The room was filled with vacant seats, save for one. Front and center.
His back was to her. Fierce curls splayed in a perfect crown, caramel skin juxtaposed with pristine white fabric. She needn’t see his face to know it was him, as impossible as that was. Her hands trembled at her sides as she tried, in vain, to fight back the angry tears that threatened to spill down onto the nondescript gray linoleum.
“What do you want?” She had hoped to shout it but her voice, cracking under the weight of emotion, barely registered above the hum of the temperamental air conditioner, which had miraculously decided to function today.
He pivoted to face her and though she thought she was prepared, she gasped at the glorious spectre, hazel eyes glowing, smile blinding, whom she now found herself at the mercy of.
“I’m here for you, Ms. Morris.” His words dripped arrogance and sex. God, he was awful and beautiful.
“No, you’re not real. “ She said the words for herself as she dug her nails into her sweaty palms, willing what must be a hallucination to recede. She would go to the doctor. She would get on antipsychotics. Whatever it took. But she needed to get through today first.
“Was I not real that night?” His eyes drilled into hers as he bit his bottom lip, playfully twisted a lock of his mane.
Denver looked back and was grateful that Ron had closed the door that separated their rooms though she was beginning to feel that she was underwater, in another time. Or was she now somewhere that transcended time?
“You were once. But now you’re dead.”
“What makes you think that, my beloved?”
She moved slowly, as if any sudden movements would elicit danger, until she was within inches of the man in white. He smelled of Coolwater and citrus, smells that always took her back in time, back to him. She blinked away the lingering tears, leaning down to meet his burning gaze.
“Because I killed you.”