After a dozen shots of tequila and the worm from the bottom of the bottle, I couldn't remember how the argument had started.

The alcohol didn't help me forget anything else. The sight of my twin falling was stitched onto the back of my eyelids. My wrist was circled with bruises from her grip.

I'd just wanted to be noticed. I slammed my hand down on the bartop. My lips were numb. I tasted salt.

The man to my right shifted on his barstool, glancing at me sidelong. He'd seen me. I grinned at him; he slid off the stool and disappeared into the crowd.

Had he really seen me? My stomach twisted. Too much doubt, not enough tequila. I knew the remedy for that. I signaled the bartender, tapping the rim of my glass: another. She shook her head at me, covering my glass with tattooed knuckles.

"I think you've had enough."

She saw me. Reassured, filled with relief so deep it bordered on love, I beamed at her. A trickle of drool ran down my chin.

The bartender tried to meet my gaze and failed. Her nostrils flared; she turned away to get my drink. Oh, yes, she saw me. Someone stuck another quarter in the jukebox, treating the whole room to a wash of music.

If you believe, they put a man. . .

I grabbed my drink, sloshing liquid amnesia everywhere. Oh. Wrong preposition. On, not in.

A cloud of cigarette smoke swamped me, crawling up my nose. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the puddle of tequila.

I averted my gaze, throat stinging. It even worked on me. I wasn't weaving-- much-- as I pushed my way toward the exit.

The night air helped a little. I kept my eyes away from the city haze that bruised the horizon. No moon tonight. I walked faster, old resentments and new guilt nipping at my heels.

Too fast; I stumbled over a curb, joints loose. Walking was torture. How did the wingless manage, day after day?

I limped past a storefront ablaze with Christmas lights and neon. Despite the reflected glare on the street, someone had put a telescope on the roof.

I spit on the ground at the symbol of the family enemy. All my cousins, gone to story and balls of incandescent gas. Damn astronomy. I missed Cassandra. I even missed Orion.

My nose started to run. Something wet soaked into my beard, seeping from my eyes. I licked at it, and tasted nothing but salt. Oh. Tears. I'd forgotten about those.

My laughter sounded gluey, hysterical. How the cousins would have laughed! I missed them more than ever, now. Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I kept walking.

My sister didn't miss them. She didn't care. She got all the attention these days, all the songs and paintings and photographs, while I crouched in the dark and waited for the nursery rhymes to be forgotten.

Well, not tonight.

I sniffed experimentally as I passed a couple of teenagers, necking in an alley.

I backtracked, watching with interest. They didn't seem to care; the taller one had his hands down the shorter one's jeans.

Maybe they didn't see me either. I cleared my throat to check. They untangled like they'd been greased, telltale bulges in their pants despite the cold.

Suddenly, I wanted them to do more than see me. I wanted them to understand.

"Did you know that there are two faces?" I was slurring my words. "Two faces, male and female. And one day a month we can walk among you."

"Whatever, man," the shorter teenager said, curling his lip above a wispy goatee. "What the hell you trying to say?"

"Drunk," the taller one said, basso and indifferent as he picked at a pimple. "Just ignore him."

"There's no moon tonight. Look!" I might as well have spoken in Neolithic trade-pidgin. .

"Lunatic," the taller of the two whispered, loud enough for me to hear. I walked away to the sound of their sniggering.

My jaw ached. My feet hurt. People noticed me, but they didn't understand. Imbeciles. Against my will, I felt tears sliding down my face again.

Laughter, cynical and familiar, made me whirl around. There she was, sitting on a storestep, my wings tucked about her like a ragged cloak. People walked by, so close that slate-colored feathers whispered against their clothes, but their eyes looked through her instead of at her.

I looked at her pockmarked face, eyelids sagging over empty sockets.

"None so blind as those who will not see," she greeted me. Her tone was mild. It made me nervous.

"I didn't mean for you to fall." A fat forty-something stared at me. I knew what he saw: a crazy man talking to the empty air.

"You pushed me." It wasn't quite an accusation.

I lowered my voice. "It was an accident."

She inclined her head as if awarding me merit points. "You said something about 'your turn to be seen'. Shall I leave you to it for the next century or so?"

I flinched. "Please, no. You can have them back. I don't know how you can bear it."

She laughed again. Down the street, a busker's melody faltered as he heard her.

"They love me, that's how." Her expression was mocking. "I'm their Lady Luna, after all. And you… you don't even have a name, do you?"

"That's not true, and you know it!"

Her smile widened at my protest. She didn't need eyes to score a verbal hit. Instead, she shrugged. "No one remembers it. You might as well not have one. Barely anyone remembers you."

I stepped backward, tensing to run away. Her expression flickered, turned knifelike. She reached toward the sound of my breathing. The wings she wore unfolded. "Don't even think about it. Fun's over, brother."

"Time to trade, then." My voice cracked as her fingers brushed my cheeks. As the world went black, I waited for the comforting weight of wings on my shoulders. It didn't come.

"You must be joking." I felt her breath against my beard. I shivered; her lips touched mine before she pulled away and left me to the cold.

The End

Story copyright S. Evans, published by the Fortean Bureau
http://www.forteanbureau.com