The Golem of Paris

Chapter five

She floats on the night wind, watching him from afar.

He is searching the sky. Hunting for her.

In the kaleidoscope of her eyes, he appears as a thousand illuminated versions of himself, his color the dreary beige of loneliness. She loves each fragment equally, with fervor and futility, drawing comfort from knowing it is her that his heart breaks for.

Her heart would break for him. If she had one.

Forever she thinks, and she pretends that he can hear her.

A thousand versions of him toss as many beetles into the air; seconds later, the captive streaks past her angrily.

Thank you, friend.

The blister beetle doesn’t pause but continues on toward the desert, uninterested in her appreciation. It did its job, it went where she wanted it to go, but not out of any special kindness toward her. She’s a charmer, all right.

Below, a thousand car doors open, a thousand tailpipes chuff. He drives away.

Some nights she follows him home. From a distance, of course. They can’t be seen together, and she doesn’t want to alarm him. But she worries. She can’t help but worry. He has a nasty habit of drifting out of his lane, especially after a hard day, especially drunk. More than once she’s had to nudge him back into line.

Other nights she makes a visit to a fig tree. She sits in its branches. She descends, to rest on the shoulder of an old friend.

Today is Friday. He’ll be headed there himself, as he does every week.

So that leaves her at liberty, and — as she does every week — she circles down toward the building, entering through a gap in the roof panels, touching down and transforming into her truest self, standing nude at his desk, her skin pebbled with cold as she riffles through the open box, looking for the file she put there. Not wanting to be obvious about it, she placed it fourth from the top.

That was months ago.

True, he would have gotten around to reading it eventually.

Patience has never been her strong suit.

Tonight, at last, the file is gone.

Thank you, friend.

She ought to feel satisfied, but instead she’s restless and reluctant to leave. The air still smells of him. She lingers, touching his chair, the desk, the surfaces where he has left his oils. On the computer screen, a golden shield bounces around a benign blue field: TO PROTECT AND TO SERVE.

An idea worth aspiring to.

He’s left the space heater on. Another bad habit. She shuts it off and raises her arms to the false heaven.