With each step the artificial chill grows. Its currents raise the small hairs on the contours of his neck and the hints of stubble along his jaw, but do nothing to hinder Simon’s brisk, long stride down the hall. He likes it, loves it. The frigid sensation teases his pale skin reminding him of life - a fact made all the more jarring while walking past the rows of tagged, grey lockers with a cup of cooling cocoa in his hands.
He visited the morgue more often these days, not to lay claim on the bodies like most rumored he would, but for solace. It was quiet down there beneath the fervor of the main floors. Quiet and barren. Besides the occasional cleaning staff, the only other person who frequented this unfashionable cemetery was Dr. Worthmuller (Wort), the quirky mortician who’s office sat at the end of the long, blue hall. The professional was an oddity, the agent recalled with a bit of a flinch, but the older man’s neurotic obsessions over toys and bright colours were harmless. The cocoa was for him.
Simons knew the beverage was an unnecessary courtesy and perhaps a bit offsetting in tone for such a morbid place, but the stony man was nothing but generous to those who served him well. He had learned long ago that it was good business to keep those whom diligently performed happy, and though the gesture was nothing extravagant, the doctor’s eyes always seemed to grow larger whenever Simons walked in through the doors bearing food in exchange for light medical care or silence.
But silence was not Simons’s reward today.
He finds the doctor dancing, or rather, jolting in the dimmed room like a stiff jointed marionette, to a beat only the mortician could hear. It would have been funny or endearing if Simons had been expecting the hip sways and the finger snaps, but, as it was, the off-tempo dancing only made the man in black curl his lip in befuddled disgust. He sets the cocoa down on the nearest table.
“I did it. I did it,” the other chants softly, prancing lightly on his toes with his back to the door. His deft fingers wiggle the little paws of the stuffed fox he adored, making Teddy look like it danced too. Both were oblivious to the pair of eyes watching them from the doorway until-
“Did what?” is Simons’s call, his voice clear and cutting.
The dance transforms into a start, a yip, and a crash. It was chaos in a second. Fluttering papers, a tossed basket, a slip - Wort’s thick, round glasses clatter and slide across the floor. “M-M-mister Simons,” the wretch stutters, scrambling to regain his balance and pride as a blush forms across his cheeks, “I - oh gosh, I-I …oh, you saw…”
“I saw.”
Wort’s fingers nervously patter upon his lips as if trying to hold back his verbal embarrassment. “Oh gosh. I’m - I’ll clean it up. I promise.”
Simons says nothing above muttered apologies and frantic cleaning as he stoops and plucks the glasses from the floor. The frame, he notes, though folded like dried petals, feels heavy in the palm of his hand, and the plastic lenses, as he both feared and expected, were spotted with prints. Vexed, he cleans them upon the hem of his white, button-up shirt before closing the distance between them in quick, long strides. Wort gasps again at this new proximity.
By now the agent is annoyed and the sound only exasperates his fraying patience. His free hand rises and curls, ready to shake the man for flinching, but one single upward tilt of Wort’s head and all Simons’s aggression dies in its tracks.
They were entirely different men: one stressed, one calm, one forward, the other gentle, but their eyes…Wort’s eyes…they are like his. Deep, dark and grey. They pull him in like soft, black sand upon a frigid beach, yeilding to his tresspasses, no matter how many. There is a light in them, he imagines as he steps closer, one akin to starry wonder.
Simons catches himself staring, but Wort’s are the first to lower. They do so respectfully, shyly, and for a second the agent’s attention is drawn from the doctor’s lashes, to his nose, to his lips, which part all too softly. “Thank you,” the doctor croaks, reaching for his lenses.
But Simons pulls them back just out of the doctor’s reach, and again those eyes, large and hesitant turn back to his, questioning.
…
