One Million Masks: REDUX | ✓

The Sake of Time, 2050

<< The Sake of Time, 2050 >>

It spooks me when I remember.

I am alive.

I am in love.

Superstitious to a fault, the Italians call it un pensierino.

I call it an uncertain becoming.

We walk the cobbled sparkle lit streets of Ponte Vecchio hand in hand.

It's a queer sight.

A couple of old gays in Italy.

You're a lighthouse beside me, strong and beaconing. There's nothing to fear anymore, no task force to dodge, no unspoken terror to swallow back in the thick heat of night.

During the Year of the Monkey President Esperina Columbo declared Italy a Super haven, and from that point on attempts to capture our protected class would be deemed a hostile invasion.

Her UN speech was all over the news; it was a groundbreaking policy finally acknowledging people like us as exactly that. People.

People with extra abilities, but still people.

That very same day we bought plane tickets on the most inconspicuous airline we could find and didn't look back. In all likelihood, B.I.S.O.N. knows we're here but their operatives can't plant a single toe on Italian soil without starting another world war. And this time the Axis might actually win.

We're immigrants in the purest sense - fleeing here to escape extradition and the back-breaking awaiting us in America. Except our war was silent, with fewer casualties and far more at stake than a bit of territory and national pride.

Like most wounded creatures we'd rather suffer together than alone.

"It's a decent enough country," I said on the boat ride from Greece. "I think we can keep ourselves entertained."

You studied the widening canals and peach architecture with grim determination, eager to disembark and find shelter.

"We'll see how long we stay," you said.

"You wouldn't want to live here?"

"What I want and what's going to happen almost never align, you know that."

"I know better than most."

"Hm."

You were gruff that day but you took my hand almost as soon as the boat docked and that was all the chance and reassurance I needed.

That was twenty years ago, and the urgency has waned, but in Florence, we remain.

Now there's no reason to leave. It is a world at peace.

But, as the watchful Interpol breeze by in their checkered yellow cruisers, I'm reminded it wasn't always this way.

Your gentle hand once tore thunderstorms in half but you haven't raised your voice out of anger in years.

I think you like it this way.

Honestly, I'm still not so sure how I feel about it.

It doesn't take long before little children scamper behind us pointing and laughing.

"Negrito, negrito!" They cackle. I doubt they've ever seen a black man in real life. They probably think Kevin Hart and Obama are related.

"Andatevene, demoni!" I hiss and they run away shrieking to the candy store.

"They're just kids," You tiredly say.

"They're little no-necked monsters is what they are."

Perhaps it's good we never adopted.

It would've been unfair to throw a child into us and expect our bubble to widen big enough to include another life without bursting. We can be hideously self-absorbed.

But there are nights (notti) when our darkened guest bedroom could benefit from a small voice, a third toothbrush, a pair of bright (blood) red rainboots between yours and my own.

"It's not too late..." I murmur.

"Not too late for what?"

Pink flower petals stick to your jacket. We're embraced under a flourishing awning. Street quartets serenade nurses as they leave the 24-hour clinic, automated cabs zip by in an invisible dance. A small mutt sniffs around the meat shop faithfully waiting for her owner to return in due time. There's powdered sugar on my lips and yours and the breathing spooks me every time.

None of this feels real.

Perhaps we're in a vividly detailed simulation and we never actually escaped Australia and it's only faith keeping me alive right now.

Maybe Neo was right and we're in the matrix after all.

"Those kids back there really didn't bother you?"

"I've been called worse."

Hmm. You have. Doesn't make it right.

I think about the dark haired flight attendant who told you to move to the back of the plane because you were making other passengers 'uncomfortable.' She completely ignored me, the real threat, and ushered you out of the seat you paid for like she was taking out the trash.

"It's okay," you squeezed my hand before scooching down the tight aisle. "Where we're going this'll be a distant memory."

You were so calm about it, didn't complain once, let it happen.

Me? I almost punched a hole in the fuselage and sent TransAsia Flight 4422 hurtling into the quilted farmland below us.

"I've had enough of people today," I tell you now. "Possibly for a lifetime. My social battery is drained."

"Maybe tomorrow we'll actually make it around the block."

I wink up at you.

"I know a way to get there quick."

You glance around the strada before you kiss me, an old habit born of masquerades and secrecy.

"Mmmm... I missed you, hun. I can't get enough of this. I don't see you enough."

You laugh. "We live together."

"Wait, that was you? I thought that was just a handsome stranger who randomly moved in one day and keeps the fridge stocked with protein shakes."

"Hmmm. Does he sleep on the right side of the bed? And kiss you good morning? And patiently remind you to close any black holes you might've ripped despite being told on multiple occasions the space-time continuum can't handle another tear?"

"Yeah, how'd you know? He also drives me bat-shit crazy about how his socks should be organized and can predict storms a month before they hit like he's a walking weathervane or something."

"Oh, well then yes, that would be me. Your roommate-husband. Hello."

"Oh, good. It would've been awkward asking him to leave, he's rather nice."

You lean in, smile playing at your eyes. "I'm much nicer, I promise."

Electrostatic pops! between us when I pull you up for another kiss. You unclasp my coat buttons as I mouth at your throat, and suddenly we're young again.

You meet my gaze.

"Home?"

My hands are warm in your pockets and we're already miles away back in our bedroom. If we ever make it here.

"Yeah. Home."