Daniel had way too much on his mind to be back at work. He felt a severe weight bearing down on him . . . it had been that way since Adrian had come. There weren't words, or even thoughts, that could adequately portray what happened to Daniel when Adrian was near. He was as much a blessing as he was a curse.

Adrian had appeared some time during Daniel's past—Daniel felt more than knew this; neither could he pinpoint a date or even a year when they had first been with each other. One could only say Adrian had appeared because that was exactly how his arrival was impressed in Daniel's memory. Before, there'd been nothing, and then, suddenly and without warning, there'd been Adrian. Or had it all be so sudden as that? Daniel thought, as he wiped a few glasses clean, that perhaps Adrian had always been there, somewhere below the surface of his perception. There had always been some anticipation, some tremor indicative of Adrian's existence . . . it had always been an obscure disquiet in his heart. But Adrian had to have presented his physical self sometime in Daniel's past—strangely, though, he couldn't recall any date on which they'd actually met one another. He could hardly remember days before the ones he was currently living. Daniel felt as if he had always been as he was now, unable to recollect much more than the things that had fueled him—his art, his methods of capturing, defining, and absorbing the stimuli always surrounding him. There were so many things at constant play in his subconscious; they were a smooth, vaporous lake, a glossed surface of calm waters under which moved ceaseless ruminations set to engender beautiful works, torments which preyed on him day and night, allowing no rest until he released them onto canvas. They were torments he needed, though—torments he would die for before living without them. The appearance of Adrian had disturbed the level waters and brushed its sides into whorls of smoke. There was little Daniel could do to stop the process of dismantle; his brain was consumed.

It was neither love nor hatred he felt toward the man—it was some inscrutable sensation, something that left him void of sense or connection to his ideals. Adrian forced him into the world around him, jarred him from the one within, and caused him to remember that it existed. Last night, they'd sat in the front room, each at opposite walls, staring at one another, disinclined to move. Adrian had gone out earlier that afternoon—Daniel had had no concern as to where—and had returned without warning or ceremony, just as if he owned the place, because he did. In a way, he possessed everything Daniel did, and more.

Adrian had nodded to the color paintings encircling them as they'd sat there—had said, "Tomorrow, when you leave, I will get rid of them." And then he'd removed a cigarette from a pack on the floor, retrieved a lighter from the depths of his oversized jacket, lit up, and inhaled slowly, calmly, letting the smoke leave his ovular nostrils, two black holes on his face, as he'd continued to stare.

Daniel had known he'd meant it. He hadn't made attempt to dissuade Adrian or neglect to leave his apartment the next day. Because what Adrian said he'd do just had to be done—there was no stopping him; it was pointless to try because all Adrian said just was, just had to be. This was what Daniel didn't quite know but rather understood, somewhere inside. So now, here he was, back at The Burwin Tap, cleaning glasses which he'd soon be filling right up again to please people he would barely see; all the while, his brain would be locked on his color portraits and the comprehension that he would never see them again.

Brian had grinned to see him amble into the bar; perhaps the girl that had come to talk to him—he couldn't recall her name just then—had really meant it when she'd said he'd needed help. Daniel knew running such a business must be difficult. Staffing was the real challenge. Employees were often inconsistent and dishonest in the restaurant business, so Daniel knew Brian appreciated his help. He wouldn't have done it for any other person, because he became disenchanted when pulling late night shifts in such a loud, lively place, but Brian had been so kind to him when he'd wandered into the place one night, virtually lost. Daniel seldom felt compassion; he was guided by an indifference that gave him insight into only his own labyrinth. Those who touched his heart were few, and those who had captured it were non-existent.

"Danny, good to see you."

He slowly turned, hearing the words as if from underwater. She sounded disingenuous this time, but that thought had hardly entered his mind before it had left. "Molly," he replied calmly, "you did say he needed help."

"He does," she noted, one of her nose rings catching a gleam from the bar lights and flashing like a little star. "And you remembered my name."

She smiled at him. He wondered why.

"Mmm," he thought aloud, carefully placing three tumblers onto a shelf, curious as to the subtle, resonating boing the glasses made as they knocked softly against one another. "I guess I did."

Molly maneuvered around him and went into the back for a while, presumably getting herself ready for the long night ahead. When she returned to the bar, she began to assist Daniel in sorting bottles and glasses, a job which should have been done the previous evening but which the bartender and barbacks had left unfinished.

"Is something bothering you?" Molly asked him suddenly. A couple of men walked in through the front door and looked to the bar inquisitively. "Yeah," she called to them, cocking her head to make sure they understood she was addressing them, "we're open."

Daniel let her question sink in. Something was, for once, bothering him, but he dare not express his thoughts about what Adrian was doing to his artwork. It was as if mentioning his pieces would make the tragedy of losing them more real than it already was. He couldn't let his fears solidify in his mind let alone the words describing them fall from his lips. Instead, he didn't answer the woman; he had no inclination of what to say.

"Well," she said, noticing he wasn't going to respond, "I'm at least glad to see you wearing shoes."

He instinctively looked to his feet, a smile somewhat slipping onto his face. What was she talking about? Shoes? Something about his shoes? She was amusing, Molly. Molly of the beautiful skin tone and strange words.

It was the most Daniel had thought of someone besides himself and Adrian in a long, long time, but then his thoughts turned to business as customers sauntered to the bar and began ordering drinks.

It was several hours later when Daniel was set free. His head was pounding with sound and drunken requests which seemed to reverberate inside his skull even hours after being shouted. The night was warm and dark, and he was happy to find it so after the cold brightness behind the bar. Brian had tried to pay him upon leaving, but Daniel hadn't done it for the money this time; he hadn't even held out his hand to receive the cash. It didn't matter. He was financially all right, as far as he knew, and apparently Brian was in more need of the assistance than he was. So he'd just left. Said goodbye to Molly and left her with the two or three remaining customers, the ones who just couldn't take the hint that the night was over, even though they'd turned on the lights and begun cleaning.

He was scared to go home. Scared to see the empty hole Adrian had promised to create for him. Daniel didn't know if he could bear to enter his lonely apartment if the colors weren't there, and they weren't, because what Adrian said he was going to do, he did. There was no going back on his words, once they were spoken. Daniel knew this, and so he was afraid.

The air was just cool enough to evaporate the sweat that had formed on the back of his neck but warm enough that he didn't need a jacket. Spring was in full season, and spring was beautiful in the city. He surveyed the lights of the buildings across the street, made brief note of the people tottling out of doors and along the sidewalk, likely headed toward the nearest three o'clock bars. There were big bowls of flowers hanging from the lampposts, which were every thirty feet or so, illuminating the darkness around them in large rings. Daniel paused by one of the lamps, rapt with the way the ring of light gave a velveted texture to the encircling blackness. How was it possible to paint such different shades in contrast with one another when the medium was not a tangible paint but an intangible light source, and when the canvas was not some material but a vast, distant, infinite night sky? How was such a thing possible? What painter had such talent that light was his paint and air his canvas? It was moments such as this that gave Daniel a painful, desperate sense of otherness. He felt a tormented longing to mimic that ring of light, to know it, to create it in order to intimately comprehend it. He badly wanted to develop the depth in its subtle rings of color, morphing from as bright as white to the darkest night sky, about five feet in width all around, with all the delicate shades of transformation in between; he desired to study the manner in which the light iced all objects around it with an almost crystalline glow, softer yet colder than any daylight. It was something his mind almost couldn't grasp, it possessed such a simple, inherent beauty.

Suddenly, Daniel sensed a relief inside him. Whether his color portraits—his painstakingly-crafted diaries of the various shades of the spectrum—were destroyed or not, he had found a new purpose. Why should he be tortured to lose his paintings? He had already partaken in their creation, and whether or not they existed in physical reality, he had gained knowledge of their souls, and that would not be lost. The process of engendering those pieces had imparted the mysteries of colors' natures to him, and such wisdom could not be swept away merely by dismantling the work that now showed the learning. Daniel had a new purpose, now. He had played with color, had explored its depths and hidden secrets and come to understand it; now he would play with light and dark, beginning with imitating this lamp, a magnum opus against the backdrop of the blackest heavens. A new sense of belonging filling his body to its brim, Daniel tore his gaze from the lamppost and hurried away from it, knowing that he had to get home and begin working before the vision fleeted.

A man stepped out in front of him quite suddenly, causing Daniel to nearly lose his balance; he skitted a few steps to the right and shook his head to regain his perspective. The person who stood before him, causing him to force his mind to regroup, was shorter than he by almost a foot but stockier in comparison. His face was scruffed with sporadic bits of hair, and his eyes exposed his intoxicated state. Daniel found no words.

"Excuse me," the man said, focusing all his attention on Daniel. "Excuse me, I need to talk to you. You need to help me out."

"Would you like me to get you a cab?" was the first thing Daniel asked, disgruntled and confused.

"No," said the man, smiling and waving a hand in the air. "No, that's fine. I'm walking home."

"Oh, good. As long as you aren't driving."

"Me? No, no. I'm drunk."

"I can see." Daniel paused, scrutinizing the face of the man before him. He appeared good natured and, strangely, a bit more sober than he was letting on.

"I need your help," the man repeated.

Daniel nodded, his patience not thinning in the least. "So you've said. What is it I can do?"

"Well," replied the man, holding a hand up around the side of his mouth as if about to tell a secret, "my friend over there . . . she wants to meet you—"

"Al! No!" came a frustrated scream from behind.

Daniel slowly turned to look back toward the door of the Burwin Tap, where a young woman stood, looking drastically piqued.

"—because we came all the way here," the man continued, hardly noticing the woman or the fact that Daniel had momentarily turned his attention elsewhere, "and she won't give me any rest until she gets to talk to you. I mean, she was all night sitting at the bar, trying to get some courage up, and she just couldn't. If we go home now, she'll be depressed for days, and I can't let that happen. So if you could," he added, putting a hand on Daniel's shoulder as the taller man began to grow confused, likely from the exasperated, embarrassed huffs coming from the woman behind him, "please just say a few words to her."

"You—you want me to . . . to speak to her?" Daniel didn't understand why.

"Yes. I know it sounds odd, but please. If you could just say hello or . . . or something. Anything. It would be very helpful."

"Well . . . all right. But then I've got to be on my way."

"Yes, fine. That's understandable," replied the man, giving Daniel a soft push in the direction of the woman.

Feeling nothing other than slight perplexity, Daniel approached the woman calmly. Strangers often spoke to him but they rarely stayed near him for any length of time. He was disconcerted by the man's request but found no harm in it. The woman at the door was clearly upset, though Daniel thought nothing of it. She had an unmemorable face, but the train of thought he'd been thinking prior to being interrupted suddenly returned full-force, and he found himself looking not at the woman's face but at her waves of brown hair, which the light was playing beautifully off of; he took a lock of her hair into one of his hands and turned it this way and that (much to her bewilderment), watching the way the light touched the individual strands as they sifted across one another.

"You . . . I . . ." The woman could find no coherent words and, out of consternation, shook her hair free and placed her hand around the lock he had previously held, staring into his face uncertainly.

Daniel returned to the moment and shifted his gaze to her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "The light . . ."

"It's okay," the woman barely whispered, her breath coming out in little pants, no longer huffing in vexation but suddenly quelled by her shock.

Something heavy hung in the air; Daniel felt it and dispelled it from his mind immediately. "I should go now," he said and began to turn away. Without any other thought of the woman, he began walking, stepping past the man who had stopped him (who stared open-mouthed at him as he went) and beginning his trek home, where an apartment void of color but soon to be filled with light awaited him.