Do you ever find yourself thinking about suicide? Like, all the time? Not that you’re really thinking about going through with it, of course, but you just kind of like trying the idea on for size. Like a sweater in a dressing room. And you look at yourself in the mirror and think, “Oh, this rather suits me,” but of course it’s way too expensive, so you’d never really buy it. And yet, even so, you find yourself idly window shopping every passing store. Sometimes you even pop in just to have a closer look. But it’s not a real thing, of course. You would never.
I was not feeling that way as I drove to work. I wasn’t feeling that way as I sat at a too-big front desk of a too-small museum that served about three families a day. I wasn’t feeling that way as I perused employment sites, certain that my own job was the death rattle of a failing industry. And I absolutely wasn’t feeling that way when I drove out to the cliffs overlooking the waves crashing on the rocky shore below.
Can you imagine jumping off something like that? While the cliffs were high, they weren’t high enough. You’d hit the rocks on your way down and break your legs or your ribs, then instinctively try to swim to safety—survival habits always kick in—but the waves would keep smashing you back into the rocks. You’d die, that’s for sure, but it would take much longer and be far more painful than intended.
A skyscraper would be better. Though there is the matter of roof access, and someone’s got to clean up your remains. That’s just rude.
I sat on the edge of the cliff and stared out at the ocean. No matter how I felt on any given day, no matter how my mind raced, the ocean drowned it out. It was just before twilight, the twin moons already low in the sky, occasionally peeking out from behind a thick layer of clouds. It felt as if a storm could strike at any second, and I hoped it would. A lonely, stormy day at the beach was far superior to a crowded, hot sandbar assaulting the senses with sweat and sunblock.
The sound of a new car caught my attention and soured my mood. I glanced at the newcomer long enough to see that he was male, roughly my age, and quite the looker—at least from what I could see—so that was a plus. The parking lot was just behind a grassy field at the edge of the cliff, and he took his place a few meters down, hands in his coat pockets, unmoving against the stormy skies. He was sharply dressed in a navy blue pea coat over fitted jeans and an expensive-looking pair of boots.
As if snapping out of a daydream, I realized that I was staring.
He was staring back.
With a quick glance away, I made my best attempt to shrug it off. We’d caught each other's eye, and that happens all the time. It was no big deal. I tried to look contemplative, like I was having really big thoughts rather than watching him in my peripherals.
He was still looking at me. Five seconds later. Ten seconds later. A solid and steady stare. At the twenty-second mark, I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I turned my attention back to him and said, “Hey.”
“Hello.”
Hello. Something about that and the expensive threads told me this man was someone a person ought to know. I had never known anyone like that before. I barely knew anyone at all, and those I did were the sort one ought not to know.
I realized I was staring again. At least we both were this time. I asked, “Think it’ll rain?”
“Yes.”
Yes? I felt both repelled and attracted. “Not a man of many words, are you?”
He shrugged. My attraction increased tenfold. Perhaps it was latent childhood rejection drawing me to him, or maybe it was his chiseled jawline, but I stood and wandered his way.
“Are you from around here, or just passing by?”
“Passing by.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
The closer I drew to him, the more I could see that the man was absolutely perfect. A flawless complexion, pale eyes, cheekbones that both spoke to feminine beauty and masculine virility. I tried to imagine anything other than his hands on my body. “Traveling for business or pleasure?”
“Business. Always.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I enjoy my work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an archivist.”
“Oh, what a coincidence! Not that I’m an archivist too, but I work at a museum, which is, you know, a bit similar.”
The man nodded. “1294 Ash Lane.”
That took a moment to sink in. I didn’t necessarily have the museum's address memorized, but I was familiar with Ash Lane. It was two blocks up from the main highway, lined with wide-limbed trees that lit up the street with shimmering silver leaves. The museum parking was treeless, but we were still tasked with raking the errant leaves that piled up just before the snow.
“You know the place?” I asked, assuming he was referring to the museum. “Did you check it out recently? That’s impressive that you memorized the address. Though I suppose you probably put it in your phone recently. Or do you have one of those photographic memories?”
To the last question, he nodded.
“That’s amazing. I always wished I could remember everything. I would have done a lot better on my exams at school,” I joked, and he didn’t laugh, and I was feeling increasingly awkward, suddenly aware of my own flaws and deficiencies and how this man was a clear 10 while I was maybe a 7 on better days. “What other amazing facts and figures can you pull out of your memory?”
“Anything I’ve learned.”
“Okay, and what have you learned recently?”
“I learned of a woman, age 29, who works at 1294 Ash Lane. Name: Eira Carrera. Status: single.”
It’s strange. When you think about what you might do in situations like these, it’s almost never what you actually do. This man, this stranger who just drove up and was openly staring at me, knew who I was. I should have walked away—I should have run away—but I only froze, and kind of laughed and asked, “What is this?”
“Perhaps nothing. I am merely an observer. A student of variables and chance, and you are about to be standing on that perfect precipice.”
I laughed again. Any sensible person would have jumped into their car and driven away, but I’d never been particularly sensible. So instead I asked, “Are you a serial killer?”
“A peculiar response.”
“Are you?”
“Define serial killer.”
My phone rang, scaring the fuck out of me. I scrambled to pull it out of my purse, but I didn’t recognize the number, so I pocketed it. “You know, an answer like that makes me think you very much are.”
To this, he didn’t respond, but stared down at my pocket as if I’d just dropped a diamond inside.
“What are you looking at?”
“You know,” he said, “I really hadn’t planned on striking up a conversation with you. This alters the variables considerably.”
“What vari—” the phone buzzed. Someone had left a message.
“You may as well check it. You most likely would have, had we not started talking.”
I dutifully pulled out my phone, now intent on seeing this strange farce play out. Was this a social experiment? Were there cameras hiding somewhere? I pressed the newest voicemail and listened.
“Hi, this message is for Eira Carrera. This is Reg calling from Prime Coverage. We received an incident report from the fire department this afternoon, and I had a chance to review your policy. Unfortunately, it looks like the damage sustained is not covered under your current plan, though you have the right to appeal within thirty days. If you have any questions in the meantime, you’re welcome to visit our website. Have a great evening.”
I lowered the phone. “What the fuck is happening?”
“I really shouldn’t say more.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, returning to my phone to look up any news articles on recent fires. My eyes briefly scanned the sky and stopped dead at something not quite right against the gray clouds. A white trail of smoke lazily rose from the precise direction of my home.
My internet search returned the hard truth. Videos caught by passersby of my house, engulfed in flames. They were posted hours ago. “Did you do this?”
“The report says the most likely cause was a curling iron.”
“Fuck me.” I never curled my hair. Usually, I put it back into a limp ponytail. This morning, I thought I might try to impress the new intern. He didn’t even show up. “How do you know this? Why are you here?”
“My presence here has interfered beyond the usual scope. I should go.” He turned and walked back to his car.
“What does that mean?” I called out, following after him. “You can’t leave me like this!”
He didn’t respond, but opened the driver’s side door and stepped inside his midnight blue roadster. When he turned the ignition, I panicked. He had answers—I couldn’t let him go. So I opened the door and got in.
“You’re behaving irrationally,” he noted. “Please get out.”
“No,” I said. “Tell me why you’re here. How you knew what happened to my house. Fuck, I can’t believe it. Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“A likely mixture of a poor social life and crumbling civic infrastructure. I too am surprised that the fire department and local law enforcement would not see to your situation personally, but it is what it is. People are flawed. Systems are flawed. Yet it is in those flaws that the most interesting variables arise.”
“Why do you talk like that? What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t spend extended time with transients.”
“Transients? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Forgive me. It’s a word I use for those who pass in and out of time. Ephemerals, mortals, whatever you like. Those who die.”
“Those who die? Shit, are you immortal?”
“Define immortal.”
“Immortal! You know, like, you can’t die!”
“Well, I haven’t died yet, and it’s been a few hundred million years. I suppose I’m not certain if I can.”
“Shut up. You’re a lunatic. And don’t tell me to define lunatic; you know what it is.”
“Definitions are useful, especially during interplanetary travel.”
“Interplanetary travel? Bullshit. If you’re really some sort of immortal traveler, prove it.”
“Close the door.”
My heart skipped a beat, but I did it. I don’t know why. Was it the allure of the unknown? Had a part of me already given up on life, and the idea of a stranger leaving my body bound and gagged in a ditch seemed… fine? Or was it just that the boy was fucking hot?
The archivist pulled the car into gear, and it shot into the sky.