Adventures of Psyche and Eros...

It's a concept like "six degrees of separation" except it involves the ever-present three rings of strange characters converging in a swirling vortex around the periphery of one's acquaintances. These entities weave in and out of near collision with my daily life like the powdered-wig dainties of the eighteenth century at a grand ball of insanity and desperation. Taunting and flirting with each other as they cross paths just outside my social circle, they could come swinging by at any moment threatening to look me straight in the eye but never actually connect. These voyeuristic vampires circle me, feeding off stray drops of imagination and excitement but never have the nerve to enter my direct line of sight. The freaks want attention, but they are afraid to ask for it. So they dance, and they dance, hoping to be noticed indirectly, but so terrified of being seen. I know that they are there. I see who they dance with. I know the game. I know the secret.

THE SUBWAY

I.
The newest passenger made his way past a few sleeping derelicts and a razor-boned couple, nearly nude, making out near the door. Wearily plopping into the hard seat, he checked his watch reflexively, making a small whistling sound of annoyance. He glanced around the cramped compartment, taking stock; sallow face like a hatchet fish, dark eyes two black globes with no pupils.
There was a loud buzzing sound, and a sudden release of pressure like a steam cooker about to explode. The doors closed with a squeal. He impulsively looked at his watch again, then deliberately lit up a cigarette, ignoring the pornographically defaced "No Smoking" sign. Suddenly, the train jolted forward. That's when he noticed the steely-eyed young man in military regalia studying him.
He smiled as he exhaled the smoke through his nose like St. George's nemesis. The train was picking up speed now, the outside lights passing by like slow motion strobes.
"How goes it? The name's George," he said in a soft English accent.
"They used to tease me about the coat," the vampire, Timothy, said, smiling, seeming to read George's mind.
"Oh, really?" the other man said and crushed out his cigarette, squinting through the smoke. "Who was that?"
"The other children," Timothy replied softly, dreamily shaking his head, his longer-than-usual canines showing. "I guess," he added as an afterthought, "it was because I was so different from all the other children, since I drank blood. I don't know." He looked into George's eyes. His own eyes were warm and friendly, but there was still something more intense about them; something that wasn't quite right, somehow. The pointed redness of his tongue flicked over his parted ruby lips and was gone. "Oh, sorry, how rude of me. Timothy -- my name's Timothy."
The silence was long between them, hanging with invisible lashes on the thick, stale air of the subway compartment. After two false starts, George finally asked, "How, exactly, did you become undead?"
There was a pause and George was aware of the subway clacking through the tunnel. Then the vampire stretched, sighed patiently and said, "What I'm about to tell you is true, no matter what good sense dictates, or what thoughts you may have about it..."

II.
The day had been an interesting one, indeed. This was especially true for a twelve-year-old named Timothy Lipscomb. Timothy, it seems, was a self-proclaimed vampire, and, in being self-proclaimed, he was bound and determined to make a complete and utter ass of himself by attempting to prove that could not exist without satisfying his apparent need to engorge on the blood of a human being.
To all his friends, Tim seemed to be, in the kindest sense, a bit off his rocker. To his hair he did the oddest things. One day he went to school with it standing on end. The next day he went shaved bald. He wore the oddest clothes. One thing in particular that drew a great deal of attention was an old, blue military overcoat that extended beyond his knees. He also seemed to be one of the most interesting medical specimens in recent memory, taking great pride in the fact that he had been born shrouded with a caul and sporting teeth: not just ordinary teeth, either, but exceptionally long teeth, especially the canines. They were so long that the very tips were visible even with his mouth shut. Also, Timothy would gladly demonstrate (had you the stomach to watch) that he had a hollow tongue.
But on this sunny autumn day, Timothy decided to stop squandering his time chasing chickens around the coop, or tempting fate by pissing-off a large bull that he was trying to bleed. No more of that stuff, he decided. Today he would attack a human and finally satisfy "this insatiable damn thirst of mine", as he so often told his kind, albeit bewildered, friends. But who would it be?...
Ms. Burgess, everyone agreed, was a demented old bat and should have stopped teaching the day that she started over thirty-six autumns ago. But no. She had to keep teaching, she said, "to be sure that these young'uns get the proper foundations for the adult world." What a seventh-grader would need all of that for was anyone's guess, but since she was the only school teacher in rural Quietus, North Carolina, she would have to do.
Ms. Burgess was also a superstitious old woman. She did not like Timothy in the least, and made no bones about it. Frequently, she would punish him for looking at her crooked, reasoning that such an ambitious young man should be disciplined with more malice than his comrades. So it was no surprise when, on this fine, interesting day, Timothy had to stay after school and dust the chalkboard erasers.
"Now Timothy," Ms. Burgess snapped, "dust these and be quick about it, young rascal." She thrust the erasers into his hands, scraping his long nails. Tim made a low, hissing sound through his tongue.
"Now see here, young man! That's enough of that!!" she barked, then left the room, muttering something about retiring and crossing herself. Timothy was alone with his thoughts.
"Stupid old bitty," he seethed under his breath, and began to hammer the chalk dust from the erasers.
He had been doing this for about two minutes when he had a novel idea.
Ms. Burgess! She's human... that's it!! Timothy thought. I'll get rid of her and my bloodlust at the same time!
And so, he waited, smiling the whole time as he secreted himself in the room. Finally, Ms. Burgess made a reappearance.
The room was very empty when she walked in.

"Timothy?" Ms. Burgess called in the growing darkness. Silence. Outside, the angry sun fumed redly, low on the hungry horizon. She called out again, gathering her shawl around her elbows as she glanced around nervously. "Are you there?"
There was a cracking sound above her and Timothy, with a cry, dropped from the ceiling like an obscene spider. Ms. Burgess shrieked, stepped quickly to the side, and allowed him to land with a gasping thunk on some desks.
He yelped on impact, and lay there for a moment, panting.
"Timothy! Are you hurt?" Ms. Burgess asked in a cracked voice.
Timothy jumped up, lunging in retort and chased her around the room, screaming that he was a vampire at the top of his lungs and striking an occasional pose to slam this point home...

III.
"...Well, I finally cornered her," Timothy continued. He paused thoughtfully.
"And?" George prodded.
"And," Tim stated, a grin breaking out on his darkly handsome features, "she racked me right when I was going to bite her."
They both laughed out loud.
"That's when I knew I was a vampire for sure."
They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments more. Timothy anxiously studied his unusually long, sharp nails, occasionally glancing at George from beneath his waxy eyebrows. After a few more minutes, he finally said, almost too loudly: "Well, I realize how it sounds, and I can understand why you wouldn't believe me." The car shifted gently from side to side, metal wheels clacking rhythmically.
"Oh, no," George said, shaking his head and smiling. "I believe you all right. You see, I'm a vampire, too.'
Timothy gasped. "No!" he said, blushing. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize..."
"No, no," George replied, "that's quite all right -- you can't really tell with me, I know..."
"No, you can't," Timothy agreed enthusiastically, still flushed with embarrassment. "Well, why don't you tell me how you came to be one -- are you self-proclaimed like me, or --"
"Well," George started and checked his watch. The subway wouldn't be arriving at the Dis terminal for another hour yet. "Hmmm," he thought for a moment. "Well, okay. I was ten years old when I first began to feel different, you know…"
It was already beginning to feel warmer.