Mr. Reed’s Book of Sirens

11/13	  
	I have never been in the mindset of recording my memories, but as my situation with Mr. Reed continues, I find it increasingly necessary. A man's mind is his only true sanctuary, and if he were to find it violated, and then preparations must be made for me so there is potential to undo any changes, or perhaps even alert someone else to his abilities. This is not a call to action. Mr. Reed appears to be a rational, even gentle man. But he wields a force over men and women alike that cannot be ignored. I'm not sure of how he is so capable of bending a conversation to his will, but I'm certain he tip-toes on the lines of the preternatural.   
	When he first moved to my neighborhood, I'll confess I was quite intrigued by the bear. Tall, large, he sternly directed the moving men in through his garage. At the time I wasn't aware of his career, I assumed he was a business person retiring to the Georgia so he could live in relative isolation. A camera shot from my second floor and image search later revealed otherwise - Mr. Nathaniel Reed, Opera Singer, and Baritone. A world-wide performer. I was at my desk when the doorbell rang. When I opened it, Mr. Reed straightened up. He seemed uncomfortably casual, a tall, black bear in a pair of blue jeans and a sweaty tee that looked like it was just bought from the store- fresh, but just recently ruined.   
	"Sir," he said, and I looked back up at his face, "I apologize for interrupting you, but I'm in need of a flathead screwdriver." He reached into his back pocket and showed his had a bent shaft. "It seems," he began, “that a mover decided to use my only one as a wedge, and stomped it into this."  
	"I'm impressed," I replied, looking it over. Mr. Reed stood quietly, nonplussed. "What I mean is that he must have been really trying to mess it up." I handed it back, and he slipped it into his back pocket in silence.

	"Come in, I think I have one in the kitchen." I led him through the foyer, which the bear was inspecting. My home is furnished in a Spartan fashion, I'm not one to hang things on the wall or have vases strewn about, its space I saved to squeeze an extra sofa in. You can see into the living room from the kitchen, I have a counter set up with a few bar stools.  
	"What confuses me most," I say, pulling a cheap set of tools, “is that none of the movers would have another one."  
	"It is probably the case, but I thought it might be in better taste to meet my neighbor." He thanked me for the screwdriver and offered me a paw. "I'm Nathaniel. The realtor told me you were a programmer of some sort, but she skimped on your name."  
	"Isaac, it's a pleasure Mr. Reed." As I shake his paw, his grip weakens as I mention his last name.  
	"You're familiar with my work then?"  
	"Somewhat?" I was having a hard time lying. To be fair I had a name of my own, I lead several technology start-ups to quite a bit of success, one of them being facial recognition software along with a web crawler.  
	"Then why did you take my photograph?" He asked. I tried to explain to him my work.  
	"I wasn't sure who you were, so I did a search." He appeared to be nonplussed, so I continued. "My program, it compared my photo to ones on the internet, and I learned about you from there." He stopped standing so stiffly then, and he patted me on the shoulder.  
	"I see then, to be honest I was afraid I had moved in next to a reporter or something more dreadful than that. But I suppose there is no true harm done, you would become aware eventually. In fact I would like to invite you and a few others over once I've settled in- I would enjoy getting to know you and the others more intimately, it's been so long since I've been in the US." I stifled my grimace as best I could. The truth is that most of the neighborhood only tolerated my existence here. We may not be a gated community, but to find us requires knowing which dirt road to go down, to even know these homes were for sale meant you had to know the right "good old boys." Most families had lived here for at least two generations, and were the sort of folk younger men and women would drive to visit and parade their grandchildren about and explore the remains of plantations, wondering when would have to move in and take care of it all. The kindest of them, Mrs. Grimshire, was like a Beta fish. The world was far too big for her, so she stayed in her little cup of a home a little ways down the road, on the next property over. Mrs. Grimshire, you see, simply told me that "although my one moral failing is disappointing, she was willing to look past it." In the past year, having not had any gentlemen over in quite some time, she took it upon herself to visit with me with a glass pitcher of her own sweet tea, and we would sit on the porch and talk. The old hound would complain about whatever she saw on the television, to which I always replied that she should unplug her TV. But then, she always would quip, what would she complain about? The others, however, did not regard me much at all- there were frequent dinners and get-togethers, but after an ill-timed peck on the cheek I was left off invitation lists. But no matter- I've no need to report on bigotry, the folk here are private, as much as I.   
	But I found myself intrigued by Mr. Reed. Certainly, he was larger than most, softer, and even in his casual wear he carried himself as if he were in a suit. His handshake was firm, and when he held my gaze, it was difficult to look away.   
	"It would be wonderful, I mean, we are going to be neighbors for quite some time, it would be awful to never who lived next to you, right?" I   said.   
	"Agreed. I feel fortunate to have someone as savvy as you next door; perhaps you could assist me with my computers. Though, I don't have much to trade with you."  
	"Nonsense, you could coach me in singing. I'm certain that would more than pay for any help I can give you. Even just an hour." Nathaniel's smile cracked, but he had an alternative.  
	"I...Don't sing much anymore. But I do have a library, which I intend to set up soon. It will be set up mostly separate from the house. Perhaps I could get you a key. That way, you could come over and read. I have many books on music. Your home seems rather empty, and your background interests me, Isaac." He took my paw and cupped it. "We should become better acquainted. Perhaps," he said, “a music lesson wouldn't hurt." He departed and I decided it would be useful to become familiar with opera. I was afraid to go over and be alone with Mr. Reed; it would've been terrible to stain his reputation before whatever perceived flaws he had would be rooted out by our neighbors.  The party would be a disaster would have been a disaster if I did not go, their ire for me would certainly distract them from Nathaniel's introverted and mysterious nature.   
	But it was only a day after Mr. Reed had arrived that something truly strange occurred. Mr. Moore, an opossum came onto my porch mid-morning, rapping on my door. He was waiting, combing his greased fur into that awkward part of his, balancing some sort of tray in his other paw.   
	"Howdy, neighbor!" he said, waving into the glass set into my door. I had been awake but I was poking around the 'net, listening to men like Nicolai Gedda. I had no idea what I was listening to, but it was still playing when I opened the door.  
	"Mr. Moore...good to," I said, "see you?" He held what smelled like peach and too much sugar out at me.  
	"Of course! Well listen, me and the miss, we've been thinking, 'specially after talking to Mr. Reed, that perhaps we'd given you a hard time over nothing."  
	"...Okay?"  
	"So we made you this cobbler, we know it isn't much of an apology, but, well, we just want you to know if you need something or other you can come over and ask. " The opossum tried to shake my paw as hard as he could, then tugged me into a hug.  
	"Well, thanks?" I said. I balanced the cobbler in the air as he hugged onto me, squeezing. I watched a spider drop down from the roof of the porch, and as if it realized it had entered a private moment, excused itself by climbing back up its thread. Mr. Moore finally let me go, and slaps me on the shoulder, muttering "alright" and wanders off, leaving me with dessert. And I'll admit as strange as it was I felt happy. Clearly something had changed within him, I don't know what Mr. Reed said but what I was simply glad.  
	But then Mrs. Hanks came by, and later Mr. Jones and by the mid afternoon someone from all eight households, save Mrs. Grimshire, had all visited, and had all brought me a dessert and given the same apology. And this is where I leave this note. Tomorrow, I go to Mr. Reed's dinner party.  He hasn't left his house since going in for the first time, I'm ashamed to say that my room's window makes it easy to see his house, and my desk makes it even easier to stare outside.   
	But as of tonight, I admit I lie and have to make an addendum. It was late, and I watching a recording of Carmen. In the deep blue shades of light that canvassed my room into something darker I was watching these characters sing, pour themselves out, singing. I find it oddly appropriate; watching these people sing and not understand what is going on. In these foreign tongues they cried and lamented and laughed.   
	And then I paused, and left for a drink. But as I was going back upstairs, I heard more muffled singing. Maybe it had started playing again, but when I walked in view of the screen the performers were still frozen in place while another song played, walking into my room I realized the volume would have been far too low. It was coming from outside, specifically a lit and closed-curtained window across the way. There wasn't a silhouette I could exploit, but I could tell the voice was Mr. Reed's. His ursine voice carried itself so strongly, building higher. It penetrated the walls and filled my room, I had to open my window, lean outside, and listen. I can't tell you what he was singing. It was Italian- the words felt heavy, as if releasing them into the world relieved some inner burden. I sat on the frame, and listened. The outside had gone quiet for him, the crickets were nowhere to be heard, and the cicadas had paused to listen to Mr. Reed's lament. It's late now; he's long stopped singing and gone to bed. And so should I. Tomorrow will be...interesting.

11/14  
	I have come across something far deeper than I expected. I'm not sure if I should fear for myself or not, but Mr. Reed has turned out to be far more complex a creature than I could have even imagined. To explain him requires me to explain the events of party, you must be patient.   
	The evening started normal enough, barring the friendliness of the families present. Seven families were present, but Mrs. Grimshire was expectedly not attending - she rarely was up past eight in the evening. Everyone was chattering amongst themselves, and while I tried to minimize everything with pleasantries, I wanted to explore the old house. It was always maintained by someone; however for the entire time I lived in my home no one inhabited it. The walls were painted a warm and deep red, garnished by a dark purple carpet, or curtains hinted with gold linings. If it weren’t for the sharp and angled furniture, I would have sworn I had gone back at least a hundred years. Even the lamp stands looked like they were purposefully aged, as to invent some sort of historic look. When I had finally made it back into the sitting room, Mr. Reed welcomed me in with a paw. His suit was a stark white, his wide midsection covered by a purple shirt and a black vest, everything in the room seems tilted towards him.  
	"We were just talking about you, weren't we?" He stood, humming a little tune to himself. The others nodded their head and chimed in. Oh yes, good to see you Isaac. How goes it, Isaac? I was the life of the party, or at least Mr. Reed made it seem so. He laughed openly, nursing on a glass of wine, shooing away anyone who interrupted our conversation. Politely, of course.   
	"So tell me, Isaac. What made you live out here?"   
	"The same as you I suppose, the quiet, the seclusion."   
	"Do you have a partner?" he asks. My teeth stung from biting my glass.  
	"Pardon?" I stammer. He was grinning, and looking me over.   
	"A boyfriend, Isaac. Your neighbors certainly didn't like the last one very much. No fears though, I was more than persuasive enough to change their minds about you."  
	"That's rather personal to ask so quickly, and furthermore I didn't ask you to." I was honestly irked with the bear. There he stood, sizing me up with lewd eyes, asking me those sorts of questions.  
	"I simply felt like it." He replied, looking over the small gathering, taking another drink. "I could change their minds again, but why? You seem to be very pleasant, handsome, and perhaps a bit defensive." He chuckles. "I'm sorry, I think I've had enough wine for now, excuse me." He hands me his glass and steps away, quickly latched onto by Mrs. Grimshire. She's drunk; the old hound was clinging onto his arm. I wasn't sure how to feel! For certain I didn't find him unattractive, but when he looked at me, it seemed like I was a plaything. That there was some sort of script and I had failed to perform. The rest of the night it was impossible to talk to him again. I would join the small circle that gathered around him, and before I added into the conversation he would bow out and be with another clique. I gave up and milled around, trying to avoid conversation, meeting eyes with the bear as he chatting with the Hershrams. He raised his glass and nodding his head to me with a smile. He was intentionally avoiding me! I had been teased enough; I wasn't going to stay at a party where the host was intentionally snubbing me.  
	"Nathaniel," I said, parting the opossum couple, “I’ve come to say good-"  
	Mrs. Grimshire took me by the shoulder. "Now Isaac it's rude to interrupt! Mr. Reed is going to sing for us, now quit being rude and hush up!" The entire room went quiet, and I tugged away from the old hound to walk out.   
	But then he started singing. Not words, just notes that quivered and raised my ears perked themselves. Everyone else was enraptured by him, the more drunk guests swayed on their feet with placid faces, their glasses dangling out of their paws. I couldn't help myself; I stopped, and turned around to face Nathan. He commanded the room, his arms out wide, and his mouth stretching more as he continued his strange note. And then it faded, and he panted. I wanted to start clapping, but everyone was still staring, motionless.  
	"Isaac," he sang to me, "come." The way he pitched my voice, it felt as if his voice had passed down my head into my stomach, which squeezed. I hesitantly took another step closer. "Come," he sang again. He twittered another odd note, beckoning me with his paw. And while the others seemed so much more welcome to me...It still felt strange to come and take his paw.  
	"The rest of you," he sang, "should go home. You are tired." He took me by the side, and felt up my chest. "You had a pleasant evening, one you will talk of for months." I wanted to squirm, but I was paralyzed by his sudden forwardness. But then the party began to leave, in an odd silence! All I could hear was Nathan humming something sweet over the sounds of footsteps on the wooden floor, the door opening.  
	"And you, Isaac...” he said, reaching behind me. He was about to cup my rear when I took him by the paw.  
	"Nathan, what are you doing?" I said. His smile, his entire commanding demeanor, vanished into shock, then horror. He let go and stumbled back.  
	"What...but...” he stammered.  
	"I don't know who you think you are but if you believe you can blow a guy off then get him into bed after a few bars...I'm not that desperate!" He held his paws up to himself, looking down and away from me.  
	"If you wanted to get to know me, you didn't need to pay off the others to pretend to like me. Good night." I stormed outside, but I was still shivering, even as I locked my door. I lay out on the couch, too tired to even go upstairs, just rethinking the night. Why was everyone so strange, and so quickly? What had Nathaniel done? When I was pulled aside that night, everyone just seemed so...interested to talk to me. I slept, poorly at that. I woke up hitting the floor, jolting from the sound of knocking at my door. I tried to straighten myself while shuffling, and saw Mr. Reed behind the glass to my door. He was holding a book in his armpit, and he looked disheveled, still in the same outfit as last night, though in tennis shoes.  
	"Isaac, let me in, it's important. I can explain. I'm sorry." He sounded so desperate. I just opened the door and he clutched the book in his paws, to shield himself. "You are quite literally one of the few who can understand."  
	"You make being gay sound so tragic." He shook his head.   
	"No, that's not what this is at all. I asked because it would make changing things seem...wrong."  
	"What do you mean, wrong? You can't change someone." I led him inside, to the kitchen.  
	"But what if you could?" He set his book down on the counter. It was a large book, a tome that was embossed in silver trimming, a thick leather cover that had seen much better days.   
	"Then I read too much fiction."   
	"Isaac, I, when I sing, I don't just sing." He turned to a page in the book. It looked Greek, the writing, but the space between lines was so great I saw other notes scrawled in between, some in Spanish, French, and English.   
	"Well I'm impressed you have such a command over other languages, Nathan, but what does this have to do with you humiliating me last night?" He slammed the book shut.  
	"Because you weren't even supposed to remember it." He shouted, rubbing over his face. "You weren't supposed to remember. I was going to send everyone home, we would have had a little fun and you would wake up pleased with yourself, believing you convinced the famous Nathaniel Reed to take you to bed."  
	"So then what didn't work? Why did your little 'spell' fail to work?" I quoted with my fingers. He flipped to the beginning of the book, and spun it around for me to see. The English translation was still incredibly old. The page I was on described how the book was to be passed down. It was dangerous to let the book come to common knowledge, because virtually every man and woman was susceptible to the power of the Siren’s song. It was believed that musicians and artists were dangerous people, for they acted much like the gods - they created, they shaped. The eight notes of the scale were believed to correspond to the planets, to creation itself. Only the rare beast lived outside the notes, and theirs was a tragic life, it explained. Outside of the harmonies, for whatever reason, they were immune to the song, and thus were the only ones to be trusted with such power. The book, it said, was a guide for these lonely beings.   
	"...And because of this book, you can control anyone you want." I flipped through the pages, skeptical.  
	"Yes, but that's just the surface. Anyone can force someone to do something; you just need the proper motivation. This," he says, tapping the pages, "this teaches the song of every person, and my voice, your voice, can rewrite it."  
	"Why are you sharing this?" I asked.  
	"Because, it's what I want to do. I originally had come here because I was bored, but I hadn't expected to find someone like you." At first glance, it would sound as if he were trying to hit on me again. But the bear was a deflated balloon in his wrinkled shirt. He looked at me and all I could think was, what a lonely man. I just didn't understand why he seemed so lonely, with such a gift.  
	"I can't really sing."  
	"At the very least," he said, closing the book, “this book will be in my library. And I'll be happy for you to read it there. Perhaps as an apology, I can offer lessons?" And here I was again, meeting this man again for the first time. Mr. Reed was forced to show a more true self, but my curiosity was piqued. If what happened at the party was truly his doing, then I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity for something so unique. I write this as a warning note to myself, in case Mr. Reed isn't completely true to his word, I'll have something to remind myself, perhaps as a warning. 

1/17  
	I find myself falling into a new routine since Nathan's revelation to me. As the strangeness becomes familiar, it is important that I make a mental note of where I've come from. I'm uncomfortable with him, yet I keep going over, and learning more from him. It's like living with a director, yet you're not an actor in his play. We travelled into town the day after my last entry, to Atlanta. He offered to drive, but I prefer being behind the wheel. When you can choose where you want to go, even if it's staying in the same place, it puts me at ease. Nathan decided where his tour went, after he had received the book.  
	"It was from a fan, an otter from England somewhere. Obviously he didn't have any faith in the book's teachings, else he wouldn't have been handing it so easily to his favorite singer. I paid him a visit, to thank him, and to change his memory of what he sent me."  
	"You took giving his gift away from him?"  
	"No, no, I changed it to a well-written letter. I wanted to make sure he hadn't taken the tome from anyone else, I was younger and a more frightened creature."  
	"You make it sound so simple."  
	"When you can do it, you find it hard to not use. I've never made anyone's life more miserable, if that's what you fear." I zipped around another driver. If you're going in the fast lane, then you should drive.  
	"When everyone becomes so mutable, it's hard to connect. I could have all the friends in the world, if I wanted. Well, save a few." He squirmed in his seat, having released the uncomfortable truth.  
	"You don't have to use the song, then."   
	"But I do."  
	"Why?"  
	"Because it's always been so easy."  
	"Just because you can?"  
	"On the day that you met me, you knew most of my background."  
	"And?" I replied. I was closing in on another car; it had the common sense to pull out of my way.   
	"Did you need to search my history?"  
	"I wanted to test my application."  
	"It must have been easy to use."  
	"It's not the same."  
	From behind a wall of trees a car pulled out onto the road, and there was a siren. I don't remember how fast I was going, but this wasn't my first speeding ticket. The car rumbled as I pulled us over on the shoulder, and I watched the officer step out of her car.   
Nathan rolled down his window.  
	"What are you doing?" I whispered harshly. I mashed up on my buttons but the window didn't move - his paw was firmly locked on 'down.' His eyes trained on the Raccoon officer, he watched her walk up for just a moment, took a deep breath, and sang. In my last entry, I feel that my description of his song is lacking, it was difficult when so many other emotions were present. While Nathan indeed has a beautiful voice, it sounds nothing like the voice that was singing out to the lonely night. There was no key he stuck to, his voice tittered up and down, to hear it was to think of familiar tunes, but nothing quite matched. The raccooness' ears perked, her steps slowing as she approached. Her tail stopped flicking, and silently she walked to the driver's side window.   
	"Nathan, stop!" I felt my stomach burning. He did, and looked at me.  
	"Did you want the ticket?" He replied. There she stood, outside my door, breathing slowly, her arms slack to her sides, her notepad on the ground.  
	"What if she wakes up?"  
	"She can't, at least not for a while. You could crack her on the head and she wouldn't stir. Not that you should, she's only doing her job."  
	"Is it always this easy?"  
	"It's harder when they don't want to listen, but yes, everyone always falls under." I could hear the sounds of cars rushing by, the officer entranced.  
	"It doesn't hurt?"   
	"Why should it?" He leans over, and sings something quiet, almost sweet. "Do you hurt?" She leaned down into the window, her face solemn, her eyes out of focus. "Do you hurt?" She shook her head. "Your radar has been off all day, so you're going to let him off with a warning. It's a good day, but be stern anyway." She nodded, and he sang one final note, and as it faded she took to life, shaking her head to regain focus.   
	"Look, you're lucky my radar is on the fritz. I could write you a ticket, I really should, but I won't. I'm having a good day. But I have you on record; if we catch you again I'll double your fine. Hear me?" I nodded in silence. She scooped up her pad and huffed back into her car.   
	"Maybe I can drive next time," he said. I snorted. It felt like the driver's wheel was trembling extra as we drove away, slower. It took getting used to, watching so many people go dull in front of me. When he said it was simple, it truly was. Our lunch was 'on the house', but tipped the waiter for 'excellent service'. What he did pay for were few music books that I was to start reading, along with the tome. The music theory came easy enough, but trying to parse out what the tome was saying over the next few weeks was too esoteric for me.  
	The way home was quiet, until I fished into my pocket and pulled out a little wind up toy. It was a little red robot made of cheap tin. I don't know what a man could have whatever he wanted desires, but I thought the novelty of it all would please him.  
	"Thank you, for the books." I said. He was aside himself, grinning and winding up the robot and set it onto the dashboard. It whirred, and lurched across in a straight line, until the vibrations of the car sent it towards the edge. With a claw, Nathan turned the smiling robot back towards me.   
	"I've never received such a strange gift," he said. The large bear hunched over, pushing it one direction, then the next, going in circles.  
	"Oh, can't you just let the poor guy go straight?" I said, snickering.   
	"If I didn't, the car would just turn him."  
	"Doesn't he get a say in the matter?" I replied. To this, Nathan quit prodding the toy, and it waddled to the edge, and onto his paw, where he started winding it up again.  
	"Can he even tell the difference? He seems happy regardless." He held the little thing between his claws up to me. It was true; a little smile was painted on its cheery face, with little pink blush marks. It whirred and clicked, walking on air, doing the only thing it really knew. As it wound down, Nathan cupped it in his paw and put it in his breast pocket. "I'll take good care of it." He sank back into his seat, and hummed something to himself as we returned to our obscure little road in the country.

4/8  
 	Mrs. Grimshire, instead of making stops to my porch, now spent the afternoons with Nathan and me in his library, where I would sing without success at establish a trance on the old hound. Having failed, we would laugh over glasses of lemonade, sometimes mixing in a little vodka. But even during my lessons with Nathan, he never sang more than he needed to. He would sing a bar for me to repeat, or show me the proper key for me to harmonize to, but in his home I you would only hear the voice of a novice ever singing. And even with Nathan's lessons a voice can only do so much with training, I couldn't find the pitches, the notes needed to make that mental connection to others.  
 I'd stand still and belt out whatever he asked for, and if my voice were to crack or whatever other mistake I'd make he would be behind me, standing me up straighter, poking my stomach saying, "project from here!" There he would linger as I corrected myself, his head over my shoulder, nodding and offering praise. We would brush cheeks, and I would want to brush back, but instead I sang.  
	Other times, in his frustration, he would begin his siren's song to correct me manually. He would stop; a look of embarrassment coming over him, and the lessons would stop for the day. Those days drag on, sitting at home and tinkering with projects. I'll put on a recording of Nathan, but they simply don't sound right anymore. There are sections in the song where he is really singing, using his voice, but I can tell now the points where he is putting in the Siren's song. The more I heard it, the more curious I became with his actual past, what was he like before the book. Whatever the internet could provide only showed a Mr. Reed that I knew - his photos showed smiles, but looks of disinterested detachment from the world. I kept clicking through the results, and in many of his 'public' shots, I saw a familiar creature showing up, an otter. Standing close to the bear I knew, but always cheery. He was such a tiny creature, lithe, dwarfed next to Nathan, the otter only stood up to his shoulders. Who was he? Even on tours, he would show up in a photo here and then, somewhere close to Nathan wandering on the sidewalk.   
	He was another singer, an English otter named Gael Hughes. Looking at a timeline I had laid out, they had met in a breakout performance of Faust, he was Mephistopheles, and Nathan had played Doctor Faust. It felt odd, going through the years they spent together, finding the truth in Nathaniel's lie but, why? The answer came in the answer of his last tour, through the Europe. For almost ten years he showed up, but just before, his appearances stopped. And then there was mid tour, his announcement of retiring, only at the age of forty. This was last year. The stories seemed to overlap in a curious way, and it worried me, for whatever reason. It took me another month of awkward days to even approach the subject with him. I was mashing potatoes for dinner, as he read at the kitchen counter.   
	"Tell me, how did you get the book?" I asked.  
	"I told you before, it was from a fan."  
	"What was his name?"  
	"I don't quite recall."  
	"Was it Gerard?" I said. He slammed his book shut.  
	"Why are you asking me this?" He replied. "What difference does it make who he was?"  
	"Because I don't want to be like him. I don't want to go away."  
	"I can't do anything to you, Isaac. You know that."  
	"And what about him? How am I supposed to feel about you controlling someone for years on end?"  
	"I only did it once."  
	"Oh, and was that to make him love you?"  
	"It was to make him forget." It was here I realized I was making a terrible mistake.  
	"I, I'm sorry I didn't..."  
	"You couldn't help it, the information was always there."  
	"...It was easy."  
	"I know." But he still looked at me, as if I had stripped him in public. He said, "He was the only one I wouldn't, but as things became stranger around him, he didn't like it. It made him miserable. He never knew what the book actually did. So I changed him, I split us up and left him all the happier. I was content just having my way, and then all of this happened."  
	"So what does that make us?"  
	"What do you think? How was I supposed to feel? I find someone attractive, that I didn't have to change to make more suitable."  
	"I’m not a character, Nathan, stop talking in terms like that."  
	"Of course you're not! You're free as someone can get. You're the only option I have, but that..."  
	"Doesn't mean I'm really an option."  
	"I can't just be with you because you match the criteria. What good is love when it's thrust upon you?"  
	"Usually people call that romance."  
	"It doesn't feel like a choice I got to make."  
	"Is it really wrong for things to just happen the right way?" My bear didn't respond. I tried to take him into my arms, but he held me away.   
	"Please, I don't know." And then he walked out. 

	I sit up stairs in my room, trying to parse out the facts. I write it down because I want to remember it the way I felt it, before history and hindsight can steal the reality of it all away. My room is dark and lit only by my monitor again. Outside, Nathan's room was dark. Does he turn in his bed like I did? And you, while knowing, reminding and longing, you shrink from me? I know it very well: you don't want to express your anguish, but you feel as if you're dying! Puccini, how simple you make it sound.

\*\*\*\*\*

	It's morning, or rather I watched the sun rise several hours ago. I reread my journals and wondered only when Nathan would be awake. I have decided to show him the results of my studies, the fruits of Mr. Reed's teachings. I'm standing outside of his window, and I do what I've been taught - I sing solfege, without words. There isn't any song I want to sing to him, anyway. Fa so la do, who knows what I would say other than come outside, please, please. And when I stop to breathe, or control my sniffling, I see a shadow form behind the shades.  
	"Nathan, please, come outside." I say. The shadow nods, and he walks away. I hurry around the side to the front door. "Nathan, please." I jump onto his porch and stand at his door, knocking. I stop where I hear the quiet footsteps approaching the door. "Let me in." The door unlocks, and it quietly swings forward, and there he is standing almost completely undressed...and silent. He looks at me, muted, his eyes staring past me, swaying on his feet paws.   
	While Nathan's misfortune came from the vast improbability of his situation, it was the probability of mine that now hurts me. In his pride, he must have assumed the book coming to his possession meant he was of chosen few. As he stands in front of me, entranced from my song, I now know this is not the case. I lead him inside. What is a beast to do? I had fallen in love with a man, but now I lay here curled up to a doll. He's warm, and it's hard to reach around him, my muzzle buried in the fur on his neck. I could tell him to take me as his, take away the things that pain him. I could change his name, his childhood. I could take away any memory of the book, and its lessons.   
	But I can't. While there are so many ways I can change the story of our lives, this is the one I want. I just hope that I am not the one that changes. The world has wound me up, and the only things I know to do are hold on and fall asleep. As exhaustion took me, I could see the little robot sitting on Nathan’s nightstand, smiling at us both finally laying together.