"Are you stuck in there?"

It's good that it's so dark. I'm sure my face is blotched red. My heart sinks. I barely get out of the car on numb legs. Hart's leading me into the room above the workshop.

"What are you doing in a place like this?" I ask.

Hart grins, "Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing."

I don't answer. Obviously, Hart has figured me out already. I am like an open book in front of him.

Finally, we find ourselves in a well-lit room. It's not very tidy. Hart grabs things from the bed and offers me to take a seat, but I sit down on a chair.

"So... What do I owe the pleasure?" Hart asks. There are dancing lights in his eyes. But my embarrassment no longer seems like a disadvantage to me. After all, I wanted these feelings. I put them above my work. Above my fears. Above you. And I have nothing to be ashamed of. However, this does not loosen my tongue.

"Your sister asked me to give you this." I hand Hart Natalie's card. We have to start somewhere... Hart smiles a little, examining the signature on the card, and then looks at me.

"Did you come all this way because of the postcard? Isn't that what post exists for?"

He's teasing me, son of a bitch. Does it mean he wants to know the real reason? And if so... does it mean that he...

"I also wanted to apologize for calling you... 'damn faggot'..."

"There is a phone for this."

I remain silent, examining the floor at my feet. Blood rushes to my face. I stop feeling my fingers.

"I wanted to see you," I utter at last.

"Then why aren't you looking at me?" His voice sounds calm and serious. No teasing, no mocking.

I look up at his face. It seems he has lost weight, and his features became harsher, but his eyes are the same. And the wrinkle is in place. There is a scar on his eyebrow. And his lips... I shouldn't have looked at them.

Well, such embarrassment is a clear drawback. I feel short of breath and stand up.

"I... I think I shouldn't have come," I say. Hart doesn't object, doesn't stop me. I don't even know what I expected... art looked at my face and heard my words and my voice, but did not take a step toward me.

Well... this happens too. But I know that I tried. I won't regret it.

"It's dark already," says Hart hoarsely averting his gaze. "Stay until tomorrow."

I refuse to take his bed and refuse to sleep on the floor.

"I'll sleep in the car," I say and look him in the eyes for the last time, hoping to find there at least some hope that my trip here was not in vain. But, either Hart is good at hiding his feelings, or I'm blind, or... they just don't exist. Why did I even think that he had feelings for me? Because of the kiss?.. I feel so stupid...

Hart gives me a blanket.

I find my way to the car quickly. There is a full moon in the sky, and the stars are so bright. I've never seen so many stars in my life. I put the blanket over the hood and lay on it. It was worth coming here only for the sake of such beauty. I try to console myself.

Yes, it hurts. But this is another pain. It won't be infinite... The silvery light of the moon is magical, and the sky is like a black ocean, where countless treasures are scattered. Beauty indeed will save the world. Now it lets me breathe a little easier.

"Move over," says Hart's voice. I silently move to the side, and he lies on the hood next to me.

"When I got here," Hart speaks up after a long silence. "I couldn't tear my eyes off the view. I couldn't even believe it was real."

"Why did you decide to leave?"

"I've got a good job. I take care of all the cars here, keep'em running," he takes a pause and then adds. "And it's pretty far from... from everything."

Hart's hand lies next to mine, and they touch.

"So you ran away?" I ask. Hart doesn't answer, but I don't need his answer.

"Where is your chauffeur?" Hart mocks me slightly.

"I drove myself. Two hours from Charleston," I answer. Hart grins. "I kinda liked it..."

And I'm not lying. There was something romantic about this trip. Utterly stupid. But somehow healing.

We are silent, it drags on forever. But it seems to me that under this infinitely black sky it cannot be otherwise. I would stay here until morning, but it's rather cold and I start to freeze.

"Are you sure you wanna sleep in the car?" Hart asks, sliding off the hood. Clearly, he is also cold.

"Yes," I nod. Enough of my unrealistic hopes. I'll sleep on it, and tomorrow I'll be on my way again. And with every mile, I'll be further from Hart, from these feelings and these memories. And I have already started my journey. I don't look at Hart. I look at the stars. And I can imagine how insignificant my feelings are from their height. Doesn't help much...

Hart walks away in silence, and I get into the car and recline the driver's seat. The ceiling of the salon is not as picturesque as the dome of the starry sky. I close my eyes and must be falling asleep.

I don't know for how long...

I wake up to the sound of the door opening from the passenger side. Hart takes the seat. And he's sitting there for a long time, I pretend that I'm sleeping. But when Hart turns and leans toward me, I open my eyes and look at him. It seems to startle him, and he tries to pull back, but I stop him grasping his shoulder. And he resists at first but then leans back to me.

And then he kisses me. And it's so much different from the first time.

This time Hart is not rough, though his kiss is deep and persistent. This time I answer the kiss.

It feels like he's quenching his thirst. His greed is like a balm for the soul. In a way, I'm quenching my thirst too. It was not in vain...

Hart lets go of me and rests his forehead against mine. His breath is snatched and hot. I raise my hand to touch his face. And at first, Hart even leans into my palm, but then he pulls back, straightens up, and turns away. He's sitting in the passenger seat.

In silence, I wait, listening to the beat of my heart, and feeling the mark left on my lips. My palm remained hanging in the air.

I hear Hart exhales shortly with a curse and gets out of the car.

I fall asleep almost in the morning hoping to wake up to another kiss. But no.

I watch the workers, Hart is nowhere to be seen. Having mustered my courage, I decide to go up.

Maybe, I'm a masochist. But also I like to dot the i's and cross the t's.

Hart is not in the room. I look around. It vividly reminds me of the loft. And melancholy falls on me. I step back and knock something off the messy table.

I turn around and see an open sketchbook. And when I bend to pick it up, my gaze falls on a page with a drawing, and I freeze.

Hart really can draw like this?! Of course, I saw how he made sketches on his blueprints, but it was different. I would give my hand to draw like him!

I became a photographer because I couldn't draw what I wanted. Now I have models and graphic editor packages at my service. But I am still terribly jealous of the artists...

I think I need to ask Hart's permission to look at his drawings, so I pick up the sketchbook and come down.

I go back to the car... and sit there for another hour. Hart walks by with a man who is showing him something in papers. Noticing me, Hart interrupts him and walks over to me. My heart beats in joyful anticipation.

"I thought you'd left a long time ago," Hart says. And again, his face is impenetrable.

I shove my feelings to hell, start the engine, mold something like a smile from my lips, and start off.

Bloody Hart...