We Said Watch

In a city infamous for its brutality and indifference, where a man's name was worth more than heavy metal gold itself and lies themselves donned clever disguises hiding their very presence in plain sight, Ava Langston stood as an undisputable force, a power that could not be ignored or belittled. She was painstakingly made and groomed to be the senator's wife par excellence--exuding refinement, intelligence, and an unbroken and unbent spirit and wearing an impeccable porcelain mask skillfully hiding her true self and inner nature. Her life was a grand symphony tightly conducted by carefully constructed photo ops strung by hidden realities where her days were carefully plotted with militarylike precision down to the last vanishing second and her nights became extravagant solo concerts boldly contradictory to public image perception.

And then, at that very exact and specific moment, there came Rafe Calderón.

Rafe was the sort of fellow you don't come to know--you collide with. Knuckle tattoos, crooked grin, eyes like black passageways you shouldn't enter but enter anyway. He was reporting from the underground, pursuing stories too hot for the mass media. His stories toppled corporations, exposed scandals, and put targets on his back.

They bumped into each other quite by accident at a charity ball, the sort of high-end masquerade party where people get creative and hide the true nature of themselves behind elaborate disguises, which serve to convey their vices. Ava was stunning in flowing, lavish silver silk, her looks hidden behind the mask of unearthly saintliness, which radiated innocence and virtue. Rafe, meanwhile, had crashed the event uninvited, opting to burrow in the depths of his greatcoat as he spent the evening uncovering skeletons in the very same do-gooders she'd been hired to socialize and cajole.

That first meeting had been purely by accident--his hands brushing against hers as he blundered past her down some corridor which felt altogether too close for true comfort. For the space of a moment, there were sparks. Not the manufactured sparks of good manners and well-learned cool. The real thing, the sort which could never be pushed away or stifled by good manners and well-learned cool. She half-turned to reprove him for his careless moment, and in the space of the heartbeat, they collided in the sort of jarring encounter which transformed the whole tone between them. The silence which hung in the air after the collision suddenly acquired heavy overtones of meaning and promise. The air between the two of them felt palpably charged, surrounding them in some tangible aura of recognition.

It ought to have concluded there and then.

Rafe did have knowledge of her husband's activities and transactions, though, and he knew things that extended far beyond the campaign donations and foreign aid. Ava was trying to get over a sense of incredulity that felt crushing in its weight at the claims he was making. His word she did not want to accept under any circumstances.

And yet--there she stood, confidently on his couch three nights later, unfazed. There was no luxurious silk billowing around her, nor were there any cameras capturing the moment. Just raw, unfiltered honesty being offered, and the nervous shaking of her hands.

Their love was hardly tinged by that sweet, melancholic sigh which is the sign of true love. Instead, theirs was typified by lies, sweat, heat, and the gnashing of teeth. They did not necessarily make love in the classical usage of the word. They bared out the deep-down secrets and sentiments in every kiss, every passionate bite, and every vow made in the early hours of the evening so they would never be too invested, too attached in mind.

She was overcome with a claustrophobic feeling of guilt that was so delicately spun around her legs, it was like silk, and as she went about her day, she fell quite easily back into her place, as though nothing untoward had ever occurred. He, however, had a burden of shame that wrapped itself around his entire body like armor, knowing that what they had committed would hurt many more individuals than they could ever hope to console or assist.

However, NO MATTER WHAT THE CIRCUMSTANCES--she did eventually

He waited patiently in downpours in doorways of massive federal office buildings or along sparkling new limousines. He spent his hours writing brief notes in pages of books she pretended to read in public libraries. "Go to where the street doesn't remember your name," his notes would say. And she would always comply.

They sat there in silence for hours and marking each moment of silence. Every furtive look shared across the sea of unfamiliar faces in the crowded room had spoken volumes words could not. Every soft touch of finger against finger had been a bomb to be detonated, charged with intangible emotions and irresistible connection.

But shadows were closing in.

A journalist, by the very nature of the profession, will never last long in the line of duty without stirring up some feathers here and there, and in Ava's world, everything seemed to be coated in the thin glass of the fragile glass house. Rumor and gossip traveled fast, like wildfire. The media hummed with speculation on the possibility of there being a mole in their ranks. In the midst of the conflagration, her husband's political campaign manager considered it appropriate to request she take time off--citing that it was required "for optics."

It was when Rafe revealed the bombshell of Ava's husband's decades-old human trafficking scandal being funneled through his foreign accounts that everyone's world came crashing down and broke apart. It was during this tumultuous time that he showed up uninvited on her door, rumpled and bloodied, obviously winded, holding a small flash drive tightly in his hand.

"We have this immense ability to inflame and burn everything that comes in our way," he said.

But even this aspect of fire certainly had its own meaning which could no longer be disregarded. She looked at him, her bosom terribly torn between terror and love.

"I can't," she breathed softly.

He did not protest. He merely nodded, kissed her goodbye.

Unashamed and unabashed, she cried that night. She cried not as a senator's wife but cried the profound emotional agony of the woman unraveling.

The novel came out a day after he finished with it. Rafe never waited for her permission or approval to proceed. He just proceeded and had it published under his preferred name. Although he tried to keep this very low-key, everyone already knew about it and that he was part of it.

Her name graced the front pages. Her husband had been indicted. She departed the townhouse in a single suitcase and in silence.

Months passed.

Scandals in the city were growing. The world changed.

On a late evening in the coastal town which looked like an abandoned place in the world and held no particular value, Ava sat in a quaint café between the pages of a well-worn and tattered novel. The doorbell rang suddenly, breaking the peaceful ambiance.

She looked up towards the sky.

Rafe himself simply stood there, soaking wet from the merciless raindrops that had poured down over him, his smile tipped ever so slightly to one side, and an undeniable glint shining in his eye.

He inserted himself into the booth without hesitation and without even an invitation.

He just smiled warmly and said, "You've arrived here."

She emitted a tiny, naughty laugh. "You said the word 'watch."