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“I mean, there is so much suffering that can be gifted to someone in life. And is that perhaps not a better form of punishment? Death is final. Once off. Then they rest afterward.”
She bites at her bottom lip, pondering what I have just said.
She looks up at me with a dark sparkle in her eyes. “I think you are right.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. That is one thing that I do not have to deal with right now.
I run my hand along her thigh. She grins, not a friendly or happy grin, but a grin filled with a wicked undercurrent. I find myself especially turned on by this. She is darker than I could have imagined she would be.
She is perfect for me.
“I'm going to give it some thought. But you are right. All these years of my life, they have been a sort of torture to me. Maybe I need to give him the same gift he gave me, somehow. Years of mental torment.”
The waiter arrives to take our order, and we spoke no more about her father or what plans she might create in her mind.That is a conversation for a private place. I have planted the seed and she can move in whichever direction she wishes with it.
When the waiter is gone and we are alone again, I cup her face in my hand and pull her close to me so that I can whisper against her ear. I feel her hands running along my thighs as she leans toward me.
“Are you feeling strong enough again? To handle me? Has your body recovered after our first time together?”
My heart pace speeds up at the thought of being inside her again.
She smiles and looks down, her dark lashes filtering her eyes from my gaze. The innocent yet flirtatious smile that drifts across her face is killing me. “Perhaps a few more days,” she whispers.
“It will be worth the wait. Just know that I think about you every moment of every day. I can’t get you out of my mind. You drive me crazy.”
She lifts her eyes and presses her lips against mine. I slide my fingers along her neck and feel the electricity beneath my touch upon her skin.
27
Seraphina
Iam alone, outin the City of New York, sitting at a coffee shop. My table is near the window, and I love the views of people rushing past, going about their lives.
I think about my father’s life. His miserable house in that beaten-down part of town. The unpainted walls and empty gardens. The gray bricks and that sad expression on his face when he came outside.
I think about how he walked. Hunched over as though he were uncomfortable.
I slide my fingers over the photograph of him in my hand. In this picture, he looks vibrant and happy, full of life and with endless possibilities for his future.
My mother took this photograph. I found it tucked into the pages of her journal. She loved it, caressed it. It must have brought feel fondness to her heart when she gazed at it. It used to fill me with sadness and love. Love that I thought was lost in death. But then I found out that he is still alive and now the photograph has a very different meaning for me.
It is an insult of sorts. All of those hours that I have spent looking at it and wishing for this man, the thought was taken from me. All of those hours were a mockery of my heart. He was alive this entire time. My whole life, I have been living without that truth.
Antonio is right. Death is too easy for him. Even though I can see that his life is miserable, maybe lonely, I want to make it worse. He doesn't even deserve the comfort of that falling apart home of his. He doesn't deserve the comfort of a warm meal in his stomach.
He should shiver, shaking and cold, hungry and in pain on a cold cement floor. That is what he deserves.
“Would you like another coffee?” the cheerful voice of the waiter pulls me from the darkness I was drifting in. I smile up at her, confused for a second.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She smiles.
“Who is that in the photograph? You have been holding it for ages. It must be someone special to you?”
“It is someone important to me, yes. My father.”
“I lost my father when I was very young, too. He had cancer. It is never easy losing one of your parents.” She shares a sad smile, one that says to meyou and I are the same. We have had the same hurt in our lives.I smile back. She is wrong, though. We are nothing the same, her and I. She can't faith the hurt I have had, because of this man.
“I’ll get you that coffee,” she says and picks up my empty mug, carrying it away.
