The Lear Library

This was another piece based on City of Heroes, chronicling the early life of a smuggler. Some characters are mentioned in later chapters that are other characters from friends that were in the game and interacted with the character. Normally I would remove these references to make a story easier to read without prior knowledge, but it removes too many pieces of the story that develop the main character. Hopefully this doesn’t make the story too difficult to follow.

___________

Everyone’s got a story nowadays. You know how it is, right? Lawyers, guns and money; everyone gets into trouble, and everyone needs someone or something else to bail them out.
I won’t say the smuggling life is as glamorous or exciting as all that. But, I supply to demand, and that means it pays well.

‘Course, I wasn’t planning on it originally. The life found me, but I suit it pretty fair.

Yeah… pretty fair…

“I’ll come back for you!” The young boy yelled up at the barred window. A small mop of incredibly dark hair shifted, and then a weathered hand reached out and guided whoever it was away from the window.

“I’ll come back, and you won’t have to be shut away all the time.” Promised the boy.

***

You may not believe it, kiddo, but there was a time when I was half as young as you are now. And younger. Can’t say I had much excitement in my life back then. Well, not like I do now.
It was a different kind of excitement, you know? Fields and sunshine and stuff.

The freedom, though. Well, I wouldn’t say I still had the freedom of a child. I guess that’s matured along with me.

1982.

The child, closer to young adulthood now, sat across from a balding man in a dour suit, his short-cut hair telling of his time in the military. This was Mr. Stoker, a retired sergeant put to work after the war in a variety of places. Until his taste for discipline was finally reawakened when he found work in an orphanage.

“Paulo, listen to me.” His gruff voice had an edge that didn’t brook argument, but the young man snorted derisively, chewing on a toothpick in a studied insult. “You’re not more than fifteen, but you think you know the world. I’ve seen plenty of boys like you break in the real world.” His voice contained a hint of dark joy in that thought. “If you don’t straighten out… you’ll be dashed against the rules and broken. I’ll see to it.”

The young man didn’t respond, except to run a hand through his short brown hair. James Dean all over again. Oh, yeah.

Bridling with anger, Stoker rose from his desk and stalked around to the other side. He settled on the desk’s ledge and stared down at his charge, sneering.
“Personally, I think it’s just as well. With a criminal record like yours already in full swing, I’m surprised one of those up-and-coming heroes hasn’t slapped you down hard and thrown you in jail for good already.”

This elicited a laugh from the young man, but it was curtailed shortly when the old sergeant caught his cheek with a closed fist, his knuckles splitting open as colour ran to his face, the young man spilling from his chair and sprawling on the floor, caught off guard.
“Don’t you ever laugh at me, boy! You’d be out on the streets, you hear me? If it wasn’t for this establishment, you’d be out on the goddamn streets!”

His charge, Paulo Arklay, born to a Portuguese housewife and an American fisherman, stood. There was something about the pose that was different, it occurred to Stoker. The back was straighter, the affected posture dropped. This young man seemed like a very different animal from the swaggering wannabe he was used to.

Not so different, he reflected, when he was given the finger.

With an inarticulate roar, Stoker surged forward, fists upraised and ready to beat the upstart down. The young man was smaller, and faster, and well versed already in fistfights, as his police profile would attest.
He pivoted on one foot, ducked under the clumsy cross Stoker threw, and grabbed him by his drab suit, falling backwards and tugging hard on his lapels. Pulled off-balance, Stoker careened forwards into the solid concrete wall behind the young man. His forehead and nose met with a gruesome crack, blood flowing suddenly and freely from the damaged cartilage.

Paulo stood, and dusted his shoulder off disparagingly. After that, he checked the old man’s pockets for money, searched the desk and came up with a bottle of primo whiskey. He opened the window, looking down at the one-story drop to the King’s Row streets. No problem. Reaching back to his chair, he pulled his favourite leather jacket from the backrest, tugged it on over his shoulders.

Without looking back, he slipped from the window.

I won’t say I haven’t made mistakes, ’cause anyone who thinks that is clearly deluded.

I wouldn’t say that was one of them, though.

A young boy with unruly hair approaches the trestle table, where the girl with the treacle hair sits, looking forlornly at the other kids, playing football.

***

Y’know, my dad taught me a lot of stuff at a young age. Just as well, really. Seeing as I only had about, what, five, six years of his company? Still, he always used to say that the measure of a man was how far he was willing to push himself for something that really mattered, be it a catch, a sport, a person… he used to say; “The measure of a man is how far he’s willing to stretch for what keeps him that man.”

Funny, some of the crap you remember, huh?

“Look, lady.” The young man said in an exasperated tone. “I don’t think you quite get the way this works. You’ve got a prime site here. It’s connected, spacious, and most importantly it’s on the down low. I mean, I only stumbled across it ’cause I was looking for any port in the storm, y ‘know?”
The cadaverous woman in front of him looked less than impressed, her eerie, glassy eyes glaring at him.
“So I don’ understand, ah?” Her lazy southern accent curled around him, the harsh tones of what she was saying mellowed, blossoms in sweet decay. “I’ll tell you somethin’, young man. I don’ understand why we’d be wantin’ such a loud, impetuous fella such as yoursel’ drawin’ attention to us around here. We got a pretty comfy operation wi’out some kid walkin’ ’round like he knows anythin’ from Adam.”
Paulo caught the barest hint of smoke on the aged woman’s words, and he smiled wide.
“Well, I’ll tell you one reason you might want me around;” He arched his eyebrows and took a deep breath. The pervasive smell of rot, mixed with the smell of musty air tended to mask the scent he was looking for, but he caught it before the sinister-looking woman grew impatient. “You’ve probably had to ration those fine cigars you like so much, hm? Unless you’ve better trade routes than I think a hole in the ground like this would have… I mean, I didn’t see any ships other than my own around your caves, and frankly you don’t strike me as the type who’d want an airfield, no offense. You seem pretty old-fashioned.” He smiled disarmingly, though it seemed to have absolutely no effect on the woman’s stern attitude.
“Plus… you know its kind’f dingy around here.” He added. “I could probably lend a bit of expertise to wiring this place up… At least get some strings of lights going, possibly some water in places… Not saying it’ll be easy, mind, but I’ll offer pretty good rates, and I always guarantee strict confidentiality.”

The woman’s dead eyes bored into his face, which he took great pains not to flinch at. He looked the woman dead in the eye to show either his honesty or his aptitude at being able to bullshit someone face to face. It was increasingly difficult for him to tell which it was these days.
“Bottom line is, I’ll be doing you a favour by setting up with you. I’ll be able to provide amenities and luxuries, plus maybe some tech support. You’ll be doing me a favour by supplying me with a safe, secretive port and a place to set up on this island.” He grinned again. “I always say a good working relationship is a lot more profitable for all parties involved. So what d’you say, miz Paris?”
The Widow Paris glared a little longer at him, until his eyebrows itched on the inside. Nobody can stare down a dead woman.

The vodun priestess relented eventually, and nodded curtly.
“Alright, den. You make yourself useful ’round here, you got yer dock.”
“Both a pleasure and a privilege doing business with you, ma’am.” Acquisition grinned, thrusting his hand out to be shaken. Paris just gave a disparaging snort.
“And you watch dat silver tongue of yours.”

The girl stared blankly at the boy until he gave an awkward smile and sat at the table across from her. Her hair was so dark and shiny; he imagined briefly that she must wash it so often… everyone’s hair dried up in the sea air, lightened in the Portuguese sun.
“Hi…” he began falteringly. The girl looked a little confused, but smiled tentatively. After a short pause, the boy pushed on.
“Hey… you’re my dad’s boss’ girl, uh, right? What’s your name? I’m…

***

Now, everyone knows that Man is a social animal. It’s probably a reflex from not having the great, cutting fangs of a tiger or the intimidating bulk and strength of an elephant. Social impulses are deeply ingrained through a need to not die alone in a cave.

Still, it’s surprising how fast a guy can adapt to being alone for great spans of time. At sea, with no-one to talk to except personalities you’ve written yourself… well, I guess a person could go stir-crazy pretty fast.
Just as well I’ve got this pesky pathological love of the ocean.

Still, even more amazing is how fast a person can get used to having company again.

Paulo wandered the deserted streets of Sharkhead Isle. It was late… so late, indeed, that he could see the cresting of first light on the horizon. He let out a happy sigh, pushing his hands deep into his jacket pockets. It was nearly entirely silent, the only sounds being the distant noises of machinery, the crash of broken glass as some petty thief knocked over some unlucky guy’s hovel, and the pleasant ringing in his ears.

His evening in the Pocket D had improved immeasurably as soon as he’d spotted “Theodora.”
She’d been hanging around listening to a business deal with his newest contact, the Appropriator. He couldn’t bring himself to trust the man, but that never stopped him doing business before.
“Theodora” had been standing in such a way as to be quite unobtrusive, tapping her slender stick against the edge of her foot in rhythm to the music in the air. She’d been wearing red, her dark hair framing her olive face, the most disconcerting feature being her blank eyes.

If the eyes hadn’t made him suspicious, the sudden assurance she had when she moved away as the conversation with the Appropriator ended had tipped him off. The spurious sweeps of her stick a careful conceit.
Of course, he had no choice but to follow and play along.

Still, he thought hazily to himself through a mild hum of whiskey, it’s surprising how expressive Sighted’s eyes can be, when she’s not being completely guarded.

Her hair had been so very different in the club to usual. So very…
… So very dark.

Paulo paused in his walk, shaking away some stray memories. No need to spoil a perfectly enjoyable night.
Perhaps he’d retire to his ship, have a little more to drink. Just so the more recent memories were more present in his mind, he told himself.
His hand curled around the napkin in his pocket, and he managed another smile.

The girl with the dark hair stared at the other kids, while Paulo chattered amiably at her. At length, he registered he was providing most of the conversation.
“What’s wrong? Hey, uh.. d’you wanna go join in the game?”
With a faintly sad smile that looked far too old for her, Elise replied;
“I can’t.”

***

Working relationships are built on a fundamental knowledge of trust. When you’ve been working a contact a while, you get a feel for him. You know the man’s limits, the lengths to which he’ll pursue something.

Which means, of course, when you first start working with someone, you don’t give them even an inch of squirming room. Make THEM work. See how badly THEY want YOU. Then you start to learn about them. How far they’ll reach, that’s the measure of the man.

Acquisition stood in the centre of the warehouse, two large crates sitting at either hand. Across from him, in the dark of the deep shelving, he could see the glitter of skull-shaped facemasks, the dull gleam of gun barrel-grey in the predawn light that filtered through dusty, high windows.

“Gentlemen.” He smiled, and his contractors came forward slightly. It could be seen there were more in the darkness. It appeared the familiar ache in his chest had been correct. He never knew if it was psychosomatic or not, but it was always inexplicably reliable. He liked to think of it as a warning sign.
He placed his hands behind his back, slowly sliding the sleeve of his battered leather jacket upwards to reveal the glittering lights of a miniature computer panel. Nothing but the best components creamed carefully from his acquired cargoes. After all, a man had to stay protected.

“You have the cargo.” The grating, synthesised voice was dull in the dusty air, antiseptic and clinical from distortion. “We insist on seeing it first.” Acquisition stepped back from the crates, letting his hands up into the open air.
“Be my guests.” Two men in flat grey and gas masks came forward, prying open the crates with flat crowbars. The cargo boxes opened to show quite an arsenal… assault rifles, small arms, grenades, flares… military grade hardware with the ammunition to boot. One man picked out a high-powered rifle, examining it in the gloom. Acquisition raised his eyebrows slightly to the man who was patently their commander, a tacit question.

“Very good.” The sanitised voice jarred. “And now the matter of your payment. I’ve had to renego-…”
“Renegotiate the contract,” Paulo interrupted smoothly, putting an oily, sinister quality into his usually warm voice. “You see a dead man is cheaper to pay…” he raised his eyebrows again. “Yes? Did I get it right, or were you going to deviate from the normal?”
He knew a hail of bullets was coming his way and dropped to his stomach, hearing the crackling impact of automatic weapons as the peppered the wall behind him. He reached up to his gauntlet-control panel and pressed a well-memorised sequence.

Out in the bay, three panels of steel hull smoothly slid aside on a neglected-looking cargo ship, revealing a trio of long cannons. With loud crumps they discharged their payload with unerring, computerised accuracy.

The roof of the warehouse collapsed in a shower of timber, dust and glass, three padded boxes slamming to the ground and already falling apart. Inside each box, a glittering metal cube which suddenly unhinged a boxy body from compact legs, vicious-looking weapons sliding smoothly to the fore as rudimentary arms.

“Young Ones,” yelled Acquisition above the sound of gunshots and the continued crashing of damaged building. “Covering fire! Rik; left, Neil; Right, Vivian; center!”
With a unified chirp of “Yes, captain!” Red lances of hot light scattered into the shadows of the warehouse, sending splashes of liquid metal and flaming splinters cascading into the air where the sizzling bolts landed home.

Acquisition reached into his jacket, taking a folded metal cuboid, unfolding it and snapping it locked, pulling a grip, trigger and stock from the blocky housing. Levering himself up into a crouch he fired a few pot-shots into the shadows, using the muzzle fire to target with the same bright-hot pulses his trusty crew fired.

The would-be buyers had scattered and taken cover when the robots had made their entrance, and would overwhelm him with numbers. A speedy getaway was needed.
“Rik, come with me. Neil, Viv, stay behind and provide fire.”
“Aww, captain!” Rik complained, chirpy mechanised voice rising in protest. “How come I don’t get to be in a kamikaze mission, huh?”
Paulo rolled his eyes, kicked up from his crouch and sprinted for a doorway, kicking it open with a metal-clad foot and dashing into the grey twilight.

“Next time, Rik, promise.” He bit off, squinting his eyes against the wind. There was a long run to his trusty smuggling cargo hauler, but he always made a habit to prepare ahead of time, leaving a speedboat near the drop point. The Orpheus, named due to his habit of never looking back for fear of finding himself befall misfortune on an escape, was sitting at the end of a nearby jetty, and he piled into the small speedboat.
“Viv, Neil; Retreat to the ship. Rik, it’s your turn for rearguard. Retreat as soon as I’m aboard the Onus.”
“Aye-aye, cap’n!” The three chirped through his earpiece and he gunned the speedboat’s motor, skimming over the surface of the water, heading towards his home-from-home. His life, his work and his shelter. The sea.

He looked up for a moment into the lightening sky and smiled, fancying he saw parted clouds closing over.
“Thank you, Elise.”

The young boy was watching his father’s long delicate hands as they unwound the loops of a fishing net, repairing the threads with meticulous care. His legs kicked over the side of the pier, watching the vibrant green waves lapping far below.
“.. Dad?” He said, so very suddenly that his father looked up, weather-beaten western face tanned and lined from years of sea work.
“Uhm… What’s wrong with your boss’s girl?”

***

So there are these kids.

The first one… ‘Blackbird’… Yeah, she’s something. The girl died and came back to life right in front of me, swear to God. She’s got power, you know? But she’s not really experienced with… huh, with practically anything.
So I figure this girl needs someone to keep a quiet eye, right? Give her a few pointers, stuff like that.
Hah… then the other one, Chris. She’s even more screwed up. Poor kid’s half insane, at least. Not an easy thing to see, a poor young woman, can’t be more than… early twenties… not knowing for sure what the hell’s going on.
Next thing I know? I’m “Uncle Paulo” to the both of them. How in the hell I became a male role-model I’ll never understand.
What’s the old saying? The greatest thing a father can see is his son surpassing him?

I’ll let you know how it works out.

It’s dusk on the docks of a dusty Portuguese fishing town. The sun slowly slips closer to the terminal line of the horizon, a distorted halo of orange flaring across the light clouds and dissipates into the fiery ocean.
A boy too young to go by the name Acquisition threads through the rusted cargo crates. His face is hidden in the long shadows, smudged with grime and slick with angry, helpless salt tracks. With the dust and the light, they almost look like bruises; physical indications of the rending sensation deep in his adolescent breast.
Each step further along the docks elicits a grating, faltering slice of doubt; peeling away layers of righteous anger and self-assurance. By the time the small form of the boy has reached the long tether leading to the balustrade tying an aged cargo hauler to the docks, his eyes glisten again with unshed uncertainties.

He risks a look backwards to the listing port town; he can see lengthening shadows and distance. One or two figures move across the tableau, and he can pick out areas of importance to him in the still-waning light.
The shadows grow longer as the sun sinks behind the horizon and the town, long tendrils of dark reaching upwards towards the Arklay boy. The fingers of blackness reach out to him, and he clambers onto the guardrail, wrapping his hands around the thick, coarse rope holding the heavy hauler in place.

He whispers a name to himself, or the air, or possibly the growing shadows. And then he places a foot on one of the thick hemp ridges, pulling himself up along the rope with a look of almost petrified determination.

By the time light comes and the tanker is scheduled to deliver its cargo to Independence Port, the Portuguese town is searching for a boy curled into a cargo crate with a blanket pulled over his head.

Paulo’s father was outside, watching the ships come in from the bay. Paulo went to join him and the pair shared a quiet minute before the child broke the silence.
“Dad… I didn’t know you smoke.”
Paulo’s father paused, then knelt next to his son and picked him up, sitting him on the rail. He pointed to a fishing trawler, its sails slowly curling up as it prepared to tie off.
“See that, Paulo? That’s the Nebula. They lost a deckhand today in an accident. Poor guy got tangled up in a net during a storm and fell overboard.”
Paulo’s father wasn’t usually one to waste words and his son had already known that the weather-beaten man was superstitious. Paulo’s father presented his packet of cigarettes. One single cigarette was turned upside-down in the pack, the pure white paper incongruous amongst the pale brown filters.
“See, some folks turn a cigarette the other way around like this. It’s their ‘lucky cigarette.’” Paulo’s father lowered the pack, then reached up and plucked the one he was smoking from the corner of his mouth, grinding it out on the railing as the Nebula’s crew disembarked.

“Those folks needed a little luck. And the deckhand… well, he’d be needing it even more.” The father gave the son a grim smile, then reached up and placed the pack of cigarettes into the crook of the roof, where sloping tile met supporting timber; completely undetectable.
“Come inside now, son.”

***

So, where was I?

Oh, yeah, right. Our story so far. The intrepid young kid, dumb as a sack of hammers, stows away on a cargo ship. How he thought he wasn’t going to get caught, I don’t know. I reckon he’d been watching too many films, you know?
Anyway, they end up dragging his freeloading behind out to Independence Port, and as soon as they set down, they do the intelligent thing and hand him straight over to the police.

The young man was led back into a familiar room, blank grey walls lending the stark box a very depressing air. There was one high window, grimy and barred, and a table with two chairs.
Wrinkled hands pressed Paulo into one of the chairs, and he placed his cuffed hands on the sticky tabletop, tapping his fingers in a bolero of boredom.
The burly, unpleasant-looking policeman with the broken nose sat across from him and gave him a steady look. Paulo broke out into a broad grin, his youthful features lightening.

“Hey, Bax.” He said, the casual sentence unable to hide his genuine pleasure. ‘Bax’ frowned.
“That’s officer Strand, Paulo. I’m on duty.” The officer’s weary voice was indicative of every single time he saw the young boy.
“Tch, fine…” Paulo waved a hand vaguely, almost the famous ‘Jedi mind trick’ wave due to his restraints. “So how long am I hanging around here this time? I’ve got a girl I need to go see.”
“You always say that.” Strand replied, a hint of reproach creeping into his voice.
“I always do, Bax! Thing is, I always end up hanging around here, kicking my heels, and I miss my window.”
“Well whose fault is that?”

An uneasy silence descended, in which the Arklay boy avoided the officer’s tired eyes, choosing to examine his nails.
“Look, Paulo. Every three weeks or so you end up back in here. Pulling two-bit robberies, scamming tourists, petty theft; and you get into trouble with some real bruisers. You should watch out, you know. There’s going to be no girls after you if you end up all banged up after a brush with some of the thugs around here. You could get killed.” The straight delivery of his words gets his message across more than the warning itself. Old Baxter Strand, police officer for almost thirty years, is concerned for the young man he picked up one day from a cargo hauler for stowing away.
“Yeah. Thanks, Bax.” Paulo mutters, awkward in the situation of taking advice. After a second, he looks up. “So when’re you adopting me, anyhow?”
Baxter lets out a short, gruff laugh. “You’re kidding. You’re too much of a troublemaker, and besides, the wife’d probably run off with you.”
“No fear there.” Paulo returns, oddly serious for a second. “Besides, if she’s half the looker you are, she can get a better class of toy boy than a Portuguese cast-off.”

Baxter snorted. “Flattery, huh? Guess that means your orphanage isn’t paying the bail again.”
“Nah… The big man’s got it in for me, you know?” Paulo kicked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Baxter sighed and reached across the tabletop, unlocking the cuffs with hands moving towards arthritis.
“Just try not to get in too much trouble? Some of the capes nowadays don’t pull punches. I swear, they’re getting real dark, some of them.”
“Yeah, yeah… Thanks, Bax. You know, can’t keep the girl waiting.”

The young girl waved from the window, and Paulo’s heart rose. She’d grown a lot in his absence… well, that was to be expected. Looking at her now… A little pale, dark hair curling down in a plaited ponytail that twined about her slender neck. She was stunning.

***

Let me ask you something.

Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis?
You know, that horrible moment when your mind jerks awake from a noise or something, and your body isn’t fast enough to keep up? So you lay there, completely frozen, eyes tracking around the room as best you can. Because you can’t move, and you know that somewhere, just out of sight in the darkness…

…

… no, me neither…

The tears had ended now.
Everything had ended. Everything up until now, that is. Now all that there was; an interminable progress of time with no discernable ending that stretched out in front of him. More featureless than waves, more intangible than the spray in the air that kicked up around the sailboat’s prow.

He had kept his promise, but in doing so everything he’d been promising himself in the aftermath had been dashed into pieces, broken beneath the waves exactly like…

Paulo sat on the edge of the sailboat’s hull as it gently bobbed in the featureless sea, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“My boss’ daughter?” the boy’s father said slowly. “Now why would you be wanting to know such a thing?”
The boy shifted awkwardly, looking to the ground as his guileless face twisted into a look of acute embarrassment.
“I.. kinda talked to her at the party, you know?”
Paulo’s father chuckled.

***

So let me talk about accusation for a moment.

It’s a weird thing. You know, I’ve been accused of a lot of things in the past… all sorts. Theft, extortion, the odd murder here and there. And the thing is, when it’s anyone at all accusing me of something… it’s all water off a duck’s back, you know? Doesn’t faze me.

I think there are two things I’ve learned in my life so far. I dunno if they’ll serve for you, but here they are.

The first is that age doesn’t always have to be measured chronologically. Just because a guy’s old doesn’t mean he’s in his fifties. Age is seen around the eyes.

And the second is that the accusations that really stick are the ones you make of yourself, true or no.

And they were free. In the deep Portuguese night, he’d come on a sailboat and stolen away his darling Elise. It had been a simple matter to scale the wall of the family house. During his time, he’d picked up more than his fair share of burglary equipment.
Even getting out with the dark-haired girl in tow was amazingly easy. Despite a few lurching moments when he thought she’d slip on the metal rope ladder he’d reeled down from her window.

They’d dashed across the dockyards, hearts in their mouths and giddy smiles all around. Her dark hair streaming out behind her, they’d boarded the sailboat that’d borne him to their town so stealthily. Without the noise of an engine, or oars, his approach had been almost silent.

Now they were riding the cresting waves towards a sunrise, the orange light filtering through wispy clouds, lifting their spirits.
“Have a look around, Elise… this’ll be your home for a little while until we reach the Onus. Careful on the steps if you’re going below, they’re steep.”
The raven-haired girl flashed him that smile and descended the stairs with caution.
Acquisition, thinking himself more like Paulo the longer he kept in the girl’s company, turned back to the laminated chart and compass. He checked their bearing, turning the wheel to point them to a more easterly direction. He watched lazily as the arm of the mast swung around, ropes pulling taut and swinging the heavy beam across in an implacable arc. It swept over the entrance to below, just as Elise emerged with all the energetic giddiness of a child.
And the mast swung on.

“You see, son…” Paulo’s father sat next to the serious-looking boy. “What my boss’ daughter has is… well, it’s a disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta. Among other things, her skeleton is very fragile. That’s why she can’t play with the other kids around here; my boss is worried she’ll get hurt. D’you understand?”

***

So, yeah. I’m an old man, and I’ve seen a lot of stuff. Still, not much compares to watching that mass of dark black hair, that wide smile… just disappearing below deck all at once. Looking down below, and there she is, bathed in orange light.

She’s still smiling, but all the limbs, they’re at odd angles. And she looks at me with bright eyes as I come running down the steps.
Her knight in shining armour, right?

I don’t feel much like talking anymore.

The tears had ended now.
Everything had ended. Everything up until now, that is. Now all that there was; an interminable progress of time with no discernable ending that stretched out in front of him. More featureless than waves, more intangible than the spray in the air that kicked up around the sailboat’s prow.

He had kept his promise, but in doing so everything he’d been promising himself in the aftermath had been dashed into pieces, broken beneath the waves exactly like…

Paulo sat on the edge of the sailboat’s hull as it gently bobbed in the featureless sea, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

A young boy with unruly hair approaches the trestle table, where the girl with the treacle hair sits, looking forlornly at the other kids, playing football.
The girl stared blankly at the boy until he gave an awkward smile and sat at the table across from her. Her hair was so dark and shiny; he imagined briefly that she must wash it so often… everyone’s hair dried up in the sea air, lightened in the Portuguese sun.
“Hi…” he began falteringly. The girl looked a little confused, but smiled tentatively. After a short pause, the boy pushed on.
“Hey… you’re my dad’s boss’ girl, uh, right? What’s your name? I’m Paulo.”