Folding chairs in hands and cane tucked safely under an armpit, Thea trudges her way back to the sedan. All hints of afternoon are gone. The sun flirts with the horizon and dregs of cream-whipped clouds lace through an orange sky.

She juts one foot forward; one chair; other foot; other chair. She huffs and haws and wobbles on, barely managing to coordinate five pairs of legs.

Bamboo trots alongside her; the definition of grace, in comparison. Though, sensing Thea's attention, she surges forward. Until the gap between them grows to ten feet or so. She stops — tail upright and twitching — and cranes her neck around. "Raow?"

"Sorry. I'm—" Thea hefts one of the chairs forward. "— ugh — I'm coming!"

By the time she reaches the sedan, her arms, back, and ass all hurt. The latter thanks to her cane giving her a smack after every drag of folding steel and plastic. Stumbling near, she lets herself fall to her knees alongside the chairs. Gravel digs through her cassock's skirt and presses into her skin. It's painful, but it bears no comparison to the fire in her lungs. Every few words, she sucks in air and her shoulders rack. "Sorry — eugh — for the — eugh — wait. I should have — eugh — asked for help."

A door slams; gravel shifts. Frank kneels down beside her and rests a hand on her back. "Why are you always so stubborn, huh? You going to be alright?"

"Yeah. Just fine. Puh— perfect."

Tension hums in the air like the moments before a lightning strike. "Erraaow!" Just out of reach, grey-brown fur bristles and Bamboo bares her teeth.

Frank tweaks his head to follow her prowling. "Oh, well then! Hey there, little one." He flips over his palm and waggles his thumb. At its tip, a thin, white line trails toward the crease of his knuckle. "Still got this, you know. Got me pretty good!"

"Eraaow, hehhsh!"

Bamboo lashes out; she bats her paw with unsheathed claws at Frank, but all she strikes is gravel. Too much of a scaredy-cat to get closer.

There's a pang of something Thea's gut. Guilt, maybe. Should I say sorry? But the cat isn't really my responsibility, is she?

Is she?

Thea heaves another breath. "S-sorry about her..." Gravel digs into her palms; coarse, jagged rock that bleeds her nerves of fire and brimstone. She scrambles for her cane, but — in her collapse — it tumbled a ways off. "Frank, would you mind helping me up?"

He snatches up the cane; guides her to her feet; and presses the hooked, wooden handle into her palm. "Not an ounce. So, you ended up taking a cat in? Does that mean you found another place to live? You know, I didn't realize some places let you bring them to work."

Do I tell him? Will he worry?

Guilt pangs again. She thumbs over her shoulder at the mechanic's garage. Toward the second floor and its concrete, stacked atop a first lain in brick. "I actually live here. My boss is letting me stay on her couch; upstairs."

Frank unfolds both chairs, sure to face the setting sun. It's barely visible, now. Halfway behind some distant rooftops. "And the cat?" He says

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Thea hobbles over and plops onto a chair. "Hers."

Bamboo slips between Thea's legs and glares out upon her domain. Gravel, rust, and this so-called "Frank" soiling it. That's what Thea thinks is going through the cat's mind, at least. It only lasts a handful of seconds. Then, Bamboo drops the glare and curls up. Motionless — except for the rise and fall of her breathing.

Frank drops into the other chair and pulls over his crate of beer. "Goodness, looks like she'd kill me if she could." Passing one of the unmarked, amber bottles to Thea, he lets himself fall against the chair's backrest. "Ah. Age really creeps up on you." He darts his eyes between Thea and the cat underneath her. "Quite the coincidence, huh?"

"Don't even start." Thea says.

"About being old? Give your back twenty more years and see how it feels."

Wedging her bottle's cap against the edge of her seat, she smacks it and the cap pops off with a hiss. "Come on. No proselytizing, Frank. If everything I've went through just to end up here— if it had anything to do with Him, He's sick. Mad. A b-big, m-mad guy."

Frank shudders. "That's some venom. If I can't talk about him, you can't. Deal?" He bobs his head as if weighing his words. "Yeah. Better for both of us, I'd think."

There's a comfort in Frank's proposal. A familiarity. It's a conversation that happens every time they meet: a couple one off comments about religion, an agreement to avoid it, then they can relax.

At least that hasn't changed.

She sighs — expelling an ounce of stress — and takes a sip. "Deal."

The taste hits in an instant. Hops, papered-over with cinnamon. Far from the brew's usual taste of hops and wheat. Taste buds revolt; panic swells. It's not what she expected, so it must've gone bad; rotten.

Her tongue begs her to spit it out, but she forces herself to swallow. "What— w-what'd you do to it?"

"Thought I'd try something different. You know, something bold." Frank says.

"Why?"

He pulls out a bottle, pops off its cap, and shrugs. "I don't know. Don't you get tired of the same thing every once in a while?"

Thea whirls about on her seat to face him and lays a hand on his knee. "We don't get tired of it. It's our favorite. You tweaked it and nudged it for years. You made it into everything we like about beer!"

A look washes over Frank's face. His brow furrows; his eyes grow distant and unsteady. "Tastes vary, right? We can like more than one thing. What's the harm in—" He starts.

"The harm is— " Thea waves her arms about, as if trying to catch reasons from thin air. "T-the harm's that it's different! You didn't forget the recipe did you? Lose it in the monastery's library?"

"Nothing happened to it."

"Then why? Tastes vary? We both know that that's nonsense."

"Needed to take my mind off things, you know. I was worried about you. Thought I'd try a few things. Add some of this, some of that—" He sniffs at the opening. Immediately, he jerks back and coughs. "Ugh. I meant to bring the cherry batch; not the cinnamon. Fucking hate cinnamon."

Thea takes another swig. It's not actually bad, just different. "Teaches you for worrying about me. I've been taking care of myself just fine." She says.

"And that's why you're on this lady's couch, huh? Taking care of yourself?"

He's not wrong, but her thoughts curdle. Unsteady images flash: wet alleys and ripped sheets. She swallows it down. "Mostly. Not that I'm going to share."

After a pause, Frank eyes her. "You can still ask me for help when you need it, you know."

"No. You know what the Abbot'd have to do if he found out."

"Plenty of monasteries out there for me to go. Don't forget: you're talking to the best ceramicist this side of the Appalachians."

"Goodness knows you've lost the title of best brewer."

"You're drinking it all happy, aren't you? I think you owe me the story for that jab."

Thea's memories loom over her, as insurmountable as reality. The musk; the trash; the people — how they treated her. She feels the weight of the bottle in her hand and the weight of everything it might represent. Love, friendship, escape. Whatever it is, it's where she'd rather be. What she'd rather feel.

"N-not this one. Not yet." She says.

Frank takes his first sip and lets the taste ride between smacks of his lips. "You know, not too bad. But be sure to call when you feel you can: I'll be there to listen."

"Promise?"

He holds the neck of his beer out to her. "Never broke one; never will."

They clink bottles and settle back to watch the sun set.