Larsen gently places the phone back on the receiver, but instead of heading inside her apartment, she wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on top of her knees. Her gaze is transfixed on the bright full moon dangling high above the city. I never understood the saying about lassoing the moon for someone, but in this moment it absolutely rings true.
Though it’s summertime, a chill lingers in the air, which explains the long-sleeved shirt and lounge pants that Larsen wears. I can barely make out her body amidst the shadows and darkness of the night. The moon and the ray of light coming from her window are the only illuminations. Like a spotlight designed just for her.
I’m not sure what possesses me to do it, because she obviously wants to be alone at this moment, but I crouch through my window and step onto the platform. Her gaze immediately darts to me as the stairwell creaks and screeches in protest.
“Thought maybe you could use some company,” I explain to her as I walk to the corner that she’s claimed as her own and squat down to take a seat beside her.
Immediately she reaches up and pulls a section of hair over her shoulder and face, blocking her right side from my view.
On its own accord, my hand reaches up and tucks the hair behind her ear, Larsen’s body instantly stiffening at my contact. It’s as if she’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched. And that’s a shame. My fingertips barely brush the side of her cheek, but they’re left tingling from the connection.
“I wish you wouldn’t hide your face. I like looking at you,” I tell her, my voice thick and husky to my own ears.
“You’d be the only one,” she retorts, her defensiveness about the serrated scar evident in her sharpness.
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
She blows a puff of air in exasperation.
“So, do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. Larsen is stunningly beautiful, the scar weaving down her face and arm doing little to distract me from her appearance. I’ve worked with, dated, and slept with some of the women that the world claims to be the most beautiful, but they don’t hold a candle to this innocent female before me.
Her blonde hair is mixed with hints of white and light brown, giving it a perfect mix of highlights. It’s soft and silky with a slight wave hanging to the middle of her back where her waist is the smallest. She’s petite, almost a foot shorter than me, but what makes her seem even smaller is when she caves into herself. I only witnessed it for a few minutes, but she shrinks in a crowd, not wanting to draw unwanted attention.
She turns her big brown eyes toward me, the glisten of the moon shining in their depths. “No. No boyfriend. Anyone in the age range of thirteen and fifty rarely pay me any mind.”
“Why is that?”
She rolls those beautiful eyes at me and then returns her gaze back to the sky as if I should know the answer to that question.
“Am I missing something?” I ask.
“People my age look at me with pity or they’re grossed out. No one wants to be with a monster.”
Anger wells up deep inside me and it’s so hot I could boil water with it. “Excuse me?” I bellow. “Is that how you see yourself? I don’t even know you but you are anything but a monster.”
“It’s hard to think of myself as anything else when I’ve been called that and worse.”
“By whom?”
“Does it matter?” she quietly inquires, a sheen on her lower lids shimmering in the darkness from the reflection of the moon.
I want to tell her that it matters to me, but I’m not certain she would care. I’m no one to her, just someone passing through for a few days.
“There has to be someone you’re interested in.”
Again, she doesn’t respond, but her eyes flicker down to her bare toes and I would swear, even in the darkness, that she is blushing.
Bingo.
“Who is it?”
“Please stop. He’s not interested.”
Well, then he is an idiot, I tell myself.
Not one for awkward silence, I inquire about the memorial service, but I should have known that wouldn’t go over well. She immediately breaks down into heart-wrenching sobs. Crying isn’t something I’m comfortable with unless it’s staged. But for some reason I find myself reaching out and tucking her small frame against me. And by God, she fits flawlessly in my hold, her figure a perfect alignment to mine, like a puzzle piece fitting expertly next to its match.
She turns her head toward my chest and continues to cry, the wetness of her tears seeping through my shirt, but I barely notice. Instinctively I rub my hand down her back and arm until she soothes herself, letting her know that I’m here offering my solace.