead.

In the end, it took Alexander longer than he had expected to edit Ruth Orkin's famous photograph, and it didn't come out as flawless as it had looked in his imagination, but the gist was there. And he was proud of his work. Over the face of the lone American woman walking down the stone Florentine sidewalk, he'd pasted an image of Shirley's face. That part had been easy enough. What had given him trouble was pasting his own face on top of all the different men who were catcalling and ogling her. Not only were their heads of different sizes, but their expressions were so varied, the angles of their faces all different. He had to find a picture of his profile, one with his head turned left, another turned right, and one looking straight at the camera. Fifteen faces in all.

Once he made the final tweaks, he opened up Supr. First, he cleared all of his notifications. He wasn't interested in any other women. Then, he uploaded the edited photograph as his profile picture on Supr. It looked too small, there in the page's corner. But if you clicked on the image, it would enlarge. Finally, he drafted a message. He knew it would get forwarded to her email because that's how Marco read most of his notifications.

He started typing: Shirley; I messed up. You're the only one I have eyes for. Let me make it up to you. Please meet me tonight at the club. I'll be there after sunset.

He read it again. How should he sign it? Love, Alexander? Regards? Best? Nothing sounded right, so he just typed his name without a sendoff.

And then he waited.

She didn't respond right away. It was afternoon, but still lunch time. How late had she gotten home last night? Could she still be sleeping?

He twiddled his thumbs. Paced. Thought about heating a bag of blood, but then decided against it.

Maybe he should try to sleep. If he didn't sleep now, he'd be running on fumes by the time the sun set. So, he went into his bedroom and laid down on his bed and closed his eyes. But with his eyes shut, the only image he could see was that cab driving away, taking her beyond his reach.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamed he was a balloon, floating after Shirley. She held his string tight, and he bobbed along in the breeze. But then, with a gust, the string slipped from her fingers. Or had she dropped it on purpose? And he was untethered, flying out of control. He screamed, and his eyes flew open.

The bedsheets were drenched with sweat. Turning his head, the clock read five minutes after five. A thin line of sunlight was still visible on the ceiling above the curtains.

Even if his body metabolized caffeine, there wouldn't have been enough coffee in the world to make his head feel right. So, he did the only thing he could and grabbed a clean outfit and walked to the bathroom to take a shower. The hot water did little to make him feel more alert, but it made him feel more relaxed.

As he dried off and got dressed, he had a sudden thought. Maybe Shirley had messaged him back while he was asleep. He couldn't believe that he forgot to check before he showered!

Hair still damp, he bound for the living room and flipped open the laptop.

A red dot greeted him.

With a deep breath, he clicked on the icon. She had replied. One sentence: See you then, baby.

She was still calling him baby, so that had to be a good sign. A shot of adrenaline coursed through his veins. Now he needed to think up the rest of his plan.

The first thing he did was call Izzy. He rarely used her personal number, but she had given it to him years ago.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Hey, Izzy, it's Alexander. I need you to do me a favor." He told her to have a Cosmo ready and asked if she would put in a request with the D.J. She agreed, and they hung up.

Marco came stumbling out of his room. "Evening," he said with a yawn.

"I'm going out to buy flowers," Alexander said as he placed the telephone receiver back on the base.

"Huh?"

"Had a fight. Gotta make it up to her somehow. Fill you in later." Alexander went to the bathroom to fix his hair and make sure his outfit hung right on his frame. Then, leaving Marco alone in the living room, Alexander walked out into the early evening.

His plan was thin. The profile picture had been his big gesture. Now he just had to trust his words. The words that he wished he had said the previous night. He tried rehearsing them as he walked down the sidewalk, but eventually he just let them roll around in his brain and collect. He hoped they would find an order that made sense once there was an opportunity to speak them aloud.

At the florist shop on the corner, he bought a dozen orange roses. He thought about other gifts. Maybe a cat mug would be worth a good laugh, but in the end he headed directly to the club.

He nodded at Rick and walked through the thin crowd of patrons and over to the bar.

"For me? You shouldn't have," Izzy said to greet him.

"Haha," he deadpanned. "Everything ready?"

"You mean pouring a drink and playing a song? Sure thing cowboy."

"You mean you couldn't hire a live performer or figure out a way to stage fireworks?" he joked.

"Sorry, I tried. The boss said no," Izzy joked back. Then her eyes darted over to the entrance. "Better be on point lover-boy, because here comes your girl, and she's not alone."