52
19 Mariana “R eynard,” purrs a cultured British voice on the other end of the line. Flooded with the same relief I always feel when I hear his voice, I close my eyes and rest my forehead in my hand. I’m sitting at Ryan’s glass kitchen table, my nose filled with the delicious scent of frying bacon, my heart like a grenade with the pin pulled inside my chest. How do people live like this? How can anyone survive this feeling, this agony of tenderness and hope? It’s madness, I know it is, and yet… “Hello, Reynard,” I say quietly. “It’s Dragonfly.” A brief pause follows before he asks, “Are you all right?” “Yes and no. Mostly yes, nothing to worry about.” Another pause. “It certainly sounds like something to worry about.” I chew my lip, thinking. “The job was…difficult.” This time,
- Writer
