She steps stealthy through the French doors, almost ducking out of the room in order to keep anyone else from noticing, knowing that he’s out on the veranda and wanting him to herself for just a moment. She turns into the shadows of the rooftop garden and sure enough there he is, looking out over Park Avenue with his clove cigarette, thinking about God knows what. She sneaks up to him and says in a quiet voice, “It must be nice—”

He turns surprised but immediately smiles.

“—all these people having a party for you…”

“Oh… well.” he hesitates, looking out again at the lit up buildings, listening to the occasional horn bounce and fade its way up the steel valley. “It’s not really for me, is it?”

“What do you mean? They’re all hear to celebrate your success.”

“In a sense, yes.”

She stands and stares at him a moment before setting her champagne glass down on the base of a small statue, an angel of some sort and crossing her arms. He responds by taking his jacket off and putting it on her shoulders. The lining is smooth and warm and she pulls it around herself as he maneuvers her around to look back in the doors at the party, which looks to be in full swing, crowded, adorned, everyone talking and gesticulating.

“I mean to say that they’re not having a good time for me—for my sake. Everyone here had a reason to party today. They were looking forward to going out and having a good time, happy getting ready—except a few, I suppose. But I’m just the excuse—no different than a calendar day or St. Patrick, really.”

“Steven, some of them are actually happy for you.”

“It’s funny, without knowing you that well, I’ve no doubt you are.” Then he looks up and closes one eye, “And I’ll grant a few of my friends. But the rest… I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out that they don’t give a shit.”

She sighs, a little frustrated, just wanting everyone to be happy for everyone else’s sake.

He squeezes her shoulders, “You’re so sweet.”

She looks at him, over her shoulder, wondering.

“You really just want the best for everyone. You really are selfless, you know? It’s remarkable.”

She turns around completely and they look deep into each other’s eyes, his face in the shadow of the building, her’s lit up from the streets.

He stammers, nervous, “I can’t help it—someone like you just shouldn’t be with someone like me—a cynical, old curmudgeon, really. It seems unfair to deprive some burly hero somewhere of a princess.”

She kisses him, slipping her arms from under his jacket and around his middle. It’s a simple kiss, one to commute love to a man who needs it.

“I think you could be a hero anytime you chose.”

A tear forms in the corner of his eye. His voice shaky, “You are too kind.”

Read the whole thread: The Fabulous Bastard

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