doesn’t drink at all.
“I had a little job in the neighborhood, talking to someone who needed a bit of reassurance.” His long fingers play over the stem of the glass. “He won’t remember my visit, but he won’t be so scared now.”
Ah, Mr. Grey at Number 24. He’s very, very old, and he’s just had a heart scare. I don’t know him very well. His family mostly takes care of him very nicely. But I once helped him tune his television when he called out to me when I was passing.
How wonderful that an angel helped him out in a time of need too.
“How long can you stay?”
Suddenly, I feel very, very afraid. I’m scared of his answer. It dawns on me that no matter how foolish it is, after just a few days, I’ve fallen hard for him. I don’t want him to go. I want more time. I want more of him. I want it all.
This new revelation makes me shake again, and I swig down more wine, only just avoiding a major coughing fit. My eyes water a bit, but when they clear, Patrick’s by my side, stroking my back.
“Better?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Do sit down. I’m all right.” Tension makes me tetchy. I don’t want to know, but I have to have an answer. “When do you have to go?”
Patrick pulls up a chair at my side of the table and sits in it, facing me. Our knees touch and just the slight contact of it makes me weak with lust. It seems my libido isn’t subject to the slings and arrows of stress and angst and bizarre revelations. It just goes on and on wanting and wanting.
“I should be gone now. I’ve already overstayed my allotted time for this visit.” He reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink. Instead, he pushes it around, sloshing the wine in precarious circles. “But I don’t want to go.”
Because of me, he’s stayed because of me? I don’t dare ask. I start to fidget with my wine glass too.
“We’re allowed a bit of latitude, but not as much as I’ve been wont to take. And this time I’ve stayed even longer than usual.”
“I see.” My heart’s thudding and my brain’s starting to tick, tick, tick, balancing and measuring ramifications. I’m trying to stay in control, even though there’s a banshee inside me ready to scream her loss.
I’ve only known Patrick a couple of days, but I cannot bear to say goodbye. I love him already, and even for someone with a risky habit of falling in love quickly, this is a record.
Does he love me?
He said so in my dream, but that might just have been my wishful thinking speaking. That sensual flight we shared was purest fantasy. Or was it? All this talk of states beyond comprehension makes me wonder.
Fear of the pain of loss forces me to practicalities.
“When will you come back?” I take a quick sip of wine, more carefully this time. “I mean, can you come back? Here, I mean, to this, um, vicinity?”
He closes his eyes, and his face is suddenly a taut mask. I see an intimation of the banshee, the formless shrieking anguish hidden beneath the handsome human features, and I know that the answer isn’t going to be a good one.
“Yes, I can come back.” He’s hesitant, as if the words are hard.
“Ah, but there’s a but, isn’t there?” From the expression on his face, I suspect it’s a big one.
“Where I come from time doesn’t pass the way it does here. I might come back in a week, but it could just as easily be a decade. Or a century. Or a millennium. There’s no way to know in advance.”
The shrieking anguish starts to stir and roil and get a real grip on me.
“But surely, you can be sent to specific times, like to comfort Mr. Grey?”
Patrick heaves a great sigh. “But I can’t be sent back for my own purposes.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “And I can’t be sent for yours either” He moves his thumb again, the action sweet and seductive and soothing as it skims the pulse point at my wrist. “The mind of my Boss is unknowable. It’s not for the likes of us to understand or question his
“I had a little job in the neighborhood, talking to someone who needed a bit of reassurance.” His long fingers play over the stem of the glass. “He won’t remember my visit, but he won’t be so scared now.”
Ah, Mr. Grey at Number 24. He’s very, very old, and he’s just had a heart scare. I don’t know him very well. His family mostly takes care of him very nicely. But I once helped him tune his television when he called out to me when I was passing.
How wonderful that an angel helped him out in a time of need too.
“How long can you stay?”
Suddenly, I feel very, very afraid. I’m scared of his answer. It dawns on me that no matter how foolish it is, after just a few days, I’ve fallen hard for him. I don’t want him to go. I want more time. I want more of him. I want it all.
This new revelation makes me shake again, and I swig down more wine, only just avoiding a major coughing fit. My eyes water a bit, but when they clear, Patrick’s by my side, stroking my back.
“Better?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Do sit down. I’m all right.” Tension makes me tetchy. I don’t want to know, but I have to have an answer. “When do you have to go?”
Patrick pulls up a chair at my side of the table and sits in it, facing me. Our knees touch and just the slight contact of it makes me weak with lust. It seems my libido isn’t subject to the slings and arrows of stress and angst and bizarre revelations. It just goes on and on wanting and wanting.
“I should be gone now. I’ve already overstayed my allotted time for this visit.” He reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink. Instead, he pushes it around, sloshing the wine in precarious circles. “But I don’t want to go.”
Because of me, he’s stayed because of me? I don’t dare ask. I start to fidget with my wine glass too.
“We’re allowed a bit of latitude, but not as much as I’ve been wont to take. And this time I’ve stayed even longer than usual.”
“I see.” My heart’s thudding and my brain’s starting to tick, tick, tick, balancing and measuring ramifications. I’m trying to stay in control, even though there’s a banshee inside me ready to scream her loss.
I’ve only known Patrick a couple of days, but I cannot bear to say goodbye. I love him already, and even for someone with a risky habit of falling in love quickly, this is a record.
Does he love me?
He said so in my dream, but that might just have been my wishful thinking speaking. That sensual flight we shared was purest fantasy. Or was it? All this talk of states beyond comprehension makes me wonder.
Fear of the pain of loss forces me to practicalities.
“When will you come back?” I take a quick sip of wine, more carefully this time. “I mean, can you come back? Here, I mean, to this, um, vicinity?”
He closes his eyes, and his face is suddenly a taut mask. I see an intimation of the banshee, the formless shrieking anguish hidden beneath the handsome human features, and I know that the answer isn’t going to be a good one.
“Yes, I can come back.” He’s hesitant, as if the words are hard.
“Ah, but there’s a but, isn’t there?” From the expression on his face, I suspect it’s a big one.
“Where I come from time doesn’t pass the way it does here. I might come back in a week, but it could just as easily be a decade. Or a century. Or a millennium. There’s no way to know in advance.”
The shrieking anguish starts to stir and roil and get a real grip on me.
“But surely, you can be sent to specific times, like to comfort Mr. Grey?”
Patrick heaves a great sigh. “But I can’t be sent back for my own purposes.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “And I can’t be sent for yours either” He moves his thumb again, the action sweet and seductive and soothing as it skims the pulse point at my wrist. “The mind of my Boss is unknowable. It’s not for the likes of us to understand or question his
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