He continued downwards towards his floor, and as he approached the foyer of his department he found himself stopped, gazing out of a window at the steel grey sky; looking out at the cold hard chunks of the city skyline. He looked down from his vantage point to the empty streets at the foot of his building.
The park benches on the street below reminded him of Lucy, and for the first time since he had awoken he recalled in vivid detail the taste of her last meal, the texture of the rough-hewn blanket she had shivered under, and the sound of her laboured wheezing of her breath before she finally succumbed to her inevitable death.
He felt wetness on his cheeks, and only then realised that his face was drenched in tears.
And there, on the landing outside his department, he realised that he had no idea of what she looked like, and he had the greatest desire to know what colour her eyes were.
He went into the bathroom to hide the tears in his eyes and to clean his face.
"We sympathise." Said the blocks, "But her death was inevitable."
"I don’t care. I want to see what she looked like, when she was alive; before she was enslaved."
"Are you sure you wish to know. We do not see what purpose this could serve."
"Indulge me."
For many minutes he stared at the picture they showed him, and wondered what he could have done differently.
The alternative transport turned out to be horse drawn buggy that the blocks had somehow procured, complete with a driver for the night.
He thought it was too much, and somewhat pretentious, but the blocks had insisted. Now he was here at her front door, a single white rose in hand - red was apparently too common, and yellow signified jealousy- waiting for her to emerge from the apartment block in which she lived.
He already felt a bit fuzzy as the blocks had insisted that he have one, and only one, shot of cognac before meeting her.
When the door opened and she came through he was rendered momentarily speechless. She was dressed in a short, tight, purple dress made of some soft velour-like material, along with matching knee high boots. All that he could say was “Wow!” She blushed, and held out her arm for him to take.
He felt a bit stupid having said ‘wow’, but it had just popped out, unbidden. The blocks, rather surprisingly, were not at all critical. They told him that it was okay. She did look fantastic, and the ‘wow’ comment had been genuine, so she had clearly taken it as a compliment, and that was always a good thing.
He took her arm and then handed her the rose. She sniffed gently at the opening of the petals and then smiled over the top of the flower: “Thank you!”
He guided her down the steps and along the pavement to where the carriage awaited, then turned to climb up.
“Oh my God! You came in a horse drawn carriage? Goodness, it must have cost a fortune!” She paused for a second, “But it so romantic. Here, help me up.”
It turned out that getting her into the carriage was a bit of a problem, as the dress was tight enough on her upper thighs to severely constrain her movement. By the time she had half climbed, and half been pushed, into the buggy they both fell back into the seat, with her on top of him, giggling like a little school girl.
It was not particularly elegant, but it did serve to break the ice somewhat.
It should only have taken the buggy no more than a few minutes to reach the restaurant, but with a little planning, courtesy of the blocks, a rather circuitous route had been agreed with the driver. As such, it took over thirty minutes for them to get there. Fulvia had not seemed to mind.
He had opened a bottle of Champagne as soon as they were seated, and somehow, had managed to break one of the two glasses in the process. The blocks had suggested this, though Mr Smith had been rather resistant to the idea. However, Fulvia had simply laughed and told him that they would now have to share the one remaining glass. Once again, it seemed, the blocks had been correct. And so they had sat next to each other, shoulders touching. They sipped on the Champagne and swapped the glass back and forth between them.
They talked of little things; the trivia of daily lives not yet explored, and shared the warmth of their touch in the chill autumnal air. Neither felt cold in the other’s company, and time drifted, as it does in such moments.
Mr Smith gazed up at the clear, crisp sky, “Tell me, do you ever look at the stars?”
She slid down in the seat, so that her head could rest on the frame of the buggy. Her eyes twinkled as if they had captured the reflected light of a myriad of hidden stars. She looked up at the cloud banks drifting across the starscape and then closed her eyes. “You cannot see so many tonight, but I can imagine them in my mind, so bright, and so very far away.”
He kissed her eyelids, softly. “Do you think that they look down upon us and wonder at our lives?”
“I think they have their own lives to live. Their own loves to find. I don’t think they mind us at all.”
“As long as they are there, and as long as we keep looking up at them, then there will always be some hope left. Even if nothing else remains for us, then at least we can imagine that they might have a better life; that they might be happier. Perhaps that is enough.”
“And maybe, if we could just learn to live in the starlight we could be happy too.”
She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, a long, lingering, distant look. He kissed her again, “I come like a thief in the night, a kiss to steal.” He leant down and sucked her lower lip into his mouth.