THE CAMERA flashes blinded him for a moment. If only he could get the photographers away.

But they had been at his side for months now--ever since the first artifacts had been found in these barren hills, south of Cairo. It was as if they too had known. Something about to happen. After all these years, Lawrence Stratford was on to a major find.

And so they were there with the cameras, and the smoking flashes. They almost knocked him off balance as he made his way into the narrow rough-hewn passage towards the letters visible on the half-uncovered marble door.

The twilight seemed to darken suddenly. He could see the letters, but he couldn't make them out.

"Samir," he cried, "I need light."

"There's something completely intoxicating about the taste of fresh coffee sipped with the toxins of refined, southern tobacco."

That's what he said to me last night. I envy him, in the opposing ways that he envies me. He views everything from a completely different light. Or, darkness, as he would say with that low chuckle that seduces me with the mere melodic sound. He can't drink. He can't smoke. I can only imagine the heightened scent of these simple pleasures of mortality. I want to know him in every way. It isn't a sexual demand. Not with him. I wonder how he sees me. Me, without make up. Me, with mousey brown hair and oddly inset eyes. I see the veins beneath his skin. He is the color a porcelain doll has, just before the second coat of touch up paint.

He stares at my wall, with his arms crossed. Within a second, he asks for my marker. What I've written the day before is crossed away in a few strokes. An arrow is drawn and he corrects my mistake. He turns to me and laughs, "I never said that." It's true. He didn't. He accuses me of overdramatizing his story. A crime I already know I'm guilty of.

I'm contemplating the idea of making this character male or female. Women are so easily seen as conniving trolls that I wonder if she'll be believed. Just as I am seen as completely mad and lost in an imaginary world. If vampires wanted to survive and maintain their lifestyle, do you think they'd want you to know they exist? Besides, this city dies after 2 a.m. In New Orleans, life would continue until the next morning. With the rising sun, our heads would hit the pillow. It was easier to see them then and believe they existed. Here, the Californians are snobby and inflicted with tunnel vision. They feel sorry for me, when I tell them I left New Orleans on account of the hurricane. They go off on a tangent about the relief efforts and how very angry it all made them, but where were they when the levees broke? Safe in their homes, watching with horror on their big screen televisions in Dolby stereo.

All these things are the subject of my debates with him. He doesn't visit often, but when he does, I know why. It must be painfully lonely in a life where no one knows you exist. He is the portrait of true beauty, with his sad eyes and perfect hair. His accent is smooth and touched with a hint of French culture. Faded, yes, I can tell that, but I know that sound anywhere. I miss him when he is not here. Lucky for me, time is perceived much slower in his eyes than in mine.