Leave Me Breathless

She’s lost in thought, staring down at something – I don’t know what – and her hair is pinned up haphazardly on top of her head, today’s scarf lemon with green stars splattered all over it. Does she purposely make the bow on top bigger than her head? Probably. Just like she ensures every piece of clothing she wears is a few sizes too big. Her shirt today is knotted by the tails, and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her jeans are ripped and covered in numerous shades of paint, and her Birkenstocks are worn out but, I’m guessing, dead comfortable. She is simply a stunning disarray.

My heart flutters in my chest and I swallow down some restraint before I tackle her to the pavement. I quietly approach, still watching her, still admiring her, and come to a stop a few feet away, expecting her to notice me and look up. She doesn’t.

‘Hey.’

She jumps nearly a yard in the air, making me jump, too. My hand settles on my chest, but before I can find the will to laugh, I catch sight of her eyes. They’re not full of the sparkle I love. Nor the fun and wildness. In fact, they’re empty. Haunted. I withdraw, taken aback. She looks like a shell. A hollow vessel. Even her clothes seem grey all of a sudden.

The temperature of my blood drops a few too many degrees, instigating prickles across my skin. ‘Hannah?’ I say quietly, my apprehension clear. She stares at me for a few moments, seeming to be in a trance.

Then, as if something has stabbed her out of her daydream, she jerks, shakes her head, smiles, and blinks a few times. ‘Hi,’ she croaks, her gaze dropping to the pavement. ‘Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush.’

She turns and walks away, her pace not urgent, but I can see the resistance it’s taking her not to break out in a run. She makes it to her store, unlocks the door, and is inside before I’ve had a chance to let the past few minutes sink in.

So I stand and stare down the street, now in my own daze, my head instantly pounding with the effort it’s taking to figure out what the fuck just happened. Did she really just sack me off like that? ‘I’m in a bit of a rush?’ I say to myself, getting frowned at by Father Fitzroy when he dips past me to take a newspaper from the stand.

‘Sorry, son?’ he asks, folding it and slipping it under his arm. ‘Nothing.’ I talk my muscles back to life, walking over to the truck and throwing the bottle of wine on the passenger seat. She doesn’t seriously think I’m going to smile my way back to my cabin, no questions asked? Oh no. She can forget that.

I slam the door of my truck with brute force and stalk down the street to her door. I’m about to hammer on it, my fist raised and ready, but something pulls me back, my hand lowering, my breathing starting to level out. Awareness trickles into my system, and I stand back, battling against my instinct to bulldoze in and demand answers. She was spooked. Something had frightened her. I close my eyes for a few seconds and talk reason into myself. Handle her gently. For some reason, I’ve told myself that frequently recently. What the fuck is going on with her?

I knock on the door with an element of control that I’m really not feeling. And wait. Probably not for long, but it feels like eons. So I knock again, ensuring it’s calm and controlled. And wait again, counting to twenty to distract myself from charging down the door. Nothing. I get up close to the glass, looking inside. No Hannah. Taking a few steps back on the pavement, I look up at the windows to her apartment. All the curtains are drawn. I frown, looking around me, as if to check it’s daylight. The sun’s not even close to going down. Why the blackout on her apartment? My bones tingle. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a very long time. Apprehension.

I approach the door again, shielding my face as I look through the glass for any signs of life. I find no sign, but I do find something on the floor. Broken glass. The chills that come over me are unstoppable, and I pull my phone out, dialing her. The whole time it rings, I’m itching to burst through the door, and when it finally goes to an automated voice mail, I curse, stuff my phone back in my pocket, and pull out my wallet. I get a credit card from inside and get up close, sliding it down to the point where the door meets the frame by the lock. I hear the catch flip, but when I push into the wood, the door doesn’t shift. Bolts.