I don’t know if it’s the session with Dr. Evans or the better sleep in the last few days, but that night, I find myself tossing and turning, drifting off only to jerk awake, heart hammering from some undefined anxiety. The emptiness of my bed grates at me, my loneliness a painful hole in my chest. I want to believe that I’m missing George, that it’s his arms I’m longing for, but when the uneasy sleep claims me, it’s steel-gray eyes that invade my dreams, not soft brown ones.
In those dreams, I’m dancing, performing in front of my tormentor like a professional ballerina. I’m dressed as one too, in a light yellow dress with stiff, feathery wings in the back. As I twirl and fly across the stage, I feel lighter than fog, more graceful than a wisp of smoke. But inside, I burn with passion. My
