J. Robb - Bump in The Night

The room seemed to teeter as she gazed up into stunning blue eyes, bright and keen with knowledge and know-how. She wanted to call them Infinite Sky Blue or Majestic Royal Blue or even Sexy Sapphire, give them some romantic name or label, but they defied all classification.

Magic.

Then, even before that word solidified in her mind, his eyes turned Vivid Clover Green.

She gasped and her heart went wild. Her brain telegraphed her muscles to jump and run; her nerve endings sputtered in response. Deeply alarmed, she turned to those behind her for help. They sat placidly, their expressions emphatically kind and benevolent toward her – but not one of them seemed to notice the man with her, much less his kaleidoscope eyes.

The urge to scream swelled in her throat.

Wait! Wait! Eyes don’t change colors. Dad’s viewing… don’t make a scene. Maybe his eye trick is a trick of the eye… the dim lighting in here sucks… 1 didn’t sleep well last night… I could be mistaken… Oh, God, let me be mistaken.

Sure enough, when she could look at him again, his eyes were the same mesmerizing blue as before.

She nearly fainted with relief.

He gave her a small, understanding smile. No. More than that… His tender expression seemed to be telling her that he not only understood but also knew what she was feeling. He’d startled her, and he was sorry. But that wasn’t all. He felt all of it. He, too, was enduring the same sadness, the loneliness, the sense of loss and being lost that she was suffering.

Impossible. Irrational. Yet, for some strange, amazing reason, she believed him.

Maybe she just wanted to believe him.

Either way, he touched something inside her. Touched and coddled it. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so… warmly connected to someone on so short an acquaintance.

Not even an acquaintance really, she realized, her mind scrambling for something to say to him.

„Hi.“ He spoke in a soft, deep whisper that tickled her in very odd places.

„Hi.“

„It’s good to be back.“

Back from… Mars? Before she could think of a better way to ask him, he gave her an amused you-silly-rabbit look and sat next to her. The sleeve of his tacky black jacket brushed the sleeve of her black blazer and she imagined a comforting warmth penetrating the right side of her body. He smelled of fir trees, spicy cider and warm vanilla.

Christmas.

They looked at one another and exchanged shy smiles.

„You don’t remember me, do you?“

„No. I’m sorry, I don’t. All – although you do look somewhat familiar. Except for the… ah…“ Perhaps the less attention she gave his attire the better, for both of them. „Did you know my father well?“

„I knew him as well as you did. Maybe a little better, since my memory is longer.“

„Are you a relative, then?“

„Not exactly.“

„A close friend?“

„Of yours, yes.“ He was a friend of hers? Her cheeks grew numb as blood drained from her face and her heart struggled to handle the extra load. From where? From when? How could she have forgotten him? No, no! She did not know mis man. And she was just about to tell him so when he added, „Strange, isn’t it?“

„What?“

„That it doesn’t really matter if someone dies quickly like your mother did, in the accident, or slips away slowly over several years, you’re never really ready when it happens, are you? And die hurt is just the same.“

She gave a slight nod and looked away, feeling overexposed by his innocent observation. She’d been trying to tell herself that very thing, trying to rationalize the overwhelming sense of being selfish and weak and cruel every time she wished her father back alive, knowing all the pain he’d suffered the last two years. A good daughter would set him free, feel his relief and be grateful for it. Wouldn’t she?

A good daughter would also miss him.

She did miss him. Desperately. Though she hadn’t thought of it that way before – missing him. It wasn’t the same as wishing him back. Missing him was just… missing him, feeling the aching void of him in her life. Nothing weak or mean about that. That was just human.

She caught the strange man nodding in her peripheral vision and slanted her eyes toward him. There was a closed-lip smile on his face and an air of satisfaction as he angled one scarlet-shoed foot across a silver-coated thigh and settled himself more comfortably.

„I’m sorry, but where do I know you from? How do I know you?“

„It’ll come to you.“ He looked at her then with genuine fondness. She felt a dither near her diaphragm, recognized the tug of attraction and wanted to laugh. Hysterically. Married men, gay men and now lunatics – her dating pool was nearly complete. Of course, if he was also a stone-cold killer, he would top it off nicely. She shook her head slightly. How could she have forgotten someone like him? He leaned close and murmured, „We can talk about all that later. For now, let’s just sit here together and remember him. He was a fine old gentleman.“

She was certain he didn’t belong. He was a stranger – very likely an unhinged stranger escaped from a local facility – but she was struck once again by how much she loathed sitting in the front row all alone, the last of the Gibsons, the sole survivor, the only one left.

There was plenty of room and he wasn’t hurting anyone by being there. And truth be told, she found his presence beside her as consoling as it was disconcerting.

Her gaze returned to the pattern on the rug three feet in front of her. She sighed and began to feel calm and content for the first time in… a really long time. When he reached over to gently pat her thigh, she found it reassuring, not forward or offensive at all. Soothing. Relaxing.

She judged him to be about her age. As bizarrely dressed as he was, and as unconcerned as he seemed about exposing his emotions, there was a part of her that admired his spirit and bravery. Envied him, really. He was extreme, unquestionably. Deranged, perhaps. But at least he wasn’t afraid to express himself, to stand out, to do what he wanted to do.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d made a major life decision on her own and stuck to it. From the day she was born, late in her parents’ lives, until this very moment, everything had been lovingly planned and laid out for her. It was assumed that she would set her feet into the trail of prints they left for her, step after step, and she had. Now here she was, almost thirty years old, living the life her parents had chosen for themselves, and not at all the woman she once dreamed of becoming.

She wore her long mousey brown hair in a simple knot or a ponytail at the back of her head for convenience. Her clothes were neat and functional rather than trendy and attractive. Makeup was a bother she didn’t bother with. She had her father’s short thin nose, her mother’s full lips, and moss-colored, almond-shaped eyes – a gene from her grandmother Gibson, whom she’d never met. All fine donations, but in the end, all they added up to was plain. Charlotte was plain. It wasn’t what she set out to be but -

She jumped when she felt a heavy hand on her left shoulder, and was surprised to see Mr. Robins standing beside her chair. He was a tall somber man who couldn’t have looked more like a mortician if he tried.

He bent at the waist and murmured, „Charlotte. I didn’t mean to startle you.“

„Oh. No. I was just…“ Had he come to ask her new friend to leave? It was undoubtedly for the best, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. The man was such a kind, gentle soul. She hoped there wouldn’t be a scene as she envisioned the funeral director dragging him, kicking and screaming, from the room in his absurd outfit – ruby shoes flailing, giant jacket hiked up over the football pants, legs straining therein. „He isn’t disturbing anything, is he?“