Invitation: Two
They did not understand him. They did not know about the invitation.
• The following is a continuation of Invitation: One
His eyes were crossed with concentration, and the wick was curled as an unfinished question mark - dot in the wax. He moved the match too close, too quickly, and the wick broke before he had a chance to light it. He held the match until the flames licked his fingertip, crumpling his forehead and holding his breath unconsciously. When the pain began to register he dropped the match into the hardened wax and gave up.
The envelope had sat untouched underneath his bed for two weeks now, though nightly it burned a hole through his every thought, and kept him from sleeping long after he lay down and turned out the lights. His fantasies were repetitive. The people he'd looked after so long ago had made something of themselves, and now wanted to return the favor: they would ask him to move in with them, shower him with affection and gifts, introduce him to great people and see to it that he himself was made great. Not in the superficial sense of the word, either, but the true one. In greatness he would change the world and finally make things right. He would in turn send gilded invitations to all those who had done kind things for him, as few as they were, and give back everything he had been given. Though he would make sure the meeting date wasn't nearly as far away. The wait was murder.
And so his mind would continue its ramblings until anything seemed possible and the shifting ink before his eyes gave way to more creative imagery.
The mornings were all the same. As he awoke he checked beneath his bed to make sure it was still there, and each morning he was surprised and relieved to see it hadn't all been a dream. His sigh was audible.
In the chair he sat to tie his boots, mostly asleep, and sorted through his dreams to split the sense from what was clearly something else. He was expected to be at work at six, but they rarely noticed if he was two minutes late. As long as the rounds were made by the time the rest of the people showed up for work, and his area was secure, it didn't matter. Others were more important than he. He held a subset of the keys and watched the monitors; one in particular.
Most of the time he spoke to no one. He glided around and in between things invisibly, quietly doing his job, quietly avoiding them all. When he did speak, it was functional. Brief. Terse. He saw no need to communicate with these people. They did not understand him. They did not know about the invitation.
Of course, he didn't anticipate her. He didn't know that she would corner him; talk to him; interest him; distract him. He didn't know that she would almost keep him from going to Boston and realizing his destiny. He knew none of this because she was new and they hadn't yet met.
He checked on the invitation again before he left for work. It was still there. Waiting.
continued in Invitation: Three