Angels
The winter wind blasts her as she ducks under the stoop and fishes for her key. Lingering in the doorway is a tall, lanky figure watching her.
Josette pauses, key poised in hand, as she meets the man's black stare. "Lysander," she breathes, her heart accelerating. For the first time that day she doesn't feel the cold.
He is dressed in black from head to toe: his pale face is framed by close-cropped black hair. "Josette." His voice is barely audible above the howling wind. She notices for the first time that his cheeks and hands are wind-stung and she wonders how long he has been waiting there: she left to carry out her errands hours ago.
"I want to talk to you." There is urgency in his voice. Her heart beats harder: she can't help wondering if he misses her as she misses him, if he feels the hollow cold as she does.
As she exhales her breath is marked by frost. She slides her key into the lock with a trembling hand and jiggles it slightly. In the cold, the lock tends to stick tediously.
She glances back at Lysander, who is watching her face intently.
Josette pauses, key poised in hand, as she meets the man's black stare. "Lysander," she breathes, her heart accelerating. For the first time that day she doesn't feel the cold.
He is dressed in black from head to toe: his pale face is framed by close-cropped black hair. "Josette." His voice is barely audible above the howling wind. She notices for the first time that his cheeks and hands are wind-stung and she wonders how long he has been waiting there: she left to carry out her errands hours ago.
"I want to talk to you." There is urgency in his voice. Her heart beats harder: she can't help wondering if he misses her as she misses him, if he feels the hollow cold as she does.
As she exhales her breath is marked by frost. She slides her key into the lock with a trembling hand and jiggles it slightly. In the cold, the lock tends to stick tediously.
She glances back at Lysander, who is watching her face intently.