Page 59 of Melancholia

“Would I rather what? You can’t just end with that.”

“That’s what we’re playing.” He chuckles as a grin spreads over his face. “You asked what we’re playing. I answered.”

Oh. Well, now I feel stupid. “Haven’t played that in…a while,” I admit, trying to remember the last time someone wanted to start a game of Would You Rather with me. “Oh, actually that’s not true. A year ago some of us in mortician school played but it was stupid. ‘Would you rather embalm a car accident victim or a gunshot victim?’ Just work related stuff like that. I suppose this will not be that.”

“Which one did you pick?”

“Gunshot victim.”

Amir turns to look at me, head tipped curiously, like an invitation to explain. “I’ve seen some really messy car accidents. And I don’t love having to attempt to put a body back together for identification when their face has been scraped off on the road.” I just look at him, once I’ve given him that information.

Of course, Amir never looks like it bothers him. He opens his mouth again, but this time, I speak instead.

“Would you rather be buried or cremated?”

Time seems to snag as he stares at me like he’s contemplating my existence. He picks up the ball when Noctis nudges it towards him, throwing it off into the darkness. If I had to guess, he wasn’t expecting me to be an active part of this game and ask him things back.

“Cremated,” Amir says finally. His eyes narrow shrewdly, and I swear I see something close to approval in his gaze. “Would you rather have an open-casket funeral or forbid anyone from seeing you?”

This one makes me pause, though only for a second. “No funeral at all. I have to see what goes into them every day. I participate in prepping bodies to be viewed by the living, stopping the natural decomposition and painting them to look like the version of themselves they’ll never be again.” I blink. “So I guess I want to forbid anyone from seeing me so I can avoid it entirely. Burn me and get it over with.” I don’t give him a chance to do anything with that before I ask, “Would you rather tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done or the worst thing you’ve ever wanted to do?”

For the very first time, I can tell that I’ve shocked him. The look fades as quickly as it appeared in his eyes, but his lips quirk in a small smile as he moves to shift closer to me on the bench. “You’re getting better at our games,” he murmurs.

“That’s not an answer.” The look he sends me says I should probably watch it.

“It’s not so much what I would rather do personally, I think,” Amir finally says, his words slow and thoughtful. “More so what I think you could handle. And by using that logic, I would rather tell you the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

The implication sends a shiver down my spine. What could be worse than murder? If he’d rather tell me something like that—or worse, I suppose—then what fucked up things float around his brain, never seeing the light of day?

“And since we’re getting personal, let me ask you this one. Would you rather know how much I know about you or keep wondering?”

Whatever I’d been bracing myself for, I didn’t consider a question like that coming up. My fingers tug at the sleeves of the sweater he got me, and suddenly my shoulders are cold where they’re exposed to the night air.

“I don’t know. Let me…let me think,” I whisper as my brain works at a hundred miles an hour to process every little bit of the question. “I would rather know, I think.” But my tone isn’t certain, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t call me out for it. Still, my next question is on my lips the moment he doesn’t push, and I ask, “Would you rather I stop playing your games or start enjoying them?”

It’s not what I meant to ask. It’s way too bold, and way too confident when I don’t have any leverage here. I can feel Amir’s stare even without looking up, and I give all of my attention to the two dogs who have abandoned the tennis balls and are instead play fighting in the grass.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “I wonder, is it the darkness that makes you bolder, my little mortician?” he muses. “Or is it because you think you know what I want from you?”

“That’s not an answer,” I whisper. “Are you ending this game?” When I turn to look at him, he’s already waiting for my gaze.

“I would rather you start to enjoy them,” he answers at last, his hand coming out to cup my jaw, his thumb swiping over my skin. “Because then I know I’ve trapped you with something other than fear.” His smile turns wicked and possibly sly as I try to work through what he just said.

He never gives me the answers I expect, and I should start to remember that. “Would you rather know why I’m obsessed with you or know what would make me stop?”

That one is easy. “I want to know what would make you stop.” But the answer suddenly feels disingenuous on my tongue. Still, I don’t let myself take it back, and before he can ask me any follow up, I grasp at straws to stammer quickly, "Would you rather I kiss you because I lost a game or because I wanted to?”

He just stares at me, and I wish I could take the words and cram them back down my throat. I have no business asking shit like that. Ever.

Suddenly his phone buzzes, the ringtone is soft but still enough to break whatever this is, and I levitate into the air, nearly launching myself to the moon in surprise.

Amir just murmurs an apology and pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat, a frown touching his lips before he brings it to his ear. “Hello, mother,” he greets, his voice full of fondness that makes me do a double take. “Is everything—” He breaks off and I can hear a long stream of words from the other side of the call, and he glances at me before letting out a soft breath. “‘Āref ya mama. ‘Āref. Istannīni bas.”

The words have me blinking in confusion and surprise. He repeats them, or something similar, before hanging up the phone and getting to his feet.

“You speak…” I trail off, not comfortable even attempting to guess what the language is and risk offending him.

“Egyptian,” Amir supplies. “I apologize. My mother is not as aware of things as she used to be.”