"What movie shall we watch?"
"I don't really care." I said, walking up to her and pulling her over to the sofa. "I want to ask you a question."
"I want to ask you one first."
"But I said first."
"But I am the girl, so I get to ask."
"But -" she punched me in the arm. "Oww! Where you always this terrifying?"
"I am not sure. You tell me." She added under her breath. I rolled my eyes.
"What is it that you wanted to ask me?" She looked away and took a deep breath. She looked insightful for a moment then turned to stare at me. Then she pounced.
That's the only word for it, pounced. Her lips where on mine so quickly that I didn't have time to prepare myself. I responded, obviously, with less enthusiasm than her but it seemed like she needed it. I pushed her off me.
"Um. Right. Ok." I said staggered. "My turn."
"You technically didn't answer my question."
"I did."
"You didn't." I rolled my eyes and leaned in to her, put my hand on her face and kissed her with as much enthusiasm as I could.
"There. My turn."
"Your turn." She smiled.
"What is your husband like?"
Callie Rose
What is my husband like? How could he ask me that? He, of all people would know what he was like. But he is the one person who genuinely doesn't know. He knows of me, and he can obviously tell that I exist, but he doesn't know who I am. I have no idea why, but he can't remember anything.
He can't remember McAuley, the Dowd's and he can't remember me being shot.
But he kissed me.
What is my husband like?
My husband is dead.