Sipping Copper

Opening the Wounds

The metal grey building loomed like a gravestone, but Rhett still moved towards it. His large feet feather light on each of the sixty-five steps up to double wide doors that lead into the stale air of politics. The long coat protected him only from the harshness of the morning sun, but could do nothing once he entered. There were regal columns all around him, and every one of them declared the same thing: that he should be anywhere else but here.

There were already too many humans in this place for his comfort. They smelled of asinine concerns like missed cups of coffee and bureaucracy. The pettiness of their woes stunk, and Rhett felt his stomach turn in protest. A small woman with a severe bob haircut bumped up against him on her way to the exit. Her scowl became a look of slight alarm once she peered into Rhett’s eyes, and hurried away as fast as she could. This was nothing that Rhett wasn’t used to every day. Human expressions changing right in front of him once they understood once they realized in whose presence they stood.

There was no need to read the map at the side of the next hallway. Two right turns, then a left and straight ahead until he reached the dark blue door in the east wing. The same path that he had known for four decades, yet rarely taken.

He gave three sharp knocks and waited.

“Come in,” said a deep voice. “It’s open.”

Rhett turned the brass doorknob and entered a large office. The ebony desk sat close to an oversized window, and the walls were covered in large paintings of the city, all commissioned by little known artists who wanted to impress the ancient man sitting behind the desk. The crisp navy suit was a stark contrast to his paler wrinkled hands and face - a face which, at the moment, was tilted down as he scribbled with a pen on a piece of paper, his laptop  forgotten on his left side.

“Seeing you here is troubling,” the older man said, still not looking up but gesturing a left hand to the seat opposite his desk. “I’m sure you’ll be brief. You usually are.”

Rhett said nothing, but sat down. His eyeline swept to the thinning hair, completely snow white now. Then to the deeply-lined face, and then to the noses they shared.

“You look older,” Rhett mentioned softly.

The elderly man chuckled, and finally looked up. His aquamarine eyes were a shade and intensity that made Rhett feel like their mother was seeing him from beyond the veil of death.

“It’s been three years since we’ve seen each other,” the other man said. “I am older.”

“I text you,” Rhett bristled, already annoyed by the way this conversation was going. “Send emails… stay in touch as much as I - ”

“What is it that you want, Rhett?” the man snapped. His voice was sterner now. As if Rhett was avoiding the pressing news he had for some ridiculous reason. “You only come here in person with your...”

The old man motioned again at him, this time with an impatience that the vampire hadn’t seen since they were both small children.

“With your sweeping coat and icy glare when there’s no other choice. You only see me… really see me when something is so beyond your depth that you need me to pull a few strings or use my influence. So, out with it. What the hell do you want?”

Apparently directness was a hereditary trait in their family. It had just laid dormant for the man who was staring at Rhett with such seriousness as he waited for yet another shoe to drop. The silence in the room was broken only by the soft ticking of the antique wall clock. Like a heartbeat that would eventually stop.