"But why is it a house of leaves?"
Phil gasped some as he woke, drenched in sweat and short of breath. There was something he couldn't place. It was a dream but not a dream. Did I fall asleep? For a little while. Blindly, he grabbed at a bottle of aspirin from his nightstand and popped two in his mouth. The headaches were mild but constant now. It had been two days since his late night dinner with Melinda and he'd holed up with this strange feeling. Everything was getting so confusing these last couple of weeks. He'd had such a normal life until then.
He swung his legs out of bed, the box spring creeking in protest as it shifted under him. The flickering red digits on his clock read 09:44 but for the life of him, Phil couldn't remember if it was AM or PM.
The knock on his door meant AM.
"Phil?" The front door provided little to no sound barrier between them. Melinda knocked again. "Phil, are you okay?"
He pulled on his sweat pants and an AC/DC t-shirt with a coffee stain. But he didn't care. The stream of light made him flinch as he opened the door. "Morning."
She had a knife in her hand, her look hard. "You were shouting. I was about to break in. Who's in there?"
He opened the door wider, letting it squeal on it's hinges. "No one. Have a look."
Melinda held tight to her knife but stepped over the threshold. He was only slightly aware that this was the first time she'd been in his apartment. Her eyes traced the worn brown sueded couch, the slightly splintered crates that were his coffee table, and the stack of books littered about.
Comic books.
Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Told you. No one."
She tucked her knife in a small sheath on her belt. "What were you shouting about?"
He sighed and shut the door. "I don't even remember shouting."
She glanced back to him. "You're sweating."
"I think I was dreaming." He sat heavily on the couch.
She sat behind him. "You look like shit rolled over."
He felt like it, too. "Gee, thanks?"
Melinda chuckled. "You know what I mean." She paused. "You haven't really said much since the diner. Skye says you haven't been around."
"Haven't felt well," he admitted, reaching for a half empty bottle of stale beer.
Her eyes followed the bottle to his lips. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
He took a swig and set it down. "I don't have anything to say. I don't even know what's going on."
She put a hand on his arm. "Your headaches. They're getting worse, aren't they?"
He closed his eyes, the blackness of his eyelids gave little comfort to the gentle throbbing in his brain. There must be a bulb out. I couldn't resist.
Her cool hand cupped his cheek. "Should I take you to the doctor?" she whispered.
He kept his eyes closed, taking in the sensation of her touch. "No." He wasn't sure if he said that out loud or not. It didn't matter. He felt her warm breath as her lips brushed over his.
It's a magical place.