by Erik Ivan James
Tonight, she stood in front of the two hallway lights, engaged in quiet conversation with the same gentleman. Edward skirted by the couple--pretending not to notice her brief smile--making the way to his rented room. The soft background of light emitting from the twin globes outlined a silhouette of temptation through her garment of thin white. The quick glance and sharp pang in his heart told of something familiar about the couple. She, a former lover maybe? One from a different place? Edward continued on to his rented room, haunted by her presence and his struggle to attach the fleeting recognition.
Edward lay in bed, unable to purge the picture drawn by the two lights in the hall. He saw his memory’s shadow of her play across the ceiling, but cloaking reminiscence. He had known her before? The question burned in his mind. He wanted sleep, he didn’t feel well.
A soft knocking on his door, or someone walking on the floor above, he wasn’t sure, but a like sound had stirred him. He listened for more. Yes, on the door, the soft knock of a feminine hand. He knew it would be her, from another time and place. He would know her again.
With the hotel’s white robe loosely tied, Edward opened the door. The hallway empty, she was not there. A short ways down the hall he saw only the two lights, a misty movement, the lights flickered, then dark, death. She, his angel, was there.