When a car crash claims the lives of their partners, Ezra and Imani are left reeling as they discover their loved ones died while holding hands. With accusations of an affair and betrayal flying, they're thrown together into grief and anger. Ezra's...
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11
Imani
It wasn't supposed to rain tonight, but I got caught in it just a minute away from my building. So, I had to run, my heels making a distinct echo in the street filled with puddles. I hurried inside before getting completely soaked, shaking off the rain from my hair and body in an attempt to rid myself of the dampness.
Entering my apartment, a rush of anxiety hits me as I recall switching off the lights before leaving, and I'm certain I didn't cook. So, why are the lights turned on, and why does the smell of food waft through the air?
Closing the door cautiously, I walk farther in. The table is set with food, and, before I can grasp the situation, sounds emanate from the kitchen. Grabbing an umbrella, I tread softly towards the kitchen, though logic screams to call security, but I find myself heading into the kitchen armed only with an umbrella. Stepping in, there he stands by the stove. When he hears me, he turns around, and his face breaks into a smile.
"You're back!" his voice exclaims with a hint of delight, as if my return brings him joy. Swiftly, he approaches and thrusts two plates into my hands. "Set these on the table, will you? I'll be right there with you," he insists before turning and hurrying back to the stove.
I stand there, rooted in shock, struggling to grasp the surrealness of the moment. Ezra moves with familiarity around my kitchen, confidently opening and closing drawers, adjusting the stove, and effortlessly gliding past me with another plate in hand. It's almost as if he's been here before, which is impossible because he's never set foot in my apartment. I can't fathom how he managed to get inside.
I finally decide to follow him. "What..." I begin, my words hesitating on my tongue, dripping with disbelief. "Is this even real?" I ask, my voice quivering with uncertainty. It's a question I need to ask, for it feels like an alternate reality, where the man who hates me is casually in my apartment, arranging the food he's prepared on the table as if the past three weeks didn't happen.
Ezra chuckles, a wry smile on his lips. "As real as it can get," he retorts, striding a few steps closer to take the plates from my grasp before they fall. "What would you like to eat? I've cooked more than we can possibly eat. Is that alright?" He pauses, studying me with furrowed brows. He's too calm. Too relaxed. It's unlike him, and it frightens me in a certain way that doesn't make me immediately seek flight.
But the initial shock gradually gives way to anger, simmering under the surface. "How the hell did you get in here?" I demand. "What are you doing, Ezra?"
He shrugs. "I cooked," he says, casually.
A scoff of disbelief escapes my mouth. "You cooked. Is that all you have to say? You just cooked?" My incredulous words hang in the air.
