I don't own Twilight.

~ I ~

Atlanta, Georgia
Saturday, June 13, 1931

It's late at night or early in the morning, depending on whom you ask. The air surrounding me is drenched with a sweet, succulent, flowery scent that won't leave me. It's been following me since this afternoon in the library. I've spent my first night off in three weeks, and a good chunk of my meager wages, at a smoky, windowless speakeasy and all I should smell is the sour stink of strong liquor and stale cigarette smoke. Strangely, as I run up the stairs to the hole in the wall I rent, only her smell lingers.

I look at myself in the mirror while I wash my hands for what feels like the one-hundredth time today. It's been a while since I've taken more than a casual glance into the mirror to shave or wash my face. I still look the same – sort of. Handsome – people used to say, but the last year has taken its toll. My cheeks are hollow, purple coloring shadows my eyes, and when my trademark smile crosses my chapped lips and spreads to the rest of my face, the lines around my eyes become deeper. Overall, my appearance is almost gaunt, and maybe it is time I take my landlady up on the charity invitation to dinner she is kind enough to extend to me every now and then. I usually decline, not wanting to impinge on her, I'm sure, limited resources. I could probably use a haircut too, I notice, as I rake my hands through my greasy, too-long hair.

It probably wouldn't hurt to pay more attention to my exterior. Classes are over for the summer, and all I've to worry about is my job. No anatomy, no pharmacology, and no immunology lessons. That should leave me with some spare time. I should probably take a shower more often to scrub the odor of formaldehyde off of me. I inhale deeply and there it is, the odor that never leaves me; strong and suffocating as it burns a path down to my lungs. Pathology, the dead, is all I deal with these days. And even though a faint hint of her scent is still in the air, simmering beneath the stink of death and disease, I know then it's hopeless. I shouldn't bother to try to change anything about me.

Considering how the stench has permeated my very existence, I'm surprised people aren't completely repelled by me; they are sometimes, when they notice it. Things aren't what they used to be these days. I never pity myself; at least I never have until today.

I fall down on my narrow bed, fully dressed, and sleep evades me. It's the first time in a long time I'm not instantly asleep the second my body hits the mattress. Usually physical exhaustion even keeps dreams at bay, and most nights going to sleep is just like falling into a deep, dark, black pit.

Not tonight, though. My mind keeps drifting back to this afternoon. Her smell is blossoming again. She sat three tables down from me, next to one of the large windows that frame the main reading hall. She read intently, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, while I tried in vain to study ahead for my fall classes, so I wouldn't drown in my workload once the semester starts again.

I noticed her immediately when she walked into the room. The sound of her heels click-clacking along the stone floor, the flowery scent of expensive perfume, her billowy white summer dress, and the two long pearl necklaces. She didn't look like the kind of gal who spends her time studying, yet she moved with certainty around the stacks, seemingly knowing exactly what she was looking for and where to find it.

When she settled with some books in hand, I started inspecting her. Upon first glance, she looked like any rich, young eligible debutante strolling down Peach Street. But there were things about her that didn't fit. Her hair, for one, was not cut in the latest fashion of a short bob, but held together at the back of her head in a bun with an elegant silver comb; it looked kind of old-fashioned and was in stark contrast to her otherwise à la mode appearance.

As I attempted to focus on the book on Mendelian chromosome theory in front of me, my mind instead wondered what her hair would look like unfurled, falling around her shoulders in long dark waves. Naturally, my eyes took the detour to her chest. Under the layers of long-stranded pearls rested a delicate gold chain with a small cross attached to it, lending her a touch of innocence. I never understood why people chose to adorn themselves with religious symbols; nor, for that matter, did I ever care to know why people chose to believe in a higher power. I was curious, though, as to why she was wearing it and whether it held any meaning to her.

She shifted to rest her head on her hand, while her other hand played idly with her pearls. The change of position made the top of her pretty dress fall forward. She didn't seem to notice and made no move to cover herself. I took the opportunity to let my gaze wander further down over her skin to her exposed cleavage and the white slip. Her skin was pale, almost translucent; something that wasn't quite common anymore with girls who could afford trips to nearby beach resorts. All the chic girls these days tanned. Oddly, the things about her that didn't mesh with my first impression of her were the ones that attracted me the most.

I realized then, unable to tear my eyes away from her, that it's been a while. My tongue darted out to lick my parched lips and I swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in the stiff, wooden chair.

Usually the showing of some cleavage wouldn't have gotten me excited. Back in my former life in New York, I'd never suffered from a lack of attention from the opposite sex, or a short supply of gals willing to offer me anything. Lying in my bed thinking about her, I realize that it's been an awful long time since I even wasted a thought on a girl.

I can't shake the vision of her, and so I revert back to the furtive pastime pleasure of my teenage years. My hand rubs up and down the worn-out fabric of my pants for a brief moment before I give in, unzip my pants and think of her. I let my head spin a fantasy as I close my eyes.

She is standing at the foot of my bed in nothing but her white slip. Her body appears lithe as if she is walking on air when she moves to sit down, facing away from me. She glances back at me over her shoulder and smiles before letting one hand trail to the strap of her slip, pulling it off her shoulder. In agonizingly slow motion she tugs the other strap down, peeling the last item of her clothes down to her hips.

I want to crawl over to her to touch her, but I remain the voyeur for a while longer, enjoying the show. She reaches her hand up and pulls out the delicate silver comb from the back of her head, making me ache with anticipation. Her hair unravels in long, shiny, dark waves down her back, almost reaching the dimples right above her butt, still covered in fabric, and I want to tear the slip off of her with my teeth. Now.

I stalk up behind her, crawling closer, ready to pounce, but before I reach her she turns around and kneels in front of me with her breasts exposed. She has effectively turned the cards on me; I'm the prey and she is the predator. I'm stunned by her perfection; her beauty is pure and without frills. No makeup, no jewelry and no fancy French lingerie to accentuate her curves. Her skin shimmers pearly white in the moonlight, transforming her into an ethereal creature. The peeks of her tiny, erect nipples are a deep rosy pink and I can't wait to touch, to feel. I tentatively let my fingers trail along her arm, grazing the side of her breasts and bend forward to kiss her. She pulls back with a light laugh. I am on the verge of no longer being able to restrain myself and trying to pull her down to lie next to me.

"Patience," I hear her whisper from a far, far away place. She reaches with both hands to the back of her neck and my eyes are suddenly focused on the small golden cross lying in the hollow where the clavicle meets her sternum. She is taking it off. She collects the necklace in her hand, drops it on the small table next to my bed and straddles me. Her exposed wet sex rubbing against me, she bends over to kiss me, and our naked chests touch.

I am desperate for release. I want to extend this vision of her, but I can't hold back. It's been too long. I fall into deep slumber and the vision of the girl stays with me.

Thank you for reading. I promise this story won't be complete smut.