The Puritans Pt. 02

JAKOB

They come in a wave of black and silver, six officers in the stark uniforms buttoned to the throat. The Purity Commission, their faces impassive, their hands clasped at the small of their backs. They fan out across the floor, taking positions. The office workers fall silent, typing fingers freezing mid-keystroke.

I swallow a lump. My tie feels especially tight today above the fitted grey compliance shirt. I touch the my short hair, cut close to the scalp as regulated. My light brown of skin burns under the fluorescent lights. Fear explodes over my body in a cold sweat. I have had nightmares of this day. They did not do the moment justice.

Behind the trample of officers walks someone I hoped to never meet in person. When they said party leadership, this is not what I had imagined.

President Helena Cimac.

My heart beats count in the thousands per minute.

She isn't as old looking as I expected. Even with silver-white hair swept back from a high forehead and a face that seems to have been carved from the same stone as her statues.

Her eyes are pale grey, nearly colourless, and they sweep across the room with a weight that feels physical. She wears a tailored black suit, severe and immaculate, with a single silver pin at her collar depicting the Party's emblem.

She walks slowly, deliberately, as if the very air must part to accommodate her passage. The officers clear a path, and the office workers bow their heads, mumbling the required greeting under their breath.

"Mr. Winston," the president says, and her voice is lower than I expected, a contralto that carries the weight of decades.

"Madam President." I respond evenly, like I'm informing her of my own identity.

"Shall we step into the office?" Deirdre, my floor supervisor, gestures toward her corner office, and President Cimac nods once, a curt gesture that admits no refusal.

I follow them on feet that feel disconnected from my body.

The office seems smaller now, crowded with the weight of the President's presence. She takes Deirdre's chair without asking, settling into it like a throne, and I find myself standing before her like a supplicant with Deirdre to one side.

"Mr. Winston," The President begins, "I'll be direct. We have a problem, and I believe you are part of the solution."

"I am?"

"Men," she speaks the word with clinical detachment, as a doctor might discuss a disease. "They are disengaged. Apathetic. The last election cycle saw more men fail to vote than any other demographic. They are also statistically more likely to be unemployed, more likely to be on the dole. More likely to self-dismiss."

I remain silent.

Forcing myself to be still as she speaks. Nodding along as we talk about my gender like lost allocations. Like lost stock that needs to be recollimated.

"Men cannot be trusted with the weight of civilization. We've known that even pre-Bomb. However they must be managed. Managed with care, with visibility, with the clear message that service is rewarded. Which is why I have decided that you will be given a promotion to head of your department."

My eyes drift to Deirdre. I see her tense. See her purse her lips.

I am not qualified.

I have made sure of this over years. My work is average, mediocre at times. I don't deserve it. I don't want it.

"I--I am honored Madam President. Though I feel to ensure the best possible person serves the Ministry perhaps I wouldn't---"

She leans forward, and for a moment, I see her as she must have been in her prime.

Commanding. Ruthless. The woman who had helped shape the Purity Statutes, who had declared lust a public enemy and made desire a crime. Bringing unparalleled peace and stability.

"You, Mr. Winston, will serve." The tone of her words do not leave room for discussion. "You will be one of the highest-ranking men in the civil service and you will stand in the light where we can watch you. Your qualification is that you are an upstanding citizen of our society. You are upstanding, aren't you?"

The Ministry knows when you lie. The words echo in my ear like a warning. Like a smoke alarm to an impending fire.

The threat is unmistakable. Acceptance means surveillance. If I accept, I'll have more freedom. More resources but also more eyes on me. More scrutiny.

What would refusing bring? Demotion. Suspicion. The slow, grinding destruction of everything I've built.

The Ministry would find an excuse to test me again, and next time, the sensors would catch every traitorous impulse. My desire is a ticking clock, and I am running out of time.

Worse of all, I'll never see Athena again.

"Madam President," my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. "I would be honored to serve the Ministry in any capacity you deem appropriate."

Her smile widens, and it is the most terrifying expression I have ever seen.

"Excellent. I knew you were the right choice. You have the look of a man who understands the weight of purity."

She rises. "Your official announcement will be made publicly in a few days. Ensure you are ready when the time comes."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Knowing staying ready means staying out of trouble and doing nothing untoward.

If they only knew that tonight I am going to a secret hotel to meet a woman whose name I don't even know. To do things that are illegal just to think about.

President Cimac pauses at the door, her hand resting on the frame.

"You know. I was acquainted with your mother during her years at the Commission. A capable woman. A shame about her depravity. I'm sure you didn't inherit her temperament."

My jaw tightens. Fear ebbs into anger, but still I tell them what they want to hear.

"No, of course. My mother made her own choices. I don't reflect on them."

The president smiles, it never touches her cold eyes.

I stand in the threshold of Deirdre's office, my co-workers give already murmuring, their voices a low drone of speculation and disbelief.

I return to my cubicle on autopilot. The reports are still on my desk, but I cannot see them. I sink into my chair, and for a long moment, I do not move.

I feel more alone, like the walls are suddenly closing in. I count the minutes that stretch before me like a lifeline, like a promise, like the only thing in this world that feels real isn't too far away.

Athena. I am coming.

_________________

MARY-BETH

Eros.

I roll the name in my mind. I love the shapes it forces my lips to make. Like a kiss in the air.

I know it's not his real name but I like it is. It fits.

Today is the day.

I have scarcely been able to think of anything else. The warmth of him. Hard and masculine. The unholy feel of forbidden, delicious, skin.

That smell, oh god, that smell. Like sweat, and heat and man. Musky, heavy. It is life to my system. Breath to my drowning heart, relief like rain to a desert. As tempting as first sin.

How did women ever get anything done with men around pre-Bomb? No wonder there was so much chaos back then.

I count down the minutes until my mouth can once again be filled with him. His weight, his girth, his meaty throbbing---

"Would you like anything else?"

I flinch.

I turn my head where I sit in the corner booth of the small diner. The waitress hovers over me, waiting for my response without hiding her impatience.

I clear my throat. "Just another water, please."

"You'll have to buy something or we have to ask you to leave."

I grimace. Losing my job has not been easy.

Worse than that, hiding it from my mother. I wake, get dressed, say my good mornings to her and my brother Jakob, and try to waste a day.

Yesterday I rode the bus several times to the end of the line. I thought that be a good idea until someone from my office nearly spotted me. I quickly disembarked and had to walk for nearly an hour to get home.

Today I've spent most of the morning and afternoon at a diner refilling glasses of water. Whatever else, at least I'll be well hydrated.

I pick up the menu and scan for the cheapest item that would be sufficient enough to let me stay and order a burger. They have the option for beef but I decide against it if just to avoid the cost. The waitress rolls her eyes but takes my order.

A couple at the table across from me hear my order and give each other a look of contempt at my expense after hearing the exchange. They sit in sacred distance, elbows tucked in, the table a metre of clean and holy separation, their posture straight and prim.

Clear contributors to their community, unlike me.

I shrink under the gaze. I definitely can't come back here again. I've been noticed, and attention at this point in my life is the last thing I need.

My career, once so promising, is gone. Whatever pittance that I can call savings already dwindling.

I had everything, and as a second born no less. Unsanctioned and unwanted, I made a name for myself. A life for myself. A reason for myself.

Only to have it ripped away.

I was of value. I was of service. I wasn't--I am not a vagrant. The Ministry lied to me, told me if I work hard I could have a real life. A real future. Then it laughed in my face when I finally asked for it to deliver, for ever believing such an obvious lie.

I have nothing now. Nothing except Eros.

My Eros. My love.

I am coming.

***

I walk the same familiar street to the hotel with eager steps and a thudding heart that I can hear in my ears.

I clutch a bag of supplies for my meeting. Embarrassingly, with all my free time, until my new assignment arrives, this has been all I've been able to think of.

My skin already, a lighter cinnamon brown and curly hair. I somehow feel selfconscious despite the fact that I know he'll never see me.

I think to the rumors we used to here about women wearing something call make-up that they used to make themselves look more appealing, I never understood the motivation. I always sounded deceptive and a waste of time. Surely everyone would be able to tell if you had it on.

Somehow, I now understand the motivation. Suddenly wishing I wasn't so plain.

It's a stupid thought, Eros probably doesn't even want to see me.

My formal blouse is buttoned tight to the collar as expected beneath my jacket. I can't attract too much attention. My one and only permitted piece of jewelry hangs around my neck, a golden pendant hung with a thin golden thread. Still, it feels like a date, and I am giddy with butterflies.

The old woman from before is there again. I walk straight to her, trying to hide my happiness.

"God be--I mean..." I clear my throat. "Good evening."

The old woman smiles her toothy grin a little wider. "Good evening."

I smile back. "I'm here to see Eros."

She nods. "He's been waiting for you."

My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. "Really?"

I want to tell her so much, ask a million questions. How does any of this work? How did they build this system? Does Eros know me, did he ask for me specifically? Do they know what he looks like?

Not that it would matter, somehow I couldn't care what Eros looked like, or who he is.

I love him. That's all I know, all I need to know.

I hug my bag to my chest with palpable glee. My body feels so alive as I step inside the old rickety elevator and the cage slides closed. The box begins to shake as it descends.

I set down my bag on the seat against the wall. I pull out a small pillow and place gently on the floor for where my knees will sit. I also brought a towel and a canister of warm water. Some throat lozenges, some non-scented perfume to hide any lingering smells and everything else I could think of.

As I descend I strip off my jacket, then my blouse. Delicate and careful, folding it out of the way. Leaving myself in an old tank top that I never threw away and would never be appropriate for anywhere outside the confines of my bedroom. Something I wouldn't mind getting a little... stained.

The elevator finally comes to a stop and there is a light that comes from the other side, shining through the hole in the divider. Waist high. Thankfully they fulfilled my request to make it larger. It's almost twice as large, I could fit my hand in there.

I hope Eros will appreciate the adjustment. I sit down next to the divider, my lips feel dry. I fidget excitedly, adjusting my skirt to clean lines. Pulling my tights of wrinkles as if he would be able to see it.

"Hello, Eros?" I begin with a grin on my face.

"Athena?" His voice is still muffled, hidden something. It sounds so pleasant, familiar in a way that seeps into my bones.

"Hi." I reply, shaping my voice into something different from what I normally sound like again.

I pull out the towel from my bag, and place myself in front of the hole, my knees protected by the small throw pillow. The exposed skin of my shoulders and arms feel electric in the air. I take off the one piece of jewelry I am allowed, a small golden pendant on a thin metallic thread. Placing on the seat just within reach.

I am, to say the very least, excited to get started.

I clear my throat delicately. "I'm kneeling down, just so... you know. If you want to start."

"Oh, sure. Yes. Just, in a second, if that's okay." He sounds a little distracted.

Something in me breaks. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, no. I mean..." he pauses. "Is it okay if we just talk for a bit?"

"Oh," I react clumsily, returning quickly to my seat. "Sure, I mean, of course. What did you want to talk about?"

"I honestly wouldn't even know how to begin," he laughs, a tired lonely sound. "Just, things at work I suppose."

Oh boy, can I empathize with that. "I've not had a great time at my work either."

Silence settles in between us. I think we both contemplate how much we can really tell the other without giving something away.

"How about your home?" I ask finally.

"What about it?"

"Do you live alone? Or with family or..." I swallow a scared lump. "A partner."

"I live with family. I'm single." Eros replies and I breathe a large, and selfish sigh of relief.

"That's good."

"It is?" Eros asks confused.

"Uhm, yes. I just meant, it's good you have community in your life," I answer quickly. "I just think it would be worse if you were alone."

I can hear him breathing, heavy and even.

"I suppose you're right," he replies, seemingly having accepted my rushed addendum.

"So what happened at your work?" I ask. "Were you dismissed?"

"Worse," he begins. "I was promoted."

"Promoted is worse?" Gosh, I wish I had those problems.

"For a Deviant male. Yes, much worse."

Oh right.

In fact, being a man and getting promoted is pretty rare on its own. The fact that Eros has been able to hide his ailment and still function in society enough to get promoted at a job is downright miraculous.

"Eros, I know it may not be my place, but I don't think you're a Deviant at all."

He laughs, unconvinced. "That's quite the statement given the circumstances."

I smile, I suppose that's true. It's always so easy to talk to him.

"What would make you say something like that?" Eros asks.

"Well for one you're not nearly dangerous enough," I answer with an equal measure of humor and seriousness. "We were taught in school that Deviants were rabid, feral, human-animals that attacked anyone of the opposite gender. Naked and disease ridden. Frothing at the mouth for sex and drugs."

Eros chuckles on his side. "Yeah, I remember that too. For the record I have never frothed."

I laugh. "For the same record, I wouldn't mind it if you did."

We laugh together, again. Like that first time, god it feels good. So foreign. So new. Like a crime all its own to hear something so pure shared with another living soul.

"I'm just trying to say," I continue as the laughter slowly dies. "That, you're clearly a good person. It sounds like you care deeply about doing the right thing and are a real value to your community. So, you shouldn't be too hard on yourself. If us being here proves anything, it's that the Ministry clearly does not know everything."

Silence settles in between us again, much more comfortable this time. I lean my head against the divide. Pretending somewhere on the other side Eros does the same.

"Thank you, Athena." Eros says sounding much lighter than when we started talking.

"You're welcome, Eros."

"I, uhm, I really missed you during the time we were apart." Eros says a little nervously.

The words warm my heart and make it swell. I'm glad he can't see how much they affect me and I speak evenly through my smile.

"I missed you too. I thought about you for every waking moment since last we met." I reply honestly.

He clears his throat. "I see they made the hole bigger."

My face goes warm. "I put in the request. I thought it was a little tight for you last time."

"It was," he confirms slowly, like he's embarrassed. "Though suffice to say they might have gone a little overboard. I think I might have to inform them that I am in fact not a horse."

I raise a brow, not too sure about that.

The image of his manhood blazed into my memory in permanent perfect clarity. If not a horse, a greater mule at least.

"Do you want to try it out for size?" I ask excitedly.

Eros lets out a gentle laugh. "I would, if you would like that as well."

I would quite literally die for it. "I would, please."

I hear him rise to his feet, his body blocking the light and I reposition myself again on my knees. Waiting with bated breath, a sharply rising chest and a core that gets warmer by each trembling, fragile, teasing second.

He pushes through slowly, deliciously.

Not a horse he says. The jury remains in deliberation.

This time his balls fit in to my side as well. The shape of them, the combination of the entire unit is simultaneous foreign and mouth watering.

I touch the soft skin. His testicles hang tightly, they fit one by one in my palm. They are so fragile and delicate. What a contrast.

Then the smell. Dear lord, that smell should be sold by the gram. I take sultry whiff.

I take him in my hands first, feeling the heat of him, the weight. My fingers barely meet around his girth. I hear his breath catch, that small vulnerable sound that makes my chest ache with something beyond desire.

Something tender. Something that feels dangerously like love.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the tip of him, tasting salt and skin and the faintest trace of something clean. Soap, perhaps. He washed for me, prepared. The thought nearly undoes me.

I take him slowly, deliberately, my mouth stretching to accommodate his size. He groans, a low desperate sound that vibrates through the divider, through the air, through my bones.

I feel him tremble against my tongue, and I want to weep with the beauty of it. The beauty of being wanted. Of being needed. Of being the source of someone's pleasure in a world that has outlawed pleasure itself.

My hand moves in rhythm with my mouth, learning him, memorizing the shape and weight and heat of him. He is thick and long and impossibly hard, and every twitch, every pulse, every helpless thrust of his hips sends a bolt of lightning straight to my core. I am wet and aching and utterly consumed by him.

I slip my hand between my own legs. I am drenched. How easy and immediate the effect of him is on my weak, sinful body.

It moves with a rhythm matching the pull of my mouth over his length. Slippery and wet, I swallow and swallow. more and more. Faster till I am lost in the fog of desire and the maddening feel of unholy flesh.

He thrusts into me, not pushing, just barely. Like he can't help himself.

A connection. A plea. I moan around him, and the sound seems to break something in him. His breathing turns ragged, desperate, his hips stuttering against my lips.

My hand puts more and more pressure against my core and I am quickly unravelling. A damn cracking wider and wider with the building, unyielding pressure that sends me so far away I fear I may never return.

"Athena," he gasps. "Athena, I'm--"

I don't pull away. I want this. I want all of him. I want to swallow every drop of his pleasure and carry it inside me like a secret. Like a prayer. Like the only proof that I am alive in a world that wants me dead.

He comes with a broken cry, and I take him, all of him, the warmth flooding my mouth, my throat, my soul. I swallow and swallow and swallow, and when he finally stills, I pull back just enough, only for more of his love to explode out. Hitting my face, my neck, my chest.

I am in love.

I lick the last traces of him from my lips.

I pull back finally. Drenched. Bathed in his satisfaction like seal of ultimate approval. The physical evidence of his desperate acceptance of my existence, my love. My hand stops moving beneath me with slow departing bliss that still carves its way out of my spine.

"God, Athena," Eros sighs, breathlessly. "You're amazing, how are you so..."

He trails off and I want to laugh with pride and humility in equal measure.

"The feeling is incredibly mutual." I finish by licking the edge of his length with the full width of my tongue.

He pulls away slowly, I hear him adjust his clothes before plopping down in his seat again.

I reach for my bag and clean up supplies. "Don't you have to go?"

"I do," he says with a clear reluctance. "But, I want to stay with you for a bit, at least till you're ready to go. I don't want to make it seem like I just want you to... you know and then leave."

I smile as I clean my face and parts of my chest. "That's very sweet, thank you Eros."

"No, thank you," he exhales. "I wish there was some way for me to do for you what you do for me. It doesn't seem fair."

I laugh, he truly is not Deviant material. Goodness, he's not even Ministry material.

"You do more than you could possibly know for me. I love every second of what we just did."

"I love it too," he pauses, not yet finished speaking. "I love you, as well Athena."

My heart swells again. I lean against the divide. "I love you too, Eros."

I am finally cleaned and redressed. Eros is still waiting on the other side, waiting for me to depart.

"If we leave at the same time we might run into each other." He points out.

I hadn't thought about that, though in fairness my brain is still picking up loose pieces.

"Do you want that?" I ask nervously, not sure of what my own answer would be.

He thinks for a second before speaking.

"Yes, I do. I want to see you. To touch you, to give you even just half as much joy as you've given me."

I laughs softly. "That sounds amazing, and I love you too." Then a pause, as an insecurity twists into heart. "What if you don't find me comely. What if neither of us is what we're expecting."

"I don't care what you look like, I don't care who you are. I love you, that's all that matters."

"I feel the same way." I take a deep breath. "Okay, but not today, I am currently a huge mess. Our next meeting, is that okay?"

Barely a second passes before he answers. "Yes, that's perfect. I'll wait twenty minutes after you leave." Eros says. "Then two days from now, we'll meet."

"Yes," I press myself to the divider in a desperate attempt to be close, to show that I want that more than anything. "I'll be here, my love."

The words feel like scripture coming from my mouth.

"I'll be here too." Eros says.

"Before I go, I thought of something you can do for me."

"Really," he says eagerly. "Anything."

I bit my lip. "Could you hold my hand."

I realize, with the size of the hole, I can fit my hand into his side now.

"I would love to."

I push my bare hand into his side. The air feels oddly charged there. I hold my breath.

I feel the touch of his hand against my fingers. Large but gentle. Soft and slow. My whole body exhales with his touch.

The feel of unholy, forbidden skin. His fingers lace with mine and he holds me for the most perfect seconds of my life.

When I finally leave my heart is as full as it's ever been. I smile at the old lady who seems to take genuine pleasure from seeing me and the feeling is mutual at this point.

I walk towards the bus stop to go home. My stomach still a flutter.

Counting down the minutes to the next time I meet the man of my dreams.

______________________

JAKOB

I return home with a renewed hope.

My room is a converted garage and allows me my own little entrance away from the front door. I slip in quietly into the house throwing my bag down on my bed and changing out of my work clothes quietly. The house only had two bedrooms, not many people have need for more than that. It was natural that I'd give up my room to my younger sister Mary-Beth. Besides being the only make, life as a second born was hard enough without being pushed halfway out the house.

I have made preparations this time to not arouse suspicion from my mother for my late coming. Letting her know that I would be working late due to departmental oversights. My fault naturally, I'd have no choice but to stay late and correct any mistakes I have made.

It's not an easy thing, to maneuver a former Puritan, but I have had plenty of practice over the years.

I feel better about my promotion now. Thanks to Athena, she truly is amazing.

I didn't ask to be where I am. In many ways I my performance asked for less attention, but now that I am where I am I have chance to many do some real good.

The promotion will also give me a whole new life. A pay rise would allow me to move out, flee the watchful eye of my mother and the frigidity of my sister.

I might even be able to buy a car. The thought seeming utterly ludicrous up until now. It would allow me to spend time with Athena without fearing being stranded without a way home.

Maybe if she has a home of her own we could even see each other physically without the limits of an underground tunnel and clandestine meetings.

Unholy skin against skin. Forbidden and sacred. Moving in time with each other, what that experience would be... It would be down right irredeemable.

We would have to be more than just corrected. We'd be---

A knock rattles my door. My mother doesn't wait for for my welcome, and opens the door to find me sitting at my desk with files sewn in front of me.

"Welcome home, Jakob. I hope work was productive today."

I walk into the kitchen, spotting my Mary-Beth reaching for the diner plates in a high cabinet almost out of reach. I don't think, reacting impulsively to try to help her.

"Sacred distance please." My mother chimes like a command to soldiers. Firm and without the guise of affection.

Mary-Beth stops and notices the scene.

I back away from her, a firm meter away. "My apologies."

"It's okay, Jakob. It's my fault." She finishes with an empty smile.

Mary-Beth moves out of the room and I grab the plates and place them on the counter. Then I leave the room for Mary-Beth to return.

This is how our dynamic has been for practically our whole life. Mary-Beth and I never interacted beyond the strictly necessary.

Having two children was devasting for our mother's career and Mary-Beth have been collateral damage in that fall out.

We speak to each other at dinner and before departing for work and little else beyond that. We are no more family than casual strangers who see each other at the same bus stop. At best we have been no more than cordial roommates.

I do not know what she thinks of me, I have intentionally maintained the distance to keep her safe from my ailment, less she be complicit in hiding me if I ever get caught.

We all sit down at the table to eat together. The silence is automatic and familiar, though, it has never been comfortable.

"How has work been Mary-Beth?" Our mother asks after grace is said.

Mary-Beth flinches ever so slightly. "It's was quite productive. I think some departmental members may be shuffled to other departments."

I realize my own promotion hangs over the table. I should tell them, but I don't want the attention, not even from my family, but I have no choice. Soon the appointment will be public knowledge.

I clear my throat, an axe carving through the awkward silence.

"I actually have news I would like to share," I straighten silently under their gaze. "I... Madam president Cimac came to the office today. I am being promoted. Head of my department."

The news is met with shocked silence. My mother and sister freeze with mouth agape faces, too stunned to even breathe.

"That's... unexpected." My mother finally utters. "Congratulations Jakob."

"How is that possible?" Mary-Beth asks bluntly, with part surprise as much as offense.

She clearly notices her her bluntness as she immediately tries to correct herself.

"What I meant to say was---"

"The Ministry is in desperate need for a male in a front facing position. Jakob is a good choice, diligent and unthreatening. As far from devious as one can be." Our mother answers, her voice as steady and indifferent as a medical diagnosis.

I nod wordlessly, my mother having perfectly summed the situation. I accept the criticism as an unlikely ally. One of the only good things about being a man, everyone underestimates you and expects failure.

Easier to stay under the radar.

"I will make sure, mother, to not harm my or our family's reputation."

There is a brief, awkward and uncomfortable silence as we all know that the completion of that sentence is, 'any further than it already has.'

There was once a time when our mother was the most feared Puritan that there ever was. Then Mary-Beth was born.

Unexpected, unsanctioned. A crime of lust.

We finish dinner, with no more words said. Then we clear the table mechanically and retreat to our rooms after saying our goodnights.

I lie down. The only thing that matters is Athena.

Two days and I will get to meet her. To see her.

I can think of nothing else as I drift into sleep.

_________________

MARY-BETH

It's still a strange thing to wake up and get dressed only to go nowhere.

The ritual persists even without purpose. I rise at six, as I have every morning for four years. I wash. I dress. I button my high collar to the throat and smooth my long sleeves to the wrists and pin my hair back with the same precision I have practiced since girlhood. The small face sized mirror reflects a woman who looks employed, who looks useful, who looks like she belongs somewhere.

I stand in the center of my small room, fully dressed, with nowhere to go.

That's when I notice the absence. My fingers fly to my collarbone, to the hollow of my throat where the small gold pendant has rested since my sixteenth birthday. The chain is there. The pendant is not.

The hotel. The elevator. Eros.

I close my eyes. I can see it now, when I set it aside to leave myself free for Eros' full expression to shower me in love and acceptance

It's still there, waiting for me in that basement room. I'll retrieve it at our next meeting.

Our next meeting.

The thought sends warmth flooding through my chest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will see him, for the first time. We might even have--

A knock at my door.

"Mary-Beth? Are you decent?"

My mother's voice, sharp as broken glass. I smooth my expression and open the door.

"God be with you, Mother."

"And with you." Her eyes sweep over me with the familiar clinical assessment. She is a tall woman, still handsome at fifty-two, with silver threading through her dark hair and a jaw that could cut steel. She wears her retirement like a uniform, a perpetual state of readiness for inspections that never come. "You're dressed early."

"Yes," I begin nervously. I have rehearsed every level of my lie. "I have been selected for a special reassignment opportunity."

"Reassignment?" Mother asks suspiciously, "Are you saying your promotion is gone?"

I swallow. "Not exactly. This is merely part of the process. I have been assured."

Something flickers in her eyes--disbelief, perhaps, or the ghost of a suspicion she doesn't voice. She knows the language of the Ministry too well to accept such explanations at face value. But she also knows when not to push.

"Very well." She steps back. "Don't be late for dinner."

I bid her goodbye and descend into the grey morning, my heart already racing ahead to midnight.

Diners are out of the question after my last experience.

The memory still burns. The way Patricia had leaned into my cubicle, her breath hot against my ear, her words a forbidden promise. There's a place for people like us. The way I had been dismissed with the cruelty of a spent rag,

I cannot risk being seen. Not now. Not when I have something to lose.

I spend the day at the library.

The building is old, pre-Bomb architecture that the Ministry has preserved as a monument to what was and a warning of what could return. Its ceiling arches high above rows of metal shelves, dust motes drifting through shafts of pale light that filter through narrow windows. The air smells of paper and silence and the faint chemical tang of the dehumidifiers that keep the old pages from crumbling.

I find a quiet corner and pull a book from the shelf. A pre-Bomb history, the cover reads. The Ministry's seal is stamped on the spine.

The pages tell a story I have heard a thousand times. Men and women, crippled by the disease of lust and carnal hedonism. Cities drowning in vice. Families broken by desire. Children born into chaos, raised without structure, without parents, that is if they were lucky to survive their own mother's wombs. Condemned to lives of violence and degradation.

And then--the Bomb. The cleansing fire that wiped the slate clean. The Ministry rose from the ashes, offering salvation through suppression. The vaccine cured the disease. The Purity Statutes established order. Technology flourished, progress marched forward, and civilization was finally, mercifully, saved.

I turn the pages, reading the familiar litany, and I feel nothing but a hollow ache in my chest.

It's only through the intervention of the Ministry and the vaccine that we could flourish. We'd never have gotten to where we are now, with fax machines that work at lightning speeds. Cars that get a full mile with just a gallon of gasoline.

The words blur before my eyes. I think of Eros. I think of his voice, raw with grief, telling me what it felt like to be a deviant in a world that wanted him erased. I think of the way he said I love you as if the words had been waiting behind his teeth his whole life.

Selfishly, I can't help but want him to never change. Whatever the risk to myself, to the world.

I close the book and return it to its shelf.

The park is empty when I arrive, the grey sky pressing down like a lid on a pot.

I sit on a cold metal bench, my hands folded in my lap, and watch from a distance as a family walks together along the path. Husband, wife, child. They are allowed to be closer than most--the Ministry recognizes the necessity of reproduction, the value of stable family units--but even they cannot touch in public.

The child skips ahead, oblivious to the invisible barriers that divide his parents. The woman's hand twitches at her side, as if reaching for something she cannot have.

It is all very measured, I think. Yet I still feel a deep pang of longing.

I wonder if they know how special what they have is. How badly someone like me wants that feeling.

Not being alone.

The wind picks up, carrying the scent of rain and distant woodsmoke. I pull my coat tighter and close my eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will see him again.

The day arrives with the weight of a promise.

I wake before my alarm, my body humming with anticipation. I dress with more care than usual--my prim and proper best, my collar buttoned to the throat, my hair pinned in a style that suggests modesty and discipline. The only deviation is the resentment I nurse beneath my ribs, a quiet fury that has been building since I heard it.

Today is the day of Jakob's promotion.

The thought curdles in my stomach. Head of department. Head of department!

My brother, who is barely capable of tying his shoes without a visual aid, has been given the position I spent four years working toward. The position I bled for. The position I gave my everything for.

A man.

A political hire. A man, likely elevated above a woman who rightfully earned it.

I know I should be happy for him. He is my brother, after all but the injustice of it--the sheer, grinding unfairness--makes my teeth ache.

Jakob is plain and obedient. He is nothing like Eros.

The thought of Eros sends warmth flooding back through me. My Eros. Who is smart and funny and kind and... prolific.

Who understands what it feels like to be different, to want something the world forbids and strive because of it. Despite of it. In defiance of it.

Tonight. Tonight we finally meet face to face. Tonight I will see his face, hear his voice without the muffled barrier of the divider, touch his hand with mine.

I imagine the way his hand will fit intertwined with mine like it did last time. The feel of sacred skin against skin.

My stomach flutters.

I have wasted the day enough to finally head to the hotel.

The bus ride passes in a blur of grey streets and grey faces. I clutch my bag in my lap, watching the other passengers sit in sacred distance, each seat a firm meter from the next. The newspapers rustle. The engine hums. The world shrinks to a single, crystalline point of anticipation.

I step off the bus into cool, electric air. The sky is dark with promise, heavy with clouds that threaten rain. I walk the pavement toward the hotel, my heart pounding, my pulse singing.

Eros. I'm coming.

I turn the corner, and I stop.

Three Puritan vehicles.

Large, black, and intimidating, they sit outside the hotel like hearse carriages. Their engines idle, a low growl that vibrates through the pavement and up through my bones.

Madams in their dark uniforms stream in and out of the building, their faces sharp and impersonal, their hands busy with cuffs and notepads and the cold machinery of enforcement.

People are being pulled out.

I see them--men and women, their arms wrenched behind their backs, their faces pressed to the ground. The old woman who stood by the elevator is among them, her burgundy uniform rumpled, her wrists bound, her toothy grin replaced by a mask of terror.

My heart stops.

A Puritan turns in my direction, and for a terrible moment, our eyes meet.

I turn and walk.

My feet carry me back the way I came, my stride measured, my expression frozen in an approximation of calm. The strap of my bag bites into my shoulder. The sound of my own footsteps is deafening in my ears.

I don't dare look back. I don't dare run. I don't dare do anything that might mark me as something other than a woman going about her business on a grey afternoon.

The bus stop appears before me. I sit down on the cold metal bench and clutch my bag to my chest, and I wait.

The silence is louder than thunder.

"Mary-Beth, god be with you. I thought that was you."

The voice is feminine. Familiar and cold as winter.

I look up, and my blood turns to ice.

Madam Nancy stands before me, her petite frame somehow towering in the grey light. She wears the same dark uniform with its long line of tight buttons that hide even her neck, the same midnight hair pulled back tightly from her narrow face. Her eyes are pale and sharp, the eyes of a predator who has spotted wounded prey.

"Madam Nancy, and with you." My voice is a shivering thing, a scared animal huddling in a corner. "It's so good to see you again."

"Is it?" She tilts her head, studying me with the clinical interest of a scientist examining a specimen. "How interesting. I was just thinking the same thing about you."

She settles onto the bench beside me, close. Closer than a meter, like she evading my space and wants me to feel the intrusion. Madams are the only ones allowed to violate sacred distance. To touch in public, the rules exist beneath their remit.

I do, enough that I can smell her--clean soap and something colder beneath, something metallic. Her hands fold in her lap, perfectly still.

"Imagine my surprise," she says, "to find you here. In this particular neighborhood. On this particular day, so far away from anything you should have any familiarity to."

I swallow. "I was just... visiting a friend, who lives in the area."

"A friend you say." Her smile does not reach her eyes. "Did you happen to see that hotel around the corner. A place we raided this very afternoon, arresting thirteen individuals on charges of deviance, conspiracy, and violation of Purity Statutes?" She pauses, letting the words settle like stones in my stomach. "That kind of friend?"

My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs to still them. "I didn't know. I was just--I was only--"

"Only what?" Madam Nancy leans closer. Her voice drops to a murmur, soft and intimate and absolutely terrifying. "Only curious? Only lonely? Only desperate for something the Ministry has forbidden? The pattern is always the same. First, a small violation. A touch. A glance. Then, a larger one. Then another. Until the deviant is so consumed by their sin that they cannot even see the cliff's edge beneath their feet."

"I'm not a deviant." The words come out too fast, too desperate. "I'm loyal to the Ministry. I believe in the Purity Statutes. I--"

"You were accused of harassment by a male coworker." Madam Nancy's voice is flat. "You were suspended without pay. Now I find you outside a known deviant gathering place. These are not the actions of a loyal citizen, Mary-Beth. These are the actions of a woman who has something to hide."

I feel the heat burning through my lungs. I have to stay composed, I can't give anything. They'll correct me, use me to try and find Eros. My Eros. My love.

"There is not statue that says I am not allow to take a walk in a public sector. I haven't done anything wrong for you to accost me like this. If I needed correction, you would have already punished me when I was suspended. Unless you mean to say you made a mistake. An error in judgement."

Madam Nancy seems annoyed by that, her face setting like concrete.

"Correction is not a punishment." Madam Nancy's voice softens into something almost gentle, and that gentleness is more terrifying than any threat. "It is a cure. We do not punish deviants--we heal them. We strip away the diseased parts of their minds and replace them with something pure. Something useful. Something that can serve the Ministry without the burden of desire. It is a long process. Painful, I won't lie, but those who emerge from correction are reborn. They are free."

I think of what that freedom would look like. I think of my mind stripped of Eros, of the warmth of his voice, of the way he said my name. I think of myself emptied, hollowed out, remade into something that could pass every test and never again feel the ache of wanting.

I look her square in the eyes. Narrowed like a predator.

"I have done nothing wrong." I whisper with all the conviction of the belief that it is true. "I'm just a woman who made a mistake. A moment of weakness, that hasn't and won't happen again."

Madam Nancy watches me for a long, terrible moment. Then her eyes drop to my throat.

"Your pendant," she says. "The gold one that you wore when we met. Where is it?"

My blood freezes. "I--I left it at home. It's being repaired."

"Repaired. Of course." Madam Nancy's lips curve into something that might be a smile.

She reaches out and brushes her fingers against the hollow of my throat, where the chain should be, where the pendant should rest. Her touch is cold and precise, a surgeon's touch.

"If I were to find that pendant, Mary-Beth. If I were to find it in a place where it should not be, I would know that you had lied to me. Lying to a Puritan is a secondary offense. Do you know what happens to secondaries?"

I shake my head, unable to speak.

"A cure that goes deeper than mere correction," Madam Nancy says. "I would oversee it personally. I would take great... care with you." She withdraws her hand. "Consider this a kindness. A warning. The Ministry is watching, Mary-Beth. The Ministry knows when you lie and the next time I find you somewhere you shouldn't be, I will not be so generous."

A bus hisses to a stop at the curb. Madam Nancy rises, smoothing her uniform, her expression sliding back into something professional and impersonal.

"God be with you, Mary-Beth," she says.

"And with you, Madam Nancy," I whisper.

She stands on the sidewalk, watching, as I climb onto the bus. She watches as the doors close, watches as the engine rumbles to life and the bus pulls away and even then, I feel her eyes on me, cold and patient and inevitable.

I think of the old woman in the burgundy uniform, her wrists bound, her smile gone. I think of the thirteen deviants dragged into the light, their lives shattered, their futures erased. I think of Madam Nancy's cold eyes and her colder hands and the promise of correction that lurks behind her every word.

I think of Eros. With pain and fear and tears that threaten from behind my eyes.

Did they find him? Was he one of the people they hauled away?

We never met, I want to cry aloud. He doesn't know, what I look like, doesn't know my real voice. He doesn't know what I look like.

How will I ever see him again? How will we ever find each other? What good is my life now?

It's not fair. It's not.

What is connection when every touch is a crime and every glance is a sin? I found something precious in that basement room, something I had given up hope of ever finding and now I may never see him again.

The bus carries me home through streets that are grey and silent and watchful. The rain begins to fall, soft at first, then harder, streaking the windows with tears I cannot shed.

I am not alone.

The bus pulls into my stop and I step onto the wet pavement, I feel the weight of my solitary existence pressing down on me like a hand on my shoulder. I walk through the rain to my mother's house, to the small room that is my only refuge, to the narrow bed where I will lie awake and think of Eros and wonder if he, too, has been caught in the Ministry's net.

The love I found is scattered like ashes in the wind.

***