I follow Jonathan out into the dark New York night, but darkness is rare in a city like this. Streetlights illuminate the sidewalk, television sets flicker in blue and white behind window panes, blasting their inhabitants with inane words and flat jokes. At this late hour of the night, the deafening hum of monotonous voices is simply part of life. How often did I sit on the sofa listening to the late-night host's voice, half-heartedly laughing at his jokes, and yet my mind was somewhere else. Always it was autumn and I was trapped in London. Distribution the time remaining to me not with a walk through Hyde Park or stood in awe before the bell tower and waited for the blow of Big Ben. Instead, my dreamy self was in a small London hotel room, drinking sparkling champagne from a crystal bowl and licking the fruity juice of iced strawberries off Alec's skin.

A refreshing breeze brushed my heated skin, the aroma of fantastic and unique spices hit me. The heart and soul of Thai cuisine. The spiciness of bird's eye chilies tickles my tongue, Thai basil delicately fragrant, spicy seared pork drowned in a spicy marinade and coated from a decoction of various vegetables. But just now the familiar aroma and spice makes me nauseous. Grumbling, I screw up my face and curse Jace for buying this house five years ago. Next to a very nice and exceedingly good Thai restaurant. It's not really because of the smells, only that they intensify the sinking feeling in my stomach that has settled in since Jonathan's first words in his childhood friend's garden.

My legs know the way without seeing where Jonathan has gone, and as I turn the next street corner I can already see the taillights of the yellow car. The light on the roof goes out and just then I get hold of the handle of the door and suddenly I am sitting next to Jonathan in the cab. My heart is beating excitedly and the cab driver's annoyed face is the last thing I want to see right now.

"Occupied," he says in a heavy Arabic accent.
"We've met before," I reply curtly. Jonathan next to me snorts, once again, and stares through the dirty window at an imaginary point directly on the dark street in front of him. His attitude could not be more deprecating. I feel like I'm in one of those cheesy romantic love movies that the person next to me watches with gusto. It's always the same scenario, and our story would also be perfect for a full-length new age love story. I would be sitting in the cab, soaked to the skin, because in such films it always pours like rain. Where does all the rain come from, I ask myself every time. Jonathan would stare out the window with tears in his eyes and the lights of the city would blur into a single shimmer of colors. I would sell my brother's firstborn, summoning the last of my strength, and conjure the stars from the sky for Jonathan. In the most beautiful words put on paper by a talented writer, heaven knows where they always get their ideas from, my remorse and love for Jonathan would be above us. Fueled by the words and the magic of the moment, Jonathan would throw himself sobbing into my arms, I would stroke his back soothingly, and the cab would transform into a glittering farting unicorn and head toward the rainbow on swift hooves. Well, actually. If our lives were a Hollywood movie and I didn't have a head-over-heels crush on the hot F.C. Chelsea player.

"Taxi full. Next ride. You wait. I come get you." I shake my head and signal to the overtired driver that I am by no means getting out. Rolling his eyes, he points at Jonathan, but I remain seated and we engage in an eye duel.
"I call cops. You come jail back very bad men," he continues trying to get me to get out. Should I tell him that sitting in a cab is not a criminal offense?

"Just drive," Jonathan says, growling. One last skeptical look at me and the driver finally starts what he is paid for. The sounds of Arabic pop music resound loudly, the oud lute competes musically with the Qānūn zither, and at the latest when the lengthwise flute Shabbaba begins, I want to leave the cab voluntarily and immediately.
"Good music," the driver yells at us, belting out the latest hit by an artist I've never heard of. I smile friendly. No, this is clearly not my preferred genre of music. Jonathan continues to stare out the window, unimpressed. The lights of the city illuminate his face and I see the reflection of various shades of green and red, sometimes a little blue and a lot of white. Between all the impressions, my heart screams at me loud and hard to leave the cab and this life. It wants to go to Alec, longs for him and his touch, the soothing closeness and unceasingly I feel the excited fluttering in my stomach. It's not the fear of the next few hours that gives me giddy nausea, but the knowledge that Alec has once again left me just like that.

The ride passes in just as much silence as it did at the beginning of the evening when our world was still fine. Of course it wasn't and our relationship had so many dark shadows which created a permanent tense atmosphere. But we believed in it, because if someone had told me that a very special party guest would change everything, I wouldn't have believed a word he said. As well, I did not expect to see Alec ever again. In the only quiet moment of the drive, the tune of my current favorite movie plays and Jonathan turns his attention away from the dusty streets of our city and glances accusingly at the phone in my hand. It's a message from Ragnor. I skim his lines and close my eyes, sighing. Fuck, I had totally forgotten about this. Our annual meeting and the time off I so desperately need. Carefree days on Maine's rocky coast, the lighthouse as my destination, and peace. Rest from the hectic times we find ourselves in. A city that never sleeps, books filled to bursting with appointments for negotiation talks and the demon of everyday life breathing down my neck.

Ragnor:
I hope for your sake you're in jail or have run off to Vegas with Jonathan. Otherwise, I can't figure out why you're not in touch. Is that the way it's going to be? Maine? You're coming, right? The kids are really looking forward to finally going swimming again with Uncle Magnus and teasing Uncle Jonah with dead crabs 😉Keep in touch little brother. You know how much I hate this long radio silence between us. I hope you are doing well. You well. Love you. Ragnor

Sighing, I shove my phone back into the pocket of my jeans and no sooner have my fingers found their deceptive rest on my thighs than the signal of an incoming message sounds again. Jonathan snorts, again, and shakes his head in amusement. His accusing gaze bores perceptibly hard into my skin. He would love to rip the phone out of my hands and take out his concentrated rage on the innocent black device. Destruction follows grief and the horror of what is to come makes me swallow hard. Expecting another message from my brother, the name that pops up does surprise me. Clary. Funny, she rarely if ever writes me and our last communication was a brief exchange about Jonathan's birthday. Last year.

Clary:
The party is over. Too bad we didn't get to talk more. You really need to tell me the number of your nail polish. It looks great. I love the color.

Magnus:
Sorry. That was not my intention. And thank you. I'll be happy to text you the number when I get home. Assuming I still have a home.

Clary:
That's all right.I'm not as blind as my dear husband.

Magnus:
What are you talking about?

Clary:
I saw your looks and they were clear. Also, Jace is yelling at Alec right now. What happened Magnus? Alec is not talking and...

Magnus:
So what?
Clary?
Are you still there? Clary?

It's maddening. Why is she doing this? What happened that she suddenly stopped answering? I look spellbound at the small flashing line, gray and expressive. Waiting. This damned waiting is an invention of hell. It's preparation for an afterlife when seconds feel like millennia. Sighing, I roll my eyes as Clary is finally typing again. And yet it just takes way too long.
"Just keep rolling your eyes. Maybe you'll find your brain again," I hear Jonathan say, and my jaw finally drops. I didn't behave properly, but that doesn't give him the right to talk to me like that. My patience is at an end and his behavior pisses me off so much. For a long time, I realize.
"What do you want from me?", I thunder out, regardless of the bystander and associated consequences.
"You're so pathetic."
"Me? You're acting like a little kid. And don't talk to me like that. This isn't us Jonah," I hiss, upset.

Clary:
Sorry Magnus. Alec just left the house in a rage. I'll give you his number. Talk to each other.

I'm angry, I'm frustrated, I'm hurt and I long for a man who is miles away from me. Seeing Alec's number, holding it in my hands doesn't make it better. But it should. It's the key to the beginning and yet it doesn't feel that way. Oodles of unspoken words dampen the joy of the spark of hope of seeing Alec again.

Magnus:
Why are you doing this?

Clary:
As I said, I'm not blind. Even Cat asked me if there was something going on between you or why you were undressing the hot jock with your looks.

Magnus:
What?
Fuck. What did you say?

Clary:
Don't worry, I didn't tell her anything. Officially I don't know anything. But Magnus, if I'm right, sort it out. Clear the air with Jonathan and then talk to Alec.

Magnus:
Thanks

Clary:
You're welcome. And if you want to talk, I'll save us a bottle of that good wine 😉 No headache the next morning.

"Does the bitch long for you so much already? So many messages. He must really need it."
"Get a grip," I growl angrily, shoving my phone back into my back pocket for good. Jonathan, meanwhile, is trying to stab me with his gaze. Many sharp daggers buzz around my body, just waiting to chase their tip through my skin and soak the ground beneath our feet with my blood. Blood toll for what I've done.
"Pff. You're both nothing but lying sluts. Your fuck objects from the club still warned me about you back then. But I was so blinded by love."
"What, who?", I ask irritated. That was so many years ago. I barely remember their faces, let alone names. If there was a name then."I don't know. Just some guy you did it to regularly. He was short and African-American, tattooed all over his body. I don't know what his name was. Clyde, Art, Riley, Jason? Take your pick. One of them will have been."

"Jay. His name is Jay, and I don't want you talking about him like that. You have no idea what his motives were. To take the wind out of your sails right away, his husband knew. He was terminally ill and dying. But that's none of your business. You never wanted to talk about it and neither did I. So it's okay. That was before your time. So what do you care about other people's gossip?"
"Do you feel at least a little guilty?" asks Jonathan, and I sigh loudly. He has no idea how I feel and I know nothing about the storm raging in Jonathan's chest. It's only a matter of time before its concentrated power is unleashed and set free.
"Not here Jonah," I reply wearily, wishing this night were long over. But what awaits me in the morning? Remorse? Guilt? A life in shambles?
"Why not? We have time and even an audience. You should like that, right? After all, you made out with my best friend in public."

"Don't give me that shit," I say, looking into Jonathan's eyes after what feels like hours, seething with jealousy and pain. So much pain.The expression in his eyes seems strangely familiar. An unpleasant ice-cold shiver tingles vertebra by vertebra down my spine and I bite my lower lip painfully. Everything in me screams to just leave and leave the rage demon to his fate. But something stops me, Jonathan's gaze, all the years that have passed and countless moments of togetherness. How do you manage to leave all that behind without the crushing knowledge of being responsible for another person's broken heart?
"Just let me go home in peace," he replies, and I stifle a loud cry. This is so typical Jonathan, and I hate it.