BlackfriarsBridge

    His smell lingers with me always, even in my sleep... as if the dark folds of his cloak were draped about my shoulders, heavy and made of a cloying velvet. I wait for him every night, Cathy having shooed me away from the common room and the loud nightly customers, ever the conscientious innkeeper. What I want to do is dash out the door and run down the road, heels and heart pounding, arms pumping, my blood rushing violently into my ears, my eyes, clouding my already dimmed vision. And then I would find him, alone and tormented, his eyes closed in... what is it, pain? Or is it fury? I would find him there, and I would clutch him safe to me