Fatale

A Familiar Face

I don't move and neither does he. The cigarette that once rested on my lip has fallen to the ground, scuffing against my heels, ashes scattered slightly around my ankles. 

He's older, taller than he already was. But I'm sure it's him. 

I move to the crosswalk, my eyes on him the whole time as he simply stands there, hands stuffed in the pockets of expensive suit pants. Smirking. 

I cross the street, moving closer and closer to him. I can feel sweat collecting near my hair, my hands clammy. 

He turns to face me, a few feet away. I stop in my tracks, unable to get a single word out. 

He waits patiently, leaning slightly against the lamp post next to him. Shadows form on his cheeks from the light above, darkening his eyes, but still exposing the curved lips. 

Soon, I realize that I haven't spoken for too long. And I inhale. 

"Who are you?" I croak, my voice cracking more than I want it to. He stands up straight, taking a step towards me. 

"You don't remember me?" His voice is thick and deep, like expensive whiskey, and slightly spiced. I find myself shivering, but it's far too warm to be cold. 

"You were there that night." I whisper, keeping eye contact with him. 

He frowns suddenly, and I almost catch a glimpse of something in his dark eyes, hooded slightly with thicker lashes than he probably deserves. 

He opens his mouth to speak when a car horn blares across the street making me almost jump out of my skin, or at least my heels. 

I turn, and see the dark black town car. Swiveling to face the man again, I stop. He's gone. 

"What the hell were you doing?" Fiona asks as I drop myself into the back seat of the town car. I don't respond at first, and I suddenly realize that there are tears in my eyes. Tears I haven't shed for a long time. 

"It..." I trail off. I've never told Fiona about what I saw that night, and she never prodded. We both knew that some stories are too sad to relive. "It was nothing, I just got distracted for a second. But I got the information, I'll call the company when we get back." 

She stares at me, and I know she doesn't believe me. But she drops it, taking my hand in her's lightly. Her skin is warm against mine, and smooth from countless spa treatments and scrubs. 

"How was your night?" I ask, trying to buffer myself. 

She shakes her head slightly. "He was such a grabber, it was so frustrating. Took forever to distract him from my chest to actually get him to speak about anything of substance." 

I laugh slightly. "We've all known one of those." 

"Indeed we have." She whispers, and gives my hand a squeeze. 

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap the silk robe around my waist, tying it tightly. Steam fogs the mirror in front of me, and I swipe it slightly, revealing my face. It's odd, looking at yourself naked faced when you are so often in disguise. 

Looping my hair into a towel on my head, I step out of the bathroom, my feet meeting the smooth carpet of my bedroom. I throw myself onto the bed, sinking deeply into it's warmth like a giant hug. 

The lump on the ground, the stain. The matching stain on his hands as he lowered the gun, smoke flowing from the barrel. His eyes as he looked down at me, crouched on the ground. And what he said.