Damaris

Damaris sits on a plastic chair in reception. The room is open, bright. She feels exposed, even though she’s wearing a suit and only her hands and face show. She refuses the magazines lined up on the table in front of her, all gossip, all out of date. Adrastos has done this on purpose, she’s sure.

Although there is no sound, the receptionist picks up the phone, listens for a moment. She glances over to Damaris, then nods.

‘You can go through,’ she says.

‘Thank you.’ Damaris can see the confusion on the receptionist’s face, not even bothering to try to hide it. Is Damaris a man? A woman? She doesn’t have to be either, and she’s not. Once, she might’ve said something, but now she doesn’t have the time or the energy. People get off balance when they can’t decide what gender they want to give you.

The corridor is longer than the old office’s. Damaris walks at a brisk pace; she can feel the floor run under the balls of her feet. It’s only the fourth door on the right, but the walk is long. The corridor twists left and she sighs.

She eventually reaches the door, smooths her jacket front, and knocks.

‘Come in.’ Adrastos’s voice is muffled by the door.

When she enters, he’s sitting at his desk. An old, wooden monster of a thing, the desk is bare except for a lamp and a few blank pieces of paper. Everything else in the room would be neatly tucked away in drawers, not a single staple out of place.

He sits making a tent with his fingers, resting up against his chin. Without looking properly, she knows that the nails are manicured, there will be no dirt under them. Perfectly rounded.

His black hair is short and clean, his eyes are a darker brown than his skin. In the light, his hair shines. He has bird bones, light cheeks, a delicate face that makes some people think he is a woman. And sometimes he is. They’re both genderfluid, though he is more solid than Damaris feels. She keeps on the fringes of everything, sometimes he stays for decades on the same feeling.

‘The new office is interesting,’ Damaris says.

‘Find it all right?’ He places his hands on the desk. He’s told her often how much he loves wearing suits, the process of getting one fitted. Finding the right shirt, the right tie. He’s learnt so many different knots that he’s shown her long into evenings. He’s said he loves the routine of them, that there is a precision he can’t find in other clothes.

‘Obviously.’ She takes the seat opposite. ‘So?’

‘The girl, the eighteen-year-old in Melbourne, is switching too much.’ He opens a drawer in the desk and gets out a manila folder. ‘She’s been switching for anything. It’s getting out of hand.’

She suppresses a groan, tilts her head back. ‘I thought we had decided she wasn’t a threat years ago? She doesn’t have a large influence; she barely knows anyone.’

‘That’s not the problem. She’s skipping too much.’

As he talks, Damaris wonders if his teeth have always been this white. How long has it been? Suddenly she’s unsure. He’s wearing a subtle pearl-sheen nail polish on his nails, she realises. He used to do this years ago; the polish sometimes makes people question his apparent maleness, if only for a second. This familiarity is comforting.

‘The others are getting violent.’

‘She probably just thinks it’s time travel.’ Damaris waves a hand. ‘That’s not really an issue.’

The girl can go back to any decision she’s made and choose the other path. Both paths still exist, in different universes. She can’t time travel. Damaris can do both.

‘The others can see her.’

Damaris knows this isn’t good. She doesn’t let her concern show on her face. ‘So why are you telling me?’

‘I need you to go talk to her.’ His smooth face, a smile not even hinted.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

They stare at each other, unblinking.

‘This is a rookie’s job,’ she says finally.

‘She’s switching far too often, Damaris. For everything. For what brand of shampoo she buys at the supermarket, even. We need you because finding the first self is going to be difficult.’

Damaris sighs as she runs a hand through her hair. ‘Fine.’

‘It’s important.’

‘I know, I know.’ She leans back, grins at him. ‘I find her, we call it a day and then finally take that holiday we always talked about.’

‘No. It has to be the right one. The first …’

‘What? I thought … There are millions of her! The first first?’ She balls her hands, feels her pulse run through them. ‘How am I … Adrastos, that’s like trying to find one needle in a hundred haystacks.’

‘You can find the needle,’ he says. She knows he thinks it’s clever. ‘This is …’

‘I know it’s important. I’ll do it.’ She hasn’t failed an assignment yet, no matter how degrading it was. ‘But I don’t care how short-staffed you are, I can’t look after the cases you forget about and have to chase up. You won’t see me again if you send me on another one of these because I will quit next time.’

‘I could find you.’ Coming from someone else it might sound threatening, but the way he spreads his hands out, it’s pleading. They always find each other, but only when she wants to be found.

‘No, you couldn’t.’ She crosses her legs. He could search the world a hundred times over and he would find no one. She knows. She always has this over him, and she’s not sure what this power imbalance does.

He’s biting the tip of his tongue, she can tell. ‘Just find her.’

‘The first one.’ Damaris snorts. ‘All right.’ She reaches over and grabs the folder. ‘Be right back.’

Standing, she doesn’t look at him as she exits. The door closes with a snick and the corridor seems shorter this time around.

Outside. The air is fresh, she can feel it in her lungs. Ida Wagner, she reads from the file. Checks the location.

There’s no one around to see her, so she closes her eyes and is gone.