The dinner went on around me; every now and then, I looked up, and my aunt smiled at me. She looked proud as if I had just processed top of my class at The Centre for Military Production. Something I never did, of course, but I imagine that's how people look at you when you do. People often looked at my brothers that way, and they only processed in the middle of the group.

The food continued in waves, and I found I was starving; everything tasted delicious. I had eaten very little the last few days since I was running on fear and nerves, and now it catching up with me. Everyone seemed content to leave me be to eat, so I was surprised to look up and see the guests getting up to say their goodbyes. My aunt was bidding people farewell one by one, arranging for coats to be fetched and cars to be brought around. My uncle was disappearing into the men's study with a large red-faced man. My stranger did not look back at me and bid me no farewells. I watched them go: talking business to each other, and as the door shut, all the joy and goodness that I have been feeling evaporated. The food sat heavily in my stomach, and my hair kept flopping in my eyes no matter how many times I flicked it away. All of a sudden, the new clothes felt too much for me, like a child who had snuck into his parent's wardrobe and tried on their things.

My aunt looked at me smiling, but she could tell I had changed. She was heading in my direction, a look of concern heavy on her brow, but before she crossed the room, I ran. I flew down the hallways to my little room in a rage of self-loathing, slamming the door behind me, kicking my shoes off across the room and throwing my clothes down on the ground. I ended up sprawled naked across my bed, but the tears refused to come. I did not deserve them; I gave myself no emotional catharsis. I lay there as darkness fell, thinking dark thoughts about myself, wishing my father had finished the job. There are many things worse than death, and being a constant source of shame and embarrassment to the people around you is one of them. I couldn't figure out what exactly was wrong with me. Was it all a cruel joke? Why would he leave without saying goodbye? Did he mean to see me again, or was he just playing? Why wasn't I acting normally? And what exactly did I expect the stranger to do for me that would make me less myself?

After many minutes, maybe hours, of soul-searching, the only answer was that the stranger would teach me how to function without the shame and the embarrassment. I had seen his sleeves rolled up just like mine; he laughed too loudly and spoke with complete disregard for Approved Language, just like I did, yet he was a respected government member. If I could learn how to do that, then maybe, just maybe, I could bring some honour to my Aunt and Uncle and repay them for their kindness; surely this was the point of it all; perhaps I could even still apply for military processing?

The temperature had dropped, and with my new theory formulated, I felt perhaps it was time to get some sleep. Tomorrow I would begin my quest to be a more worthy person. I pulled the thin sheet over myself and began to doze, swimming lazily as my subconscious took over, re-feeling all of the thoughts and emotions of the day, the highs and the lows, the tastes and smells and the deep red buzzing in my spine when the stranger had walked into the dining room. Pinpricks rose up over my body, and an urgent flush burned down my thighs. Coming abruptly awake, I realised that my new theory, my new purpose missed one important piece of the puzzle, and that was the tingling aticipation, the sheer physical, visceral, all-consuming fire inside me that I felt when he was close to me, one that I could feel now burning slowly through my body, pounding in my ears, bringing my chest to a terrifying crescendo of thudding. If he was going to fix me and make me a real man, show me how to condense all my crazy sloshy madness, then why did he make me feel so free? I didn't want to be him; I wanted to have him. I opened my eyes from sleep just in time to see him step silently into my bedroom and noiselessly shut the door behind him.

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Seconds passed like hours; something fragile and intangible hangs in the air that we hold onto as long as possible, knowing once it is broken, it is gone. From my mat on the floor, I smelled him, that same sunshiny smell, this time with a little tobacco scent mixed in, it enters me through my nose, but I feel it all over my skin;.I absorb his presence. The soft light from the courtyard outside falls across his face, and although I know the colour of his eyes as if they were my own, in the half-light, they look black. I became scared of him. Is he an assassin sent by my father to finish the job? Perhaps the weekend away was the plot, but he wants to get it over with now. He is not how I imagine an assassin to look, but perhaps that's the point; maybe desire is part of his violence. All of this flashes in my mind in a few exhilarating seconds; I realise I am holding my breath, and as I start to exhale, as the muscles in my body relax, a knock at the door startles us both.

"Darling, it's me, Aunty, are you okay?"

"Don't come in! I'm... I'm... Naked!" I cry out, a strangled, frantic cry.

The stranger is crouching down behind the door, looking terrified. I think to myself: assassins don't usually hide from little old ladies with a penchant for budgerigars, so I decided, whatever he's here for, I will handle it myself.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? You looked upset; I tried but couldn't sleep until I checked on you."

"I'm fine Aunty, really, a little bit too much of the spicy dishes that's all."

"Are you sure, you know you can tell me anything?"

"No Aunty it's fine, go to bed before Uncle sends a search party!"

"Okay, but if you need something..."

I feel her pulling away from the door, the handle clicks back up, and I realise she was holding it down the whole time, ready to come in at any second.

Walking away, she taps her fingers along my window and calls out, "Wear your lovely pyjamas, silly!"

The stranger, who is still hiding in the shadows, looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and assesses the thin sheet covering my body.

"Do you mind if I..." The stranger collapses on my bed mat; before I have time to respond, he says, "You may be naked, but I am old and my knees don't like squatting."

Is this really happening? I am so close to him that I can see the stubble along his jaw.

"Why are you here?" I whispered, gesturing to him to keep his voice as low as possible, "I know its not for the health of your knees."

"I knew it!" he declared somewhat louder than I would have preferred,

"Knew what?"

"That you'd be just as cheeky as you look."

I grinned, and he ran his hands over my head, tousling my hair messily, "I like the new look."

I tried to bat his hands away, laughing, and he grabbed me playfully by the wrists, pulling me down until my head rested on his chest. Something inside me broke; it was as if miracles were raining down from the sky. As he played his fingers down my arms, I giggled and squirmed, pushing his hands away and poking him in the ribs; for a minute, we strained against each other, laughing and looking for an advantage until he decided the game was over and, with surprising strength, pulled me to him. I burned.

"There will be time for that," he said, suddenly serious, "but before I kiss you, I have to tell you something that might make our friendship impossible and make you hate me."

I said nothing, just stared at him. It's hard to imagine how I looked right then, but I expect the look on my face would have only made what he had to say next so much harder. I couldn't imagine there would be anything he could say that would cause me to hate him. He seemed to be the embodiment of life. I knew instinctively that I loved him already.

"It's about your father," he pronounced, "He's dead and I killed him."