Page 117 of The Wicked
“Yeah, I see it.”
And then… it was silent.
A comfortable one that I didn’t feel like breaking, and I don’t know how long we sat there for, but it felt like minutes. Long minutes.
I felt the air grow colder, felt our surroundings grow quieter, as though everyone had gone to sleep, and we were the only two people awake.
“I finally figured it out,” Elio voiced after a while.
“What?”
“Why I talk a lot when I’m around you.”
I turned my body to the left so that I was facing him, and my side rested on the chair. My movement, though, felt sluggish. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“We’re alike,” he said. “In many ways. And I’m talkative. I like talking.”
“I figured that one out,” I said with a chuckle, and I realized we were closer than before; I could smell him now. He had this distinct smell of sweet vanilla spice rum, I guess from his cigars, and then there was a whiff of expensive cologne with a hint of orange blossom, and… there was something else… Was it lilies? God, he just smelled terrific, or maybe it was the pill.
“You like talking too,” he said. “You talk a lot, and it makes me want to respond. I shouldn’t respond because I’m supposed to be a man of few words.”
“You are very good at pretending you are.”
“I know. I’ve been doing it my whole life. I like it sometimes… just being quiet.”
“Me too,” I said, wondering what the point of this conversation was. I didn’t really care.
“I like talking to you,” he confessed. “I like that you annoy me.” His voice came with a hint of a slur.
The faint flutter attacked. “With my screechy voice, as you call it?”
“Okay, maybe it isn’t all that screechy, just slightly screechy.”
“Right, got it.”
“Hm. I want you dead too. Preferably when you’re talking, I’d like to slit your throat and watch you choke on your blood,” he said. “It’s one of my fantasies too.”
I laughed instead of being wary of his confession. It was funny, and the pill made it funnier.
“You hate me that much?”
“Hm.”
I watched him for a long time, for some reason, wishing he would look at me.
“Why aren’t you like—married? You’re old enough,” I said.
“So are you.”
“I still have time, but you’re like… twenty-eight—twenty-nine? Or…”
“Fishing for my age, Sport?”
“Curious.”
“I’m thirty-three.”
I jerked up, watching him with wide eyes. “No way, you look younger.”
