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"Epistemology 1999" is a short story by Sunrise Oath. It details fictional events set in Montreal during the latter half of 1999. This is primarily an artistic reduction of chapter four of The Wind at Dawn.

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"Epistemology 1999"

1. Experimented and created.
2. Know this, you know who robs you of sight.
3. Meaningless, said the Preacher. Meaningless.

There once was an older girl, a younger woman, who saved me.

On her good advice, I quit my job. I gave my notice at summer’s end, and Alain set me free from Génoise et Thé. “You can’t be kept, mon gars.” He patted my shoulder, and we shook hands, a parting between men. Waiting outside, Selene took off her sunglasses and dabbed her eyes.

I cleaned my room, fussing over details she fixed sooner and better. The curator was a lovely guest, bringing gifts and Charlotte. We were in bright humor from the change in the season, the shift in the wind. I did well as a host, as a man. I shaved my face, brushed my teeth, wore my shirt, and owned my life.

At the Old Port, we sat on a bench. She spoke, and I learned. I asked, she asked further. We leaned into mystery, and tackled the snake, fang and venom, as it was.

The questions multiplied, as she said they would. Questions — at the café, a glum place for me as a customer; at ritzy establishments around the city, places where she sought secrets and traded la bise with socialites, a trace of summer fever in her fashion; in the metro, on the last train of the night; in the calm of our chaste slumber, as I lay awake with her dreaming at my side, mouth open but a sliver.

So terrifying were the answers, I should never fall to sleep with a drop of her insight. I was glad, so glad to not sleep. It was the longest September, the best of my life. I soon forgot my sunrise oath, the promise made in early July.

A day before she left, marking a sudden end, was the one time she stood us up. Charlotte and I mused on epistemology over Alain’s coffee, and parted on the hour.

Later, the curator came in without knocking. Her tone commanded: “The place around the corner, my tab.”

She dressed the same, yet seemed not herself. I stood, and warned her to look away. I changed, and her sad eyes looked not away. Ah — they were a new color.

At Bar des Pins, sipping a gin and tonic, I regarded her, mentor and patron. She called the waiter in French, and touched my arm.

“Do you ever feel like life is so short, you might miss it? So short, I never knew it was over.” She noticed her slip, and drank from the glass bottle I pushed to her. Selene was a stranger from a distant land, unraveling traveler in our midst, her blouse revealing what the heart was ashamed to know.

I cleared my throat, and tried — failed — to pull away. “You’re acting off.”

“Right?” A drop of Perrier ran down her chin. She wiped, hiccuped, sniffed. “I am awake. Life is but a dream.”

I paid with her card, and the tall wanderer leaned on my shoulder. We hobbled to my un et demi, tidy as I left it. She twirled, and kicked off her Converse sneakers. “Home, Gale Jones. Let us be merry!” A cackle bubbled, escaping her beautiful wide mouth. “The night is young.”

I held her, inches from an edge. “Let’s calm down. Come, sit.”

Her embrace threw me off balance. On my bed, collapsed and tangled with me, her whisper betrayed: “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She was on top, captivating me with frost and fire. She held her ponytail in disdain, narrowing her eyes.

“It all crashes down.”

A tug and a flick — like that, her hair tumbled. Bleached strands framed the milk-rose mask, the royal portrait leaning in. I stared at dark roots, short lashes, perfect teeth.

“My word to your word, my heart to your heart, my lips . . .”

A shy kiss, a brush.

“J’ai baisé ta bouche.” She hummed, opened her eyes, and let a drop fall. “So it is bitter, the taste of love.”

Is that how it was always meant to be? So halting, soft, and burning? Was that the perfect first I could not keep, the one I see anew in every dream? I looked away. “We should stop.”

“Should we?” She sounded sure, yet her legs quivered as I thought of Bambi, of fawn and doe, of Louise. I was aroused, and awake.

“I want to stop.”

“Please.” Her smile, seductive and mature; her eyes, when were they ever so young? Those brown gems, free of color contacts, more than the false blue jewels I knew, revealed a maiden pure and innocent.

“Selene.” I pleaded, and knew not for what. But then, she threw up, cupped her mouth, and wept:

“Meaningless, said the Preacher. Meaningless.”