Felicite Found by Julia King Page B

laugh.” Even though what happened took a stab at his pride, she was happier for it, so he tossed the embarrassment away. “How long have you been awake?”
    “Not very long.” Her eyes flashed to the circular clock on the wall. “It was five o’clock when I woke up.” Pierre turned to see it was now six o’clock. Bright yellow covered the living room, glistening upon the furniture and hardwood floor.
    “An hour?” he asked. “What have you been doing this whole time? You could definitely have woken me up.”
    “I felt bad. You seemed so comfortable there, sucking your thumb and all.”
    “Wh . . . What?” Pierre raked his hand through his oily hair.
    “I am joking.” She giggled an amazing laugh. “No, I was fine just watching you.” Her eyes dashed to the right as her pale face blushed pink.
    “Watching me, huh?” He took a risky step closer. “You’ve been here a few days now and are already invading my sleeping privacy.” Shifting his jaw back and forth, he advanced closer, sweat moistening the nape of his neck.
    “Never. But it is difficult when this,” she motioned around the room, “is the only common area in your flat.”
    “Touché.” Gazing at Ém’s unforgettable body made intense pressure build heavy in his rib cage—fear mixed with chickening out bad time. Skirting past her, he grabbed a couple mugs. As he pried open the coffee canister, the aroma of the potent beans wafted around the room. He could taste the strong smell flowing through his mouth without having downed a drop of the drink. “You hungry?”
    “Ravenous.”
    “What are we waiting for, then? Breakfast time.” Within moments, food was strewn across the counter. He chopped and stirred and clanged pans around the room.
    “I am going to freshen up a bit.” She ducked into the bathroom.
    Pierre thought back to the first time Ém used the bathroom. His mom had to teach her how to use the sink and the bathtub as though the girl was from a third-world country. He accounted for it because of her memory loss, but he wondered how she could have forgotten so much.
    Wiping the strange memory clear from his mind, he focused back on his mad cooking frenzy. Eyes widening, he cracked a large brown egg into a sizzling frying pan. He breathed in the scent of spices with a smile filling his face.
    He turned on some pop music that whispered from his iPod, and he nodded his head rhythmically to the beat of the drums.
     
    Ém peered into the mirror above the washbasin to appraise herself. She removed the bandages and gasped when she saw the rope burns—still red and tender. It made her sad to think that not only once but twice she had tried to take her life.
    Why would I do that? She wondered.
    No beauty reflected back at her in mirror. Nothing stared back at her, for that matter. She still had no idea who she was.
    Who am I?
    Again, as she had done so many times over that past few days, she knit her brow until her forehead crinkled into miniature dips of mountains and valleys. Forcefully, she willed herself to remember something—anything. Her eyes blazed a firestorm at her reflection until all that resulted in the exercise was a wild ache in her head. Nothing came to mind, not even her own name. Ém was not doing the trick. In fact, the nickname only brought on violent frustration. With her failed attempt, she took one more glance at herself and humphed out a bitter groan.
    She undressed, and removed the ace bandage from her chest and then stepped into the hot water until her entire body was immersed. Immediately, the knots in her back loosened and the stitch of pain in her ribs lessened. She grabbed the strawberry scented soap and lathered herself from head to toe. After a thorough, yet, delicate scrub, she let the water wash away the suds. And her hopeless and helpless thoughts.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
    Pierre Rousseaux
     
    “H i.” A smile formed on Pierre’s face as Ém