The Sinner

“I think it’s the thing to do, but I’m no expert. I

t’s been a while.”

“Same. But how about we try something else instead,” he said. “Do you know the little Italian bistro on Trebek Boulevard?”

“That’s a favorite.”

His smile was almost perplexed. “Mine too. I’ll link us some reservations for 8 o’clock.” He slid the book across the table to me.

I stared. “Are you giving this to me?”

Cyrus’s eyes widened with mock alarm. “My favorite Weston Turner? Never. No, take it and get reacquainted. Then give it back to me tonight at dinner and we’ll compare our favorite poems.” He smiled. “We can pretend we’re in the olden days when people didn’t download each other’s history but got to know each other face-to-face. Does that sound all right?”

It sounds perfect.

“What if I don’t show up?” I teased.

“Are you going to steal my book, Lily?”

“No, Cyrus,” I said, and just saying his name sent a pleasurable shiver all through me. “I’ll be there.”

“I hope so,” he said and rose reluctantly. “I’ll see you tonight at eight.”

“See you.”

Cyrus left with a parting smile that took half my heart out the door with him.

Oh stop. Don’t be so dramatic.

But I watched him go until there was no sign of him, then opened the book and flipped through the pages. Carefully. I couldn’t believe Cyrus trusted such a valuable relic to a total stranger.

Because we’re not strangers.

I flipped to a random poem called “Time Bends” and read, my heart thudding louder and harder with every word.

There’s blood in my beer.

I drink it down

and wipe away tears.

Nothing makes the past gentle

Or easy to swallow.

The night comes like

a thunderclap.

Blackness drops like blindness.

Time bends.

It folds the years

and suddenly I’m there

on that dusty, bone-choked field.