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“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”
The sun’s reminder of what I have lost. I hate my hand without his ring. I hate my life without his love.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.”
He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall. “Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.”
“Nous devons obtenir une réponse à ce sujet puis-je avancer a ce sujet cette semaine,”
“Malade, je vais vous envoyer un message dans la matinée. Je vais avoir besoin du rapport d’ici lundi s’il vous plait,”
“Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.
“Be a good boy, and you might get what you want.” He smiles darkly. “Or be a bad boy, and take it anyway.”
When I’m holding her in my arms like this, intimacy is running between us like a river, and just for a moment . . . She is mine.
