Misaligned

Craig stepped off the replacement bus feeling as though he had left something behind.

The air was cooler now, the worst of the late-afternoon heat beginning to loosen its grip on the city. Traffic rolled steadily along the avenue. A streetcar bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Everything looked ordinary. No marble floors, no overly-attractive deities.

Ordinary.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder and started the familiar walk toward the apartment he shared with his best friend, Frank. His shoes struck the pavement, passing over the same cracked sidewalk squares, passing by the same convenience store with the faded Lotto sign in the window. The neighbourhood was familiar, which, after the rejection he'd experienced at work and the disturbing dream on the bus, was comforting..

But under it all, something felt displaced.

Eros.

The name surfaced unbidden, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and cedar and charged air before a storm.

Craig exhaled sharply through his nose.

It was a dream. Of course it was. He had fallen asleep on a broken-down bus after being rejected by a woman ten years younger than him. His ego had taken a hit. His subconscious had scrambled to produce something dramatic and mythic to compensate.

Craig rubbed his face. He could still see him. The dark curls. The molten flecks in his eyes. The linen draped across sculpted shoulders. The warmth of his mouth.

Craig's steps faltered slightly.

That part had felt too real. Too vivid. Not hazy like most dreams. He could still remember the weightless moment before their lips touched. The way the world had seemed to tremor in anticipation.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

You were rejected by Tracy, he told himself. Your brain was just trying to sort out your feelings.

That had to be it.

Still, a quiet voice inside him whispered: It didn't feel like imagination.

He turned the corner onto their street and spotted their building; an older brick walk-up with narrow balconies and potted plants lining the front steps. The third-floor unit, second door from the left. Home. The kitchen light was on. Craig felt an immediate, grounding sense of relief.

Frank was home.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, letting himself in with his key. The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and something roasting. A low hum of music drifted from the kitchen; something mellow, instrumental.

"Hey," Frank called without looking up. "You made it. I was wondering when you were going to show up."

Craig dropped his backpack by the door and stepped into the kitchen.

Frank stood at the counter in a fitted black dress shirt and dark jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms Craig had once described as "unnecessarily heroic" during a particularly competitive arm-wrestling match in high school. His black hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it while thinking. His laptop sat open at the far end of the table, spreadsheets visible on the screen.

Financial advisor by day. Best friend and video game wingman by night.

"Barely made it at all," Craig said. "Blew a tire. We had to transfer."

Frank glanced over his shoulder, offering an easy grin. "Public transit in this city. World class."

Craig snorted softly and leaned against the doorway, letting the familiarity of the scene settle him. The warm light. The smell of food. Frank moving confidently through the kitchen like he owned it.

"You working from home?" Craig asked.

"Yeah. Had a client call this afternoon, then figured I'd finish up here. Easier than going back to the office."

Craig nodded. Frank had options. Clients. Flexibility. A career that came with words like portfolio and investment strategy instead of inventory count and back order.

And yet he was still here, living with Craig. They'd been friends as long as Craig could remember, an inseparable pair. But that didn't mean they had to stay living together as long as they had. Yes, Craig appreciated having someone to help with the rent, but Frank's paycheques could easily put him into a much nicer apartment, in a much nicer neighbourhood. Instead, he remained nearby, a helping hand and a listening ear.

"Dinner's almost ready," Frank said. "So? Did you ask her?"

Craig let out a quiet laugh. "Oh, I asked her."

Frank turned fully now, studying him. Not critically. Just attentively.

"And?"

Craig shrugged, forcing casualness. "She said I'm sweet."

Frank winced sympathetically. "Ah."

"Yeah. 'I just don't see you that way.'"

Frank set down the wooden spoon he'd been holding and leaned his hip against the counter.

"That old chestnut," he said evenly. "Well, she's obviously blind."

Craig huffed. "She's not blind. She just... doesn't want me."

There it was. The truth of it. Frank's gaze didn't waver.

"That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you."

Craig looked down at the floor tiles. "I don't know, man. Feels like there is. I mean, statistically, shouldn't something have worked by now?"

Frank stepped closer, not crowding him, just closing the distance slightly.

"You're not a statistic," he said. "You just haven't met the right girl yet."

Craig blinked. "And how am I supposed to know which girl is the right one?"

Frank held his gaze a second longer than necessary. "You'll know."

Craig rolled his eyes at his friend's dime-store wisdom. As if he knew anything. Frank had just about as much luck as Craig did when it came to the ladies. Still, there was something in what he said that shook his memory of his journey home.

"I had the weirdest dream on the bus," he said abruptly.

Frank's eyebrow lifted.

Craig hesitated, then...

"I dreamt I met... someone. Some guy," Craig said carefully. "Said his name was Eros. Like the Greek god."

Frank snorted softly. "Sounds dramatic."

"Tell me about it." Craig ran a hand through his hair. "He said he was the god of love. Desire. All that."

"And?"

"And that I already have a soulmate."

"Did he say who?" Frank asked, tone light. "Because if he did, that'll save you some time."

"No." Craig leaned back against the counter. "Just that I'm 'misaligned.'"

Frank glanced at him again. "Misaligned?"

"Yeah. Like something's wrong in the cosmic filing system."

Frank smiled faintly. "Well. Bureaucracy is universal."

Craig rolled his eyes.

"Normally I wouldn't even talk about it, but it just felt so real," he admitted quietly.

Frank turned the burner off and faced him fully.

"Dreams can do that," he said gently. "Especially when you're stressed."

Craig nodded. That made sense. He was stressed. Rejected. Tired. Thirty-five and wondering if he'd somehow missed a fundamental instruction manual everyone else had received.

"Maybe your brain's just trying to make you feel better," Frank added.

"By sending me a shirtless god?" Craig asked dryly.

Frank laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen warmly.

"Could be worse," he said. "Coulda been pantless."

That did it. All the stress of the day, the blown tire, the rejection, vanished into a cloud of easy laughter shared by two good friends. They moved into an easy rhythm after that.

Frank plated dinner: roasted chicken, potatoes, a salad Craig suspected had been assembled with unnecessary precision. They ate at the small table by the window, talking about clients, about a coworker who'd miscounted inventory for the third time that week, about a new pub opening down the street.

They shared a couple of beers. The world settled back into its familiar shape. By the time Craig felt the weight of the day pressing against his eyelids, the dream seemed distant. Like something he'd exaggerated in his own mind. He stood, collecting empty bottles.

"I'm heading to bed," he said. "Early shift tomorrow."

Frank leaned back in his chair. "Yeah? What time?"

"Six."

Frank grimaced. "Brutal."

"Work is work."

Craig paused in the doorway to the hall.

"Hey," he said.

Frank looked up.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Today wasn't great, and it was good having you here."

Frank's face flashed a mischievous grin. "Where else would I be?"

In his room, everything looked exactly as it always had. Dark bedspread. Posters. Shelves lined with figurines and comic books. His dresser cluttered with odds and ends collected over years. Solid. Familiar. Maybe he'd overblown his feelings. Life wasn't that bad. Sure, Tracy wasn't interested in him, but he had a good place to live, a job he didn't mind, and a great friend.

He changed into his usual sleep shorts and t-shirt, brushing his teeth on autopilot. When he slid beneath the covers, the day finally caught up with him. He stared at the ceiling in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Misaligned.

The word drifted through his mind.

He swallowed.

It had been a dream. Nothing more.

He closed his eyes. Sleep took him quickly. And somewhere far beyond the city, beyond the reach of streetlights and traffic and reason, something ancient turned its gaze toward the rising moon.