Mary Anne loves her life. But which life? The one she was born to live, and lives at night, or the one she has lived every day for a few years? What's her story? How does she know these people? And more importantly, who is the guy that "lives" in her dreams?
As I sat reading my newest literary love on my bed, a rush of cold night air meets the warm air of my room. It’s like an instant battle for dominance, the cold wins. With a low watt lamp being the only source of light, when I spoke, it was into the darkness. “Welcome back.” Simple, but also showed my annoyance. My eyes also gave it away, as they never left the page to see my visitor. Not that I had to, it would only be one person. Only one person came into my room at night. Only one person would even think of coming in after midnight. The one person that came in every night.
“You’re late” I said when I got no response, eyes still glued to the written words before me. A breathless, joyful laugh consumes the small over crowded room. It bounces off my book shelves, each exploding with books and my own creations. That laugh could melt ice in an instant wake the dead and bring joy to a funeral. It made even me smile.
The laugh had a carefree spirit, but I knew the stress that silently coated it. The laugh, like its source was complicated and mysterious. It was everything I loved, and everything I wanted. It brought me peace.