“Annabelle?” the man asked.
Standing in the air, complete with black umbrella in hand, the man who’d followed her from Europe stood on the corner of the street, watching her from behind the lenses of his tinted glasses. His face—devoid of expression—painted a picture of a country far away the home she once ran away from.
Trembling, the woman nodded.
“Yes?” she said, stepping forward. A passing taxicab sloshed water at her feet. “What do you want from me?”
“To talk,” the man replied.
“About what?”
“Home.”
Annabella shivered.
“You know what happened,” she whispered. “You know why I left.”
To be a man that was supposed to be a stranger, but accompanied you in bed was to be a greater stranger than one you met on the street. Annabelle had learned that one fateful night, when her best friend cast her aside with the ring on his hand.
“I know why,” the man replied. “But we can go back. A new life, just for us.”
“No,” she said. “Not this time.”