Helen Brown

Chapter 3.

His eyes enter my mind with such intrusive intensity that it feels like he is searching through my mind. His eyes conceal any sign of his inner thoughts, being unusually black and affixed to such a menacing presence. I am inquisitive and uneasy since he does not respond to my inquiry.

Was a female involved? Did she cause you to lose your heart? Half-jokingly, I poke about, hoping to find some thread of his story.

He laughs a little, then waves the idea away. "If only my problems were as easy as heartfelt things." He leans forward and speaks to me directly. "What level do you occupy?" He puts out his joint and tucks it away before moving on. "I have not noticed you previously."

I gesture with my finger at the nearby building. "The block next to this one is where I live. It is only three storeys tall, so it is too small to see from here."

With his elbow resting on the ledge, he leans in once more. Thus, what brings you here? Boyfriend in this structure?"

His careless comment hits me, dragging a feeling of cheesiness behind it—a crude attempt at a pick-up queue. I get the impression that he is got more sophisticated abilities here, saved for people he thinks deserving.

"It looks like you have a lovely rooftop," I sidestep the question.

He looks up, waiting for more clarification.

"I needed a space to think and some fresh air. I turned to Google Earth and used it to locate the nearest flat building with a respectable rooftop patio."

He gives a slight smile of acknowledgment. "At least you use less money. An excellent attribute to possess."

"At the very least?" The word lingers, its tone a little mysterious.

I nod in agreement, feeling proud of my frugal disposition—it is a very admirable quality.

He asks again, "Why did you need fresh air?"

Because I gave an egregiously poor eulogy at my father's burial today, and I now feel stifled.

With a leisurely exhale, I turn away. "Maybe we could simply stop talking for a bit?"

The request seemed to almost ease him, as he leans on the ledge and looks down at the street below with one arm hanging. I watch him, following his profile with my eyes, a nonverbal acknowledgement of his defiance of my request for quiet.

He abruptly breaks our prearranged silence to reveal, "A guy fell off this roof last month."

"In a mishap?" I ask, wanting to be silent but my curiosity peaked.

He shrugs and tells the story of how a photographer had sadly fallen off the edge while trying to get the ideal skyline shot.

I stare over the edge, thinking about his story and trying to imagine how someone could unintentionally place himself in such danger. Then, a startling realisation of my current hazardous position hits me: the memories of my own fragile perch.

He says, "I prayed his camera had not fallen with him when my sister told me about it. To have died for your passion of photography and not have taken the picture that ultimately proved to be fatal would have been a waste."

His remarks make me giggle even when the subject matter is serious. "Do you ever share your thoughts with others?" I ask, grateful for his openness.

"Not to most," he concedes, his lips quirking slightly into a smile.

This little link comforts me; there is something fascinating about being free of his typical social restrictions.

He repositions himself, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you come from here?"

I answer, shaking my head, "No, moved here after college from Maine."

Strangely charming, he scrunches up his nose in playful bewilderment. I find myself strangely enthralled with this man, dressed in Burberry and immaculately presented, as he makes these silly faces.

As we navigate complexity in our discourse, the quiet of the night falls around us. Rather than severing our connection, Arden's reflective demeanour or even the impact of his high encourages an openness I do not often see.

"I disagree that having a slight guarded demeanour is a bad thing." "Simple truths are not always attractive."

He looks at me, considering what I said. "Bare facts," he repeats. "I enjoy that." He moves away and positions himself behind me on one of the patio loungers, leaning back with his hands behind his head and staring skyward. I choose the seat next to him and adopt the same stance.

He asks, "Tell me a n***d truth, Helen," which elicits a vulnerability that takes me by surprise.

"Relative to what?" I investigate.

Anything at all. something of which you are not proud. Something that will ease my inner turmoil a little bit.

His gaze is still waiting, fixated on the sky. My eyes stray, following the lines of his face as I wonder why he needs this conversation. I consider his question and try to think of a truthful answer. When I discover it, I turn away and stare up into the sky.

"My father mistreated me. I admit, not to myself, but to my mother. During their arguments, he would lose his temper and occasionally resort to physical violence. He would then try to make apologies by getting us flowers and taking us out. Strangely enough, I started looking forward to those fights because the results were so much better. It was our warped standard. And when I got older, I understood that I was complicit because I did nothing. I did not like what he did, yet I can not help but feel just as guilty. Perhaps we are both corrupted.

Arden looks at me, thoughtful in his demeanour. "Helena," he says sincerely. "It is impossible to have nasty individuals. Everybody is merely a person who occasionally makes mistakes.