(First posted here.)

In Which Dante Wonders Whether He Will Die

Part of me knew none of me was dry, or was ever going to be dry by the time this night ended.

But I’ve been holding Nirvana’s hand for the last thirty minutes and could not let go.

“You know how this ends, Dante,” Nirvana says.

I don’t answer. What was there to say? The kagluyag show me a future where I die. And then they tell me the kid whose life I will end up saving is going to grow up to be the most ruthless, corrupt political mover this country has ever known.

Did they really think I will fight for my life for these reasons?

And if they knew me too well, what were they accomplishing by telling me that the fate of people is written in stone?

On the other hand, I do not know this kid, and will be seeing him for the first and last time this night. How do I make sure he does not fail me?

“I’m going to talk to the kid,” I say. The rain falls harder. Nirvana’s face is as dark as her mood. I wonder whether I did her any good telling her I loved her in the same breath that I told her I will be dying tonight.

“We don’t know who the kid is yet,” Nirvana said.

“But you will. Your phone records voices.”

“I–”

I bring my other hand up to cup her face. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t. Drops of water are streaming down her cheeks. I wonder whether it was just the rain. I try to watch her eyelashes but everything is moving too fast and everything is getting too dark and if we’re not so lucky Ramon will come at us any minute now demanding my head.

“I can try to live for you, Nirvana. But I know you know that this is who I am.”

“Everybody leaves.”

“I’m just going to die. And everybody dies.”

She lets go of my hand to put her arms around my neck. She hugs me and suddenly those years of burning, crushing desire take hold of my entire being. How cute, actually, to be having flashbacks in the middle of a rapidly flooding marsh about the love of your life: the first time I hear her voice, singing at the AS steps, the first time I actually meet her, and kissing her three minutes after that in front of strangers in an impromptu role play where I was the cocky young professor and she, the budding nymphomaniac, days and nights of painful wanting, a need so deep it occupied my waking hours like a latent fever. The first time I touched her arm, the first time she looked me in the eye, the first time she said my name. Each throbs eternal.

I move her head back to kiss her.

“You know I lied. I do love you, Dante.”

“Then I can die a happy man.”

For a second, we are kids again. She socks me in the arm.