The Last Superhero (4 page)

Yeah, sigh all you want
'cause I'm not taking any bullshit from you.

“
I
thought it would help lighten your mood since you were so...
agitated.”

“
I
don't need no fucking fantasies to make me feel better.” I
bring the cup to my lips and the moment the liquid hits my mouth it
burns. “Fuck!”

“
Give
me that.” He snatches it from my hand, sets it on the table and
puts his hand over it.

The coffee starts swirling
inside the cup and I'm mesmerized by the dark brown vortex.

“
There,”
he says when he gives it back.

I try it and it isn't so hot
anymore.

“
Thanks.”

Sip. Sip. Sip.

“
Are
you talking to me now?”

Sip. Gulp.

“
I'm
thinking about it.”

“
You
have a nasty temper.”

Look who's talking!

“
You
don't know half of it, mister.”

“
And
that mouth of yours. You own a bookstore, for heaven's sake.”

“
I
don't own it. It's my mother's. I run it.”

“
Do
you read?”

“
A
lot.”

“
Doesn't
show.”

“
What?
You think because I read I should use fancy vocabulary?”

“
Not
fancy, but at least less cursing.”

Drink more coffee and
swallow some of the annoyance.

“
Having
coffee today was your idea.”

He grins. “I still
think it was a good one.”

I roll my eyes and stare
into my cup. There are so many things in my head at the moment.

Images of Mr. Brownstone
come to the front of my mind and I fight to push him and his
three-day notice back.

“
When
will your mother be back from Spain?”

“
The
day after tomorrow.” My coffee's running out and with it my
time sitting at this table.

There's inquiry in his eyes
and I'm not giving into it, although I can tell he's reading me,
seeing me.

He's fallen silent and I
welcome it. It's not awkward, it's just silence.

Thinking silence. Pondering
silence.

“
Do
you need to get to the bookstore after this?”

“
I
should check on Daphne, but I work the night shift today.”

“
How
does another stroll in the park sound?”

“
You
really like that park, don't you?”

His eyes crinkle when he
smiles. “I do.”

“
Just
don't go doing the fantasy thing again.”

He raises his hands to his
sides. “I won't.”

We head out of the coffee
shop and towards the park. A sunny day greets us into the vast
greenery of trees and grass and dirt trails and little pestering
animals, I mean children, laughing and playing around.

He keeps his hands inside
the pockets of his leather jacket and I can't help my eyes from
side-glancing, making sure they stay where they are.

At least him projecting a
fantasy into my brain isn't as bad a fear as thinking he'll murder me
at any moment.

Before I know it we're near
the lake again and he's looking into the ripples of dark water and
he's going on about how he's a bad person.

“
I've
done horrible things in my life. Caused a lot of damage, a lot of
misery.”

My mouth opens, then shuts
itself, then opens again. “What about the ones you saved? You
did save people. You did good things too.”

“
Even
one bad thing can erase a lifetime of good deeds. I have a long list
of offenses that I can't run away from.”

He doesn't give me time to
jibe that.

“
I
remember this place.” He's talking and looking around. “I
used to come here as a child. My mother liked this park very much.”
I don't dare interrupt his train of thought. “She used to make
these great picnics, just for the two of us. Fruits that she
harvested from our backyard, jelly sandwiches she used to cut into
little squares.”

That sounds like something
my mother would've done if she'd had the time.

However, why is he telling
me this?

Maybe he's some schizo who
has chosen me to tell the story of his life.

“
Is
she okay? Your mother?”

“
She
died a very long time ago.”

Way to go, fucktard. Now
he's sulking and you can't stop yourself from stroking his arm.

He twists towards me and I
go stiff.

“
It’s
okay, I won’t do it.” He steps back, sulking even
further. “My father killed her and there was nothing I could do
about it.”

Jeez. This isn't what I was
expecting, not remotely.

Although Mom told me that
story once or twice.

“
I
wish there was something I could do for you?”

That question could get me
into a shitload of trouble, but what the hell am I supposed to say to
this... this man... this stranger who is opening up to me?

“
You're
already doing a lot by listening to me.”

He's sad and I can't help
the need to hug him that overwhelms me all of a sudden.

Ah, fuck it.

I take one of his wrists and
wrap the arm around me, snake my arms around his torso, hug him and
it feels good.

Yeah. Good. Nice. Warm. All
right.

Release him before you look
like one of those clingy kinds of women.

“
Thank
you,” he whispers, his eyes overly bright as he holds my face
inside his hands.

I clutch his forearms and
feel this giddiness inside me that makes me smile.

“
I'm
a good listener. I don't mind. It's a lot like reading books, peeking
into other people's lives.”

He lowers his hands to my
shoulders and I feel like melting inside.

Am I actually attracted to
him?

He stretches out a hand and
a wildflower comes floating through the air. He grabs my hand with
his free one, turns it palm up, and the wildflower lands slowly on
it.

This guy's good.

“
This
is a great pick-up trick. Bet it works every time.”

He laughs. “Is it
working with you?”

“
I
didn't say that.” I try to keep a straight face but fail when
he looks at me with his lovely hazel eyes and that sadness deep
inside that's calling my name.

What a perfect tragic
romantic hero he'd make.

All I want to do is run into
his arms screaming 'Let me love you!' and write fan-fics where he
always gets the girl.

There's an awkward moment
when I think he's going to kiss me and dammit did I want him to take
that step.

It doesn't happen. He's
serious and collected and pulls back to say, “I know we barely
know each other and that you may find me untrustworthy, yet I'd like
to keep seeing you.”

This feels weird. Is he-?

I want to frown at him,
narrow my eyes and make him feel like a perv or something, say
something snarky but...

Why can't I come up with
even a nice curse word?

Can I fight this?

The sun flickers.

“
What
are you doing?” His smile's fading into a frown.

The grass under us changes
from bright green to a grayish one.

“
What
are
you
doing?”

“
This
isn't- Why-?”

The sun flickers again.

Catch the tiger by the toe!

Then I feel it, the landing
back on my feet and his hand backing away from me.

“
You
bastard!” I swat his arm a little too hard and he flinches.

“
I'm
sorry!”

“
No
you're not, you... You...”

The day may look a little
less bright, but his eyes are the same.

“
I'm
sorry. I meant everything I said.”

Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

“
You're
going to pay for this.”

“
You
did something.” He's confused, his eyes wandering from our
surroundings to his hands to my eyes.

“
I
didn't do shit.
You
said you wouldn't do it again.”

“
I'm
sorry!” His mouth opens and closes reflexively, trying to say
something that refuses to come out. “You did do something. You
fought it. How?”

This time I’m the one
who starts for the trees.

“
Does
it matter? I'm out. Fuck you and your fantasies and your superpowers
and...” ...those lovely hazel eyes...

AGH.

And to think I wanted him to
kiss me.

Did I? Or was it the
fantasy?

“
Wait!
Giana, please.” He's trailing me.

“
Fuck
off.”

No, I felt it. I walk
through the trees and the grass, recalling what happened and yes, I
felt it.

It was real. For me, at
least. Completely real.

And it feels kinda good that
he's still following me. He'd make a nice little dog.

I stop, turn around, and
he's so close he's almost thrown backwards.

“
I'm
sorry.” Sad puppy eyes...

...that have no effect on me
right now. “No shit.”

“
Giana,
please, be reasonable.” He's begging. I like begging. What
woman doesn't like begging?

I can't kid myself. This has
grown out of proportion.

“
I'm
not the one doing the mind raping.”

“
THE
WHAT?!”

“
Dude,
you're fucking with my brain. That's not nice.”

“
It
isn't
rape
,”
he says the word with disgust. “And you needed it.”

“
You
don't know shit about what I need.” I straighten my back and
cross my arms. We're in the middle of this park's dead zone, the
perfect place to vent. “Wanna know what I need? I need two
months worth of rent so I don't find Mr. Brown-fucking-stone has
decided my already scarce furniture looks better on the street. I
need another solution for saving the bookstore my mother put so much
time and effort into and has no idea is bankrupt other than arson. I
need a bottle of ever-refilling vodka, a pack of cigarettes, and a
night of rough, mind-blowing sex.”

That throws him out of his
element and I can hear him gulping.

“
I'm
fucking with you on that last part.” Although it would be nice.
“I don't even know why I'm telling you this.”