The Luck Of The Irish
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She was always there. When he went to bed at night. When he arose in the morning. He simply could not stop thinking about her. Not that he really wanted to—thinking about her was exciting him, yet frustrating at the same time. She disrupted his thoughts at the most awkward times; at home, at work. Even at church. The worst were the early mornings, right before the sun rose. Time and again, he'd hauled himself from the depths of a rather sensual dream where her mouth had been on his, her soft skin hot and silky beneath his hands. It had left him frustrated and aching with need way too many times.
With a sigh, Amos Hart rolled onto his back, eyes closed against the shadowy semi-darkness of his bedroom. As much as he tried, sleep just wouldn't come, eluding him once again as it had done so often these last three weeks. Fourteen months had gone by since his divorce from Roxie, thirteen months since he had last seen her, and even more time had passed since they had last shared the double bed he was presently occupying by himself.
He missed her. But it wasn't Roxie herself he missed-it was more what she had represented; someone to share his life with, someone to love, to care about. He missed the comfort that came with curling up beside someone at night, he missed not being lonely.
Amos had come to dread returning home to a dark and empty flat at night. There was no wife, no little ones waiting for him. His only companion was loneliness-constant, ever present loneliness.
Yes, despite having plenty of friends, he was lonely. So lonely that it hurt sometimes.
Amos had no illusions; he was painfully aware of the fact that he wasn't the best-looking man, nor was he as smart as the likes of Billy Flynn, Roxie's lawyer. But he was of good character, and he was a hard worker. So why was he still alone? Deep down inside, he knew the answer. Those usually desirable qualities were not a priority for most women nowadays. He should know, he had been married to one.
A frown darkened his homely features. A meal ticket. Yes, that's all he'd ever been to Roxie. Nothing more. Some of his friends had warned him, but at the time, he wouldn't have any of it. He had been head over heels in love with Roxie—or so at least, he'd thought. He should have known, seen the warning signs, but no, he'd been too blind to see anything—anything but the false love and attention she had showered him with. Yes, he should have known when she had coaxed him into bed the second night after they had met, professing her love for him. Unlike Amos, Roxie had known exactly what she was doing. He should have known right then.
Somewhere in the flat above, someone was using the water closet. The muffled rush of flushing water, followed by the creaking of the floorboards, drifted to his ear. Amos pulled the feather bed tighter around himself against the chill of the frigid night air. It was only the beginning of November, but already had Chicago seen its first snow of the season. He sighed again; it was going to be a long winter—in more ways than just one.
Red hair, almost as curly as his own, he thought as his mind drifted back to his previous, more pleasant thoughts. Long and shiny, done up in a loose topknot. He wondered what it would look like tumbled down around her shoulders.
A smile curved Amos' lips as he pictured her face. Her skin was fair-not a sickly pale, but rather healthy and glowing, the kind that comes with being a redhead by nature. She had a delicate scattering of freckles across her nose, and, unlike Roxie, she wore no make-up in an attempt to cover them. Her eyes were beautiful, bright and green. He remembered it all so well because she had looked at him once.
It had happened three weeks ago, after Sunday mass. As he was preparing to leave the sanctuary, she had come up alongside him with a friend of hers. For only the briefest of moments had their gazes met, but the lively intelligence in her beautiful green eyes and the promise of tenderness and passion in her warm smile had been enough for Amos to instantly fall in love with her.
He knew that her name was Annie. He didn't know her last name, but he didn't care. It was just a minor detail.
Yes, she was beautiful, and Amos was head over heels in love. The only problem was—she didn't even know he existed.
Or so at least, he thought.
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Note from the author: I'm not sure if anyone is even still out there, reading CHICAGO stories...but if anyone likes the character of Amos Hart as much as I do and wants to see a happy ending for him-let me know and I'll gladly post the rest. ;)