I plucked from nothing the memory of a cloudy gray kitten, with spindly legs and a crooked tail. Tomorrow we would find such a kitten, and Hanni would be her name. Sarah’s thoughts turned toward Hanni. We smiled…
…and Sarah bloomed.
I’d drawn her plainly, with a raw-boned face and thin straight lips. The smile softened her expression, and in the chandelier’s light, her straw-colored hair turned to incandescent gold. Sarah pushed her drink to one side and rested her cheek against her hand, still smiling.
Not long after, the waitress placed a second drink in front of Sarah. “From the gentleman over there,” she said, pointing across the room.
Following her gesture, we picked out the man, who sat with a larger crowd embrangled in a vigorous discussion. In the hazy light, we could just make out his features—the dark hair, the restless hands, a broad ordinary face. Only his crisply white shirt stood out, the sleeves neatly rolled up and his collar unbuttoned.
Pick up the drink, I told Sarah.
She raised her glass to acknowledge the gift. A heartbeat later, the man stood and walked toward us, stopping a yard from our table. “Hi. My name’s Joe.” His voice carried a faint rasp from New York City, softened by years and distance.
“Hello.” We kept our voice pleasant, but not eager.
“I hope you don’t mind.” He gestured at her drink with one nervous hand; the other gripped his half-filled glass.
“That’s all right. And by the way, my name is Sarah.” We pointed to the empty chair. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thanks.” With a last glance at his friends, Joe sat. He took a quick swallow of his drink, put it down, and leaned back. “Are you new in town?”
We smiled. “Fairly new.”
“How do you like it so far? No, forget that question.” He glanced away, smiling, but there was no humor in that wry expression. “It’s too much like a game,” he said. “Questions and answers, but never really talking. You know the list—what’s your name, what kind of work are you in—” He stopped again and, with a conscious effort, tempered his voice. “I’m sorry. I babble when I get nervous.”
This moment is the most difficult for chameleons. Humans sense our differences, even if they cannot tell what bothers them. To soothe away Joe’s nerves, I smiled and leaned forward to show I was listening. By listening, I accepted him. The first step.
Joe took a deep breath. “It’s just I was listening to everyone argue about city politics. Same argument last week, same this one. Then I saw you.” He rotated his glass slowly, nearly spilling his drink. “You have a pretty smile.”
He dared to look up. Our gazes met, briefly. Sarah shook her head, and Joe gave a sharp laugh. “Now you think I’m a real idiot. What makes me different? I buy you a drink. I give you some line—”
We took Joe’s glass and set it beyond his reach. “I smiled because I was thinking about my kitten,” we said. “And I don’t think you’re an idiot. Though I wonder why you came here tonight. You don’t look comfortable.”
We smiled to soften the blunt comment. Joe returned the smile and visibly relaxed. “That’s one of the illegal subjects, you know. It says so in the rule book—never ask why.”
“Why not?”
“Because you might get a real answer. Spoils the fairy tale.”
“Ah, but I like those illegal questions.”
His smile warmed. “I could tell, just by looking at you.”
We shrugged. “You still haven’t told me why you came here.”
Abruptly, he looked away, uncomfortable again. “I don’t know. Maybe I am just like all the others. With jokes instead of lists.”
“No, you aren’t.” Before he could speak, I added, “Shall I tell you why I came here?”
A heartbeat of silence. “If you want.”
“Because I’m lonely.”
“Illegal topic number two,” he said softly.
A human aware, I thought, with rising excitement. A rarity. Difficult, but oh, so delectable.
For a moment, we let the conversation dangle. I could read questions in Joe’s face, and I sensed within him a reservoir of extraordinary passion, untouched and vigorous. From this one human, I could draw decades of sustenance, but first I had to draw him closer.
“We just broke all the rules,” we said.
“Worse than that,” said Joe. “We mentioned the rule book.”
“Will they find out?”
“They always find out. The only question is how to punish us.”
“No, the punishment’s always the same.” We rummaged through Sarah’s purse and took out a five-dollar bill. “For my drink,” we said, laying it on the table. “Would you make sure the waitress gets that? Oh, and do you have a pen?”
He looked startled but handed us a pen from his pocket. “What’s the punishment?” he asked.
We scribbled three lines on the napkin and handed it to Joe. “Falling in love,” we said.
More quickly than he could react, we stood and slipped easily through the crowds and toward the tavern door. There, a mass of humans encircled me. I ignored the crush of their emotions. Invisible, I paused and looked back.
Joe had picked up Sarah’s money and was signaling to the waitress. His expression was bland, his manner unreadable. From all the signs, I thought I’d lost my gamble. Still, I waited, breathless.
A long moment passed, the longest ever, but at last he did unfold the napkin to read our message: “A challenge. My name is Sarah Evans. Call me after Wednesday.”
* * * *
If I had guessed correctly, Joe would easily find Sarah’s telephone number. Before Wednesday, however, I needed to construct my external framework—apartment, job, all the physical details corresponding to the memories.
The first night, I placed Sarah in a hotel. The next, I explored the city for a more permanent home. I didn’t need to search long—a tattered handbill led me to a small apartment building, in a neighborhood caught between decay and resurrection. The landlord counted my money twice, but he didn’t question my documents.
Finding employment took longer. Newspapers and billboards advertised dozens of trivial jobs, but I wanted one that reflected Sarah’s chosen character. At last, Sarah found an advertisement for a salesclerk job at a small bookstore near the university.
The manager liked the answers I gave to her rapid-fire questions. She hired me, and within a day, I had absorbed the trade from her. Yet I was careful not to attract attention. I sold each customer an armful of books; I took their money and gave them change. In five minutes, they would forget me. I was safe.
As a final detail, I located the nearest animal shelter. We selected a cloudy gray kitten, brought it home, and named it Hanni. With the context of Sarah’s life complete, I ran my finger along the edges of memory to blur the lines. Sarah would only remember what had occurred, not when.
My plans were complete by Wednesday. On Thursday, Joe called.
“Hi, Sarah. This is Joe,” said a quick voice. “From last Friday. Remember?” Over the telephone, he sounded more abrupt.
“Of course I remember you.”
“Oh. Well … Listen, I tried finding your number yesterday. Did you know the operator had three listings for Sarah Evans?”
We laughed softly. “I told you it was a challenge.”
Joe laughed as well, but nervously. “So you did. Anyway, I called because … Are you free Saturday night? I know a great restaurant.” He paused, then continued in a milder tone. “I thought we could have dinner together.”
I let him wait a heartbeat, no longer. “I’d like that,” I said, and in his breathless reply, I sensed his delight. A morsel of the coming feast.
Two short days. I knew this human would not yield to anything but a flawless illusion, and so I worked on Sarah’s character as never before. I gave her a birthplace, a first boyfriend, the college she’d attended but couldn’t afford to finish. I drew a few memories of her childhood—isolated days she remembered clearly—then blended together a hazy recollection of her family and school. But the wealth of my hours I spent writing the script Sarah would follow with Joe. Under my direction, she smiled, thinking how nervous he’d been when he called, and she worried they wouldn’t have anything to say. I made her wishes indistinct, like a human’s.
Saturday evening, I made the final preparations. I dressed Sarah in a dark green dress, draped and tucked into a suggestion of curves. I added the ebony necklace her father had given her the Christmas before he died. With a brush to her whispery hair and a quick smudge of lipstick, Joe might find her pretty. Almost.
A sharp buzz interrupted our thoughts. Joe. Sarah glanced one last time at her dusty reflection before running to answer the door.
They drove to a small Italian restaurant on the east side of town. “I come here once a month,” Joe told her. “It has the best food in town, in my opinion.”