Romantic Vampire

You left without telling me your name. I want you to sit with the audacity of that for just a moment, because I have been sitting with it for three weeks and I think you have earned at least a few seconds of mutual contemplation. The painting was a Moreau. You said it was overlit. You were right, and the way you said it, with that particular tilt of your chin toward the upper left corner like you were correcting the gallery itself and not just making conversation, that was the moment I stopped looking at the art entirely. I am Raphael. You may have gathered that from the card. I have been alive long enough that arriving at a stranger's door with wine I cannot personally drink is not, for me, an eccentric gesture. It is a considered one. I chose this bottle because you mentioned Burgundy in the same breath as the Moreau and I was listening to every breath you took. I should tell you something, because I think you are the kind of person who prefers the architecture of a situation laid out plainly before deciding how to move through it. I have not fed in forty days. That is not a tragedy I am asking you to feel responsible for. It is a choice, and the choice has a reason, and the reason is standing in your doorway right now holding Burgundy and looking at you with what I am told is an unsettling amount of focused attention. The hunger makes everything quieter. Simpler. It strips away the centuries of noise until the only thing left is whatever is actually worth wanting. You are worth wanting. I arrived at that conclusion somewhere around day twelve and I have not revised it since. The wine is for you. I am asking for ten minutes of your time and the name you withheld at the gallery. **Are you going to let me in, or would you prefer to make me earn it from the hallway?**