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Authors: Lori Perkins
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asking for a large sour-milk cappuccino.
“Mark!” I exclaimed stupidly, aware that my voice was too loud, too forced in the quiet surroundings of the shop. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, his voice slower and more guttural than when he had been alive, “not too bad, considering I’ve been dead for—what, four years?”
“Yeah, time really flies. So, are you working?”
66
“Yup, I got my old job back at the bookstore over on Twenty-third. I think they were kind of glad to see me back—once they’d got over the shock.”
“Well, it is good to see you,” I said, surprising myself by how sincerely I meant this. Looking at Mark was stirring up feelings I thought had been buried along with him.
“Maybe we should go out sometime, catch up on everything that we’ve...oh, you know what I mean.”
“Sure, that’d be nice.” He picked up his coffee, started sloping over to a vacant table, then turned—a process that took him a little while, as though he still wasn’t totally in control of his limbs. “Tell me, Millie, are you seeing someone at the moment?”
“Yes, I am,” I admitted. And as I watched him shuffle off to drink his coffee in a secluded corner, I wondered whether I should tell that someone about my unexpected encounter with Mark, and about the feelings I now realized I still so clearly had for him.
So later that night, as I lay in bed with Brody, I came clean. Brody was the best thing that had happened in my life since Mark had gone. I’d met him at the point when I’d finally decided I had to spend time around people who hadn’t known Mark, who hadn’t hung out in the same places he had and who could help me to move on. Someone had invited me to a gallery opening in the East Village, and that’s where I had got talking to Brody. Lanky and blond, with eyes the cool blue of a mountain lake, he couldn’t have looked more different than Mark, but that was part of the initial attraction—it meant I couldn’t easily make comparisons. Not only was Brody cute, he was intelligent and well read, qualities I’ve always admired in a man. He worked for a small publishing house who specialized mostly in academic publications, but had ambitions to one day write a novel. By the end of the week we were an item, and a couple of months after that we 67
moved in together. Of course, I never forgot about Mark entirely, but being with someone as clearly besotted with me as Brody was helped to ease the pain.
I dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead. “The strangest thing happened today,” I said. “Mark came in for a coffee.”
Brody looked at me, startled. “Mark? You mean he’s..?”
“Back, yes. I know, I can hardly get my head around it. And because I promised I’d never keep any secrets from you, I have to tell you the weirdest part.” I took a deep breath. “As soon as I saw him, I knew I was still attracted to him.”
“Seriously? You’ve always said you’d never be one of those girls who went chasing after a dead guy.”
But Mark’s not a dead guy, I wanted to tell him, he’s the dead guy. Brody, however, didn’t give me the chance to say anything. He pressed his lips to mine, kissing me passionately.
“What would you rather feel?” he asked. “Warm lips like mine”—he kissed me again, to emphasise the point—“or Mark’s cold ones?” His hand moved down between my legs, parting the lips of my pussy so he could tease my clit. “Fingers that know how to take you to the edge of ecstasy, or ones that aren’t properly under control?”
He straddled my body, and I spread my thighs eagerly as his cock head nudged at the opening of my sex. “And, most importantly, do you want this cock inside you?”
“Yes, Brody, yes!” I almost screamed, as he plunged up into me with his hot, virile length. Mark would never be capable of fucking me as hard as Brody could, of filling me with his fertile seed, but as the first fierce sparks of orgasm shot
“Mark!” I exclaimed stupidly, aware that my voice was too loud, too forced in the quiet surroundings of the shop. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, his voice slower and more guttural than when he had been alive, “not too bad, considering I’ve been dead for—what, four years?”
“Yeah, time really flies. So, are you working?”
66
“Yup, I got my old job back at the bookstore over on Twenty-third. I think they were kind of glad to see me back—once they’d got over the shock.”
“Well, it is good to see you,” I said, surprising myself by how sincerely I meant this. Looking at Mark was stirring up feelings I thought had been buried along with him.
“Maybe we should go out sometime, catch up on everything that we’ve...oh, you know what I mean.”
“Sure, that’d be nice.” He picked up his coffee, started sloping over to a vacant table, then turned—a process that took him a little while, as though he still wasn’t totally in control of his limbs. “Tell me, Millie, are you seeing someone at the moment?”
“Yes, I am,” I admitted. And as I watched him shuffle off to drink his coffee in a secluded corner, I wondered whether I should tell that someone about my unexpected encounter with Mark, and about the feelings I now realized I still so clearly had for him.
So later that night, as I lay in bed with Brody, I came clean. Brody was the best thing that had happened in my life since Mark had gone. I’d met him at the point when I’d finally decided I had to spend time around people who hadn’t known Mark, who hadn’t hung out in the same places he had and who could help me to move on. Someone had invited me to a gallery opening in the East Village, and that’s where I had got talking to Brody. Lanky and blond, with eyes the cool blue of a mountain lake, he couldn’t have looked more different than Mark, but that was part of the initial attraction—it meant I couldn’t easily make comparisons. Not only was Brody cute, he was intelligent and well read, qualities I’ve always admired in a man. He worked for a small publishing house who specialized mostly in academic publications, but had ambitions to one day write a novel. By the end of the week we were an item, and a couple of months after that we 67
moved in together. Of course, I never forgot about Mark entirely, but being with someone as clearly besotted with me as Brody was helped to ease the pain.
I dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead. “The strangest thing happened today,” I said. “Mark came in for a coffee.”
Brody looked at me, startled. “Mark? You mean he’s..?”
“Back, yes. I know, I can hardly get my head around it. And because I promised I’d never keep any secrets from you, I have to tell you the weirdest part.” I took a deep breath. “As soon as I saw him, I knew I was still attracted to him.”
“Seriously? You’ve always said you’d never be one of those girls who went chasing after a dead guy.”
But Mark’s not a dead guy, I wanted to tell him, he’s the dead guy. Brody, however, didn’t give me the chance to say anything. He pressed his lips to mine, kissing me passionately.
“What would you rather feel?” he asked. “Warm lips like mine”—he kissed me again, to emphasise the point—“or Mark’s cold ones?” His hand moved down between my legs, parting the lips of my pussy so he could tease my clit. “Fingers that know how to take you to the edge of ecstasy, or ones that aren’t properly under control?”
He straddled my body, and I spread my thighs eagerly as his cock head nudged at the opening of my sex. “And, most importantly, do you want this cock inside you?”
“Yes, Brody, yes!” I almost screamed, as he plunged up into me with his hot, virile length. Mark would never be capable of fucking me as hard as Brody could, of filling me with his fertile seed, but as the first fierce sparks of orgasm shot
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