Compared to the creepy house in the wilds of the country, her one-thousand-square-foot apartment seemed even smaller than normal. She gave an irritated tug to the shower curtain she’d used to surround the toilet in the kitchen as she passed it. She hated the rental apartment, the state of her life, and her headache—grumpy as all get out without anywhere to vent that frustration.
Not to mention, she couldn’t remember what happened at the weird house with Mr. Amanar. The last thing she remembered was sitting at his table while he signed and then…what? The doctors told her she’d fallen down the stairs. She didn’t even remember. Just some crazy dreams about vampires.
The music in her mind moved at its steady pace. She could see the dancers as they glided across the stage. Really, it looked like flying. The Costumes. And Paris in 1910…so alive. She sat next to a man. He was her secret, her love, the one who saw to her every need…even the dark ones.
Her eyes flew open. It was right there that the dream always ended. She knew it could go on. She’d told her mother about it once, and the woman had beat the hell out of her with the back of a hairbrush. Her rear end had stung for a week. She wasn’t even to dream, apparently, about drinking blood. That was not an acceptable thought, even for her imagination.
But, there was always the music. She would always have that.
Her bosses had been understanding about the delay in the paperwork. Her briefcase had come with her to the hospital—she supposed if she ever saw the strange, albeit handsome client again, she’d thank him for thinking of it when he’d had his employee bring her to the hospital. As long as the papers were signed, they’d wait twenty-four hours to receive them, meaning she’d have to go to work, which meant getting up, getting dressed, and the whole nine yards.
A knock on the door only added to her pain. Who could be banging at ten in the morning on a work day? Her few girlfriends should be at work, and she doubted the bartender down the street had come to check on her, considering she’d just cancelled their almost date. No way was she going to be up for a costume party.
Essence squinted her way to the door and looked through the peephole. A man stood outside, wearing jeans and a red t-shirt. He held flowers in his hand. She flung open the door. “You have the wrong apartment. The girl down the hall gets all the flower deliveries. She’s apparently really good at what she does.”
Which had something to do modeling… But maybe it was hands instead of clothes. Essence wasn’t really sure.
Men came and went from her apartment, too, which left Essence feeling lonely. Her virginal status weighed on her heavily. Who—besides herself—hadn’t lost their virginity by the time they were twenty-six?
“Are you Essence Welch?” The man chewed gum when he spoke, and he must have been a smoker, because it wafted into her apartment along with the scent of mint.
“That’s me.”
He shoved the vase in her face, and she took it automatically. Had the partners sent her roses? “Ah, thanks.”
“Cool name, by the way. How’d you get it?”
She blinked, trying to understand the question. Was he kidding? When he didn’t move, she decided he meant it as legitimate query. “My parents. Thank you.” What was she supposed to do now? Tip him?
He nodded, scratching his chin. “Ah, well. Yeah. Don’t worry. Tip was included. Have a good day.”
She shut the door, still as confused as she’d been when she opened it. Roses? She set the vase down on her small, practically dilapidated kitchen table. Now that she was earning more money and not in school, she needed to start investing in things to make life nicer. Like a table that didn’t jiggle. But, first a new apartment in a better neighborhood that had an actual place for the toilet outside of the kitchen.
Essence didn’t have big dreams anymore, but the ones she had mattered. A little comfort would go a long way.
She caught sight of herself in the glass vase. A giant bandage covered most of her forehead. She shook her head. “It’s a good thing you have such a hard one.”
A card poked out of the flowers, and she picked it up to read it. At least the flowers hadn’t been sent without identifying who sent them. That would have been kind of creepy.
Ms. Welch,
I am so deeply sorry you were hurt at my residence. I request the presence of your company to discuss certain matters in private. As I know you may be reluctant to see me again, given our last encounter, I would be happy to meet you in a public place surrounded by others. Would Le Grande Jette work for you tomorrow evening at nine for dinner? If this doesn’t work, I understand. I will wait for you there, regardless.
I hope you like the roses.
“Lords of melody and song,
Lords of roses burning bright,
Blue will right the ancient wrong,
Though the way is dark and long,
Blue will shine with loving light.”
― Madeleine L'Engle, A Swiftly Tilting Planet.
Deepest Regards