My Roommate Was A Vampire – Part One

An excerpt from Part One: “My Roommate Was A Problem“.

The café sat in the middle of the financial district, often crowded with suits and hipsters alike, the former there out of convenience and economy, the latter for the atmosphere and the irony. I had arrived first, settling into my favorite spot across from the large windows that faced the street. The city slept restlessly at this time of night. Cars and single pedestrians still littered avenues and sidewalks. A few drunks and homeless stumbled into alleys or doors, depending on their state of consciousness. Golden lights poured from skyscrapers and storefronts alike.  An indistinct smell of sewage traipsed just under detection and the screech of tires over slick asphalt and elongated laughter promptly thawed the cool air of the ever unsociable city.

It was a few minutes pass 10pm and I fingered my warm mug between both hands, half-filled with mocha latte and whipped cream. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, rattled by the possible danger of this meeting, but soothed by my drink and the other customers: a bundle of clothes hunched over a table, talking to his plate of bread crusts; a couple in a heated discussion, though by the lax demeanor of the woman leaning far back into her chair with the most smug smirk on her face, you’d think they were just impassioned by the subject matter, if not for her boyfriend turning tomato red and gripping his lemonade as he froths at the mouth; a booth of young blondes and one brunette, haggling over the correct reading of an atlas, huge backpacks at their sides and on the floor. One girl kept threatening to use the gps on her phone. The others protested.

I sighed peacefully. This was actually pleasant. I hadn’t been out in forever it seemed and I savored all the arguments and one-sided conversations. One of the girls almost ripped the large paper free from its bind; another girl stood up beside the booth, one decimal from yelling. 

Could I really leave the city?

A dark hooded figure moved into my periphery. I quickly turned my head as it sat, and my breathing ceased, taking in the tall, broad frame of a man, bowing his head down so low I couldn’t make out his eyes. Deep shadows shrouded his face to the extent even his mouth was barely visible. The worn hoodie looked as if it had once been black but was now gray and badly bleached in places. His hands weren’t on the table, but I assumed in the pocket at the front of his hoodie, and for a moment, I thought he’d demand my purse and phone, pretending to bear a firearm. Though frozen in fear, my mind generated one hope for relief and forced me to say, “August?”

He brought a bony fist to where his mouth should be, the skin of which appeared translucent enough to see green and purple veins, and cleared his throat. My legs trembled.

“Yes,” he muttered barely above a whisper and slightly lifted his head, but didn’t remove the hoodie, only marginally drawing it back to at least reveal his thin nose and pink lips.  

I’m certain my breath never returned even after his weak reassurance. “Sorry, but um, can I see proof that you are who you say you are?” 

His hand dropped back into his pocket and my eyes burned from not blinking. I shut and rubbed them, then looked back up to see a screen in front of my face. The texts between August and I coordinating the location and time of both our arrivals hung just below my cell number at the top of the conversation. I wanted to run away from the table though, because the guy who sat before me couldn’t possibly be the same confident man I had chatted with over the phone just an hour ago. 

“Oh…” 

He hurriedly shuffled his phone back into his pocket and the gesture sent a shiver through my entire system. He bent his head again and took a couple breaths. “You look nicer than I expected.” 

I’m not sure of the expression I made but I was happy he wasn’t making eye contact with me, for I’m positive, my eyes were cruel. Does he expect me to compliment him? Dude is clearly going through withdrawal. He better be happy I recognize that voice. I forced a smile. 

“Thank you.” I swallowed and looked at the other tables. None of them seemed bothered or aware, though the homeless man smothered in coats had quit talking to himself. “You look nothing like I expected.” I giggled cautiously, but he didn’t reciprocate any amusement. I swallowed again.

He gave a lengthy exhale. His deep tone silenced everything else in earshot.

“I’ll show you my face. I’m fasting right now, so I may look a little strange, but I’m perfectly healthy.” What a tremendously frightening statement, but what I saw scared me so much more.

He raised his head, holding the edges of his hoodie to keep it from falling back, but even in the mood lights of the café, he was nothing but sunken eyes, pronounced cheekbones, pasty skin, and blush red lips. I lifted my hand to my mouth to not cringe right in front of him. I continued searching for any signs of life and immediately, my gaze settled upon his irises. Aquamarine speckled with traces of brown. Pale and wintry as his skin at one angle, then dark and piercing at the next. The seamless transition between alluring and dangerous left me mesmerized. They glinted in the shallow light and each refraction shimmered and confounded me.

“Beautiful,” I whispered, unbeknownst to myself, and before he pulled the hoodie forward to shadow his face once again, I caught a glimpse of short light brown hair sloppily cut atop his head. I paced the halls of my mind, unprepared for any of the emotions stirring through my body. My heart drummed wildly and took eons to settle. Skin hot. Mouth dry. Am I afraid or interested? Why would I be interested in that?!? Even as I pled with myself that he was hideous, my mind refused to admit it. His face suddenly took on a warm glow in my memory, sharp jaw, pink cheeks, smooth smile – all around healthy, good-looking appearance. But I fought within myself. That is not what I saw.

“Thank you,” he replied beneath the hood. I glanced up surprised, forgetting I had even spoken. 

“Your eyes are lovely,” I admitted, elaborating on my preceding praise. He nodded and folded his arms upon the table, keeping his hands out of sight. 

“I’m not fond of being ogled.” He appeared to roll his neck, his voice grizzled and low. “I’m judged before I speak, and I didn’t want you to think any less of me.”

My brow furrowed, as I tried to sneak another peek at his face. “I don’t. But I do think you need to eat.” I laughed, leaning my head forward, but he shuffled uncomfortably and crept his hand under his hood to massage his neck. My bottom lip curled into my mouth and I chewed on it before saying, “Should I order something for you?”

“No,” he spat at me before I had finished asking.

I virtually bit my lip off, frozen by his terse response, and scanned the exits, but then he tilted his head back so I could see his eyes again. He didn’t look at me but at the dessert counter. He blinked and his eyes darkened. My whole body sat motionless so he wouldn’t catch me staring and sweat spread over my lower back. What is this Macy?

Without turning his gaze away, he mumbled, “I only have eyes for junk food lately. Malcolm’s doesn’t sell twinkies.” He smiled and I swear on my grandfather’s grave, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The glow I had imagined only minutes ago truly misted over his face. What is this?

His sights landed on the over-confident lady at the table on the other side of the café, and he drew his hood forward again in a huff with a frown. I only knew because when my trance ended and I searched for the cause of his abrupt concealment, I saw her looking our way, staring at him. He lifted his hand to the right side of his head, shielding himself from her view. I glanced between the two of them.

“Do you know her?” I leaned forward more, craning my head to my right, once again trying to steal a glance.

He shook his head. “No.” 

Then his eyes met mine, and after a few seconds, I couldn’t cut his gaze. Not even the unsettling feeling of unobstructed gawking or respectful practice to minimize unease altered my steady eye. I’m sure to him, I looked like a starstruck fanatic. 

“I just have that face.” He squinted staring back at me. His head tilted to the left, eyes still trained on me but now his irises glimmered, shooting icicles into my body. My torso locked to the chair more than before. “Do you want to move in?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation or thought. A part of me knew I wasn’t speaking of my own volition; a deeper part did not care. 

His head bowed further to the table but his gaze never shifted. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“How much do you need?” Oh, my god! What?

The corners of his lips faintly curled upward. “Nothing, but I am willing to take $250 the first month. We can negotiate a higher price after that, but it will not exceed $650, so you need not worry.”

“I’m not worried.” I’m not speaking either. The lucid part of me rolled my eyes. These words weren’t my own, a voice with little concern nor needs. In fact, my tone grew fainter, more meek, as I talked.

He peered at me, closing the distance between our faces as if the table disappeared, breath falling upon my cheeks like a light breeze and his eyes darkened as sweat erupted over my chest when suddenly his fingers grazed mine and my skin erupted into goosebumps, an arctic chill passing over my forearm. I snatched my hand away rubbing it warm again, examining it, confused as to what really touched me, only seconds later aware that I finally wasn’t fixated on August. As I looked up, he was standing and pushing the chair back under the table, his face once again in shadow. His jeans were ripped at the thighs and knees, and covered in stains of sketchy origin; repulsion took the place of my rapture. But I was glad the capacity to hold my own thoughts had returned.

“I’ll send you the housing agreement and we can continue talking over text and email if you’d like.” He took a breath and drummed on the chair lightly. “I haven’t had a roommate in a long time, so bear with me. I look forward to moving you in…”