Early morning at the lake. Up in the
mountains there was nothing and no one around for miles. You could
feel the fresh air, the morning dew, and the green of the forest moss
as it silently slid easily into your lungs with each deep breath.
Behind him, in the kitchen, the coffee pot burbled and the air from
inside was an intoxicating mix of fresh coffee and of her perfume.
Cynthia, he looked up at the ceiling,
he could still feel the warmth of her touch and the heat of her
breath against his skin. Along with the scent of her came both a mist
across the lake and her voice. “Good morning, Mikey,” she cooed.
He turned around slowly and easily. He
turned to see Cynthia disappearing into the mist. Mike reached out
for her, again.
Mike sat up in bed, reaching out into
the darkness of his bedroom. Would he ever get over Cynthia, he
wondered aloud to the empty darkness of his bedroom. Damn it hurt. It
hurt to have had her so strongly in his life. It hurt to have had her
disappear so mysteriously from his life. Sometimes he had to wonder
if she had ever really been there, if she wasn't just a figment of
his imagination.
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