Fourteen
Relieved, they slept, she using his hand as a pillow; he, resting his chin on his outstretched arm.
Dreaming, he was racing, lost, through the grey fog. He found Benton St. and slowed his pace on familiar cobblestones. He walked past the deli, past the bookstore, and felt glad relief as he entered his favorite tea shop.
There were timbers and debris everywhere, charred and dripping. Broken china crunched underfoot as he walked through the tea room. The charming tables were scattered and broken; linen, muddied with soot, lay like shrouds on the floor.
The quiet stillness struck him, as the sense of disturbing a tomb washed over him, and he ceased his movement in response.
Then he saw her, sprawled out, unconscious.
A cry of anguish broke from him as he fell to his knees, crawling to her.
He rolled her and brushed the sticky matted hair from her face and pressed his mouth to hers.
Breath—one—two—three—Breath—one—two—three . . .
She coughed and he looked into soulful, dark eyes.
~o0o~
He startled awake.
"Hello, I'm Bella. May I pour for you?"
My God—it was her!