Moth to Flame

June, 1946: Mood Indigo

Slumped over his desk, Sander fiddled irritably with the dials of the radio. He had already cancelled the green room for the evening, claiming he ‘felt faint’ when the theatre manager had questioned why.
He didn’t feel ill, of course. But faint…that was an entirely different story. That he did feel. Faint, vague, as if he was living some muddled half-life that dwindled further and further with each passing day he received no word from Ryan.
It was June now, more than six months since they’d spoken after Sander’s premiere. The dark-haired man still jumped each time the telephone rang, praying for the good news. But contact had been sparse. They had met in person only once since that night. Sander had brought a briefcase filled with new sketches, compositions, and had skimped on the rent to buy a crisp new suit. Seeing Ryan’s crooked half-smile bloom above his work had been worth the half-in-Italian cursing out he received from the landlord later that night.
The number for the brunette’s office laid beside the telephone, penned in Sander’s own immaculate script on the back of some investor or other’s business card. The artist’s eyes traced over it idly. He had never used the number. Ryan had called him two or three times over the months to offer brief, concise progress updates. But Sander had never quite worked up the nerve to do the same. It made him feel too much like a child, whining and impatient.
But he did feel impatient, and he did want to whine. With the prospect of Rapture always in the back of his mind, life on the surface was only becoming more and more unbearable. His slim fingers twitched instinctively towards the telephone. When it rang beneath his touch, he nearly jolted off his chair.
Taking a small breath to steady himself, he allowed the phone two more vanity-rings before answering, “Cohen Productions, this is Sander speaking. May I help you?” Technically, no one else answered at ‘Cohen Productions’, but this gesture still made him feel just a tad more official.
“Cohen? This is Ryan.”
His breath caught briefly in his throat, “Andrew! Oh!” He stammered slightly before quickly composing himself, “How good to hear from you.”
“We have a confirmed date.” The voice on the line spoke matter-of-factly.
Sander drew a sharp breath through his nostrils and did his best to keep the pitch of his voice from raising, “…Really?”
“Our flight leaves New York Municipal at midnight on the first of November. Be there by eleven-thirty.” Ryan replied.
“Ah. Yes, yes of course.” Drawing a scrap of paper to himself, he took down the date swiftly, though he couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed by its distance.
“Excellent. I’ll see you on the first. Good-”
“Have you been there?” Sander cut off Ryan’s farewell quickly, unable to hold himself back, “I mean…have you seen it? Have you been able to visit yet?”
There was a brief pause from the other end of the line, then, “..Yes. I’ve seen it.”
Sander’s lips fumbled for words, “I…How was it?” He asked hopefully.
“…As beautiful as I ever imagined.” Came the quiet reply. Sander could sense a smile in the words, and all at once he felt as if all the breath had rushed out of his lungs.
For several seconds, both men were silent.
“The first, then.” Ryan offered slowly.
The dark-haired man nodded quickly in agreement, “The first.”
“Good night, Mr. Cohen.”
“Good night, A-Mr. Ryan. And-” He added quickly, “… Thank you.”