Hunger Moon

i

A full Hunger Moon lights up the evening sky over Tampa Bay. People stop to stare at it, marvel at its perfect round shape, its brightness. Amy Ryan feels a shudder, there is something eerie almost evil about this night; for a moment, Amy wonders if she is making a mistake, if she should just walk on passed The Purple Coffee Cup, forget the interview. However, she has the appointment, so summoning up courage she walks into the establishment; inhaling the air, an intoxicating mixture of roasting coffee beans and sweet pastry. Dozens of customers crowd the tables, they are chatty and well dressed, not at all what she expected. There are large ceiling fans overhead, palm trees on either side of the coffee bar and aqua blue walls. A raven haired, dark eyed young couple entertain the customers with Coldplay’s Clocks: the lady plays the piano; the man bangs on the drums, singing the haunting lyrics.

Amy saunters up to the long coffee bar, looking over the selections written neatly on a chalk board.

A tall, slender man asks pleasantly, “What can I get for you tonight?”

“Sumatra Black Satin Coffee with cream, one sugar.”

“We just made a fresh pot. It has been a popular brew tonight.” He removes a purple and green cup from a pile, preparing the coffee; handing it to her in less than two minutes.

The Purple Coffee Cup prides itself on customer service.

Amy thanks him. He seems normal, they all seem normal.

Perhaps, she came across country for nothing, for a tall tale. Larry Driscoll was clearly drunk when they took that long donkey ride down into The Grand Canyon; he told her a strange story about a woman named Mabel Jones in 1930’s Hollywood; she was a drug dealer and madam.

Amy walks to the single free table in the center of the room; pulling out a chair, she feels eyes watching her, it makes her uneasy. Looking around she spots the portrait of a beautiful red headed lady with an enchanting smile, dressed all in pink, carrying a parasol, surrounded by red roses. A painting from the Victorian era by the great portrait artist, Franz Xaver Winterhalter.

The door opens, two people saunter in: a young woman with long red hair wearing an ankle length yellow dress, long purple leather coat and a blonde young man in a dark suit and tie: a beautiful pair.

The couple kiss tenderly, the lady saying in a sweet high pitched voice, “I have to talk to a dear old friend.” Whispering something into his ear, staring at him adoringly as he leaves her side, a look in her eyes of agony to be separated from him.

Amy sees the lady’s face turn to a scowl as she draws closer, pulling out a chair across from her, sitting down.

Her voice is lower, “You are lucky I was curious, or you might be in a sea chest at the bottom of the Indian Ocean right now. I have that long of a reach.”

“I’m Amy Ryan.”

“I know who you are. Amy Ryan born December 30, 1981 in Cincinnati, Ohio, an only child. You attended St. Vivien’s School, then Ohio State. Never married, now travel and interview people for your You Tube channel, very successful, very brave. You love adventure.”

“You are Roxanne Mars, ruler of the world.”

Roxanne grins, “Well, I let Jeff think he is sometimes.” Folding her arms.

A chubby man makes his way over, placing a tall purple cup down on the table, “Jamaican Blue Mountain, lots of cream, no sugar your favorite, Dushenka.” Holding out his hand for her’s, kissing it tenderly.

“Greg, you spoil me.”

“Anything you want.” Casting a sinister glance towards Amy.

“It won’t be necessary, we’re just two girls having a chat over coffee.” Shooing him away with her well-manicured fingers telling Amy, “I saved him from being murdered by the Bolsheviks. Almost one hundred years and he still can’t do enough for me. Now that’s loyalty.”

“Is it hard?”

“What?”

“Living so long.”

“It never used to be, it never mattered, it just was. I adapted.” Roxanne’s attention shifts to the blonde young man standing at the bar.

“You love him.” Amy could see it in her eyes, they were alive with that blonde young man; now they are empty.

“Devin. Two hundred and twenty years, you never think it’s going to happen to you.” Shrugging her shoulders leaning across the table, “Devin and I are going to make passionate love all night long. Then in the morning I’m going to kill him. No one will even ask questions. Now that’s power.”

Amy’s eyes are wide, “Why?”

Roxanne pouts, her eyes moist, “You cannot interview me for your blog. I would have had Larry killed a long time ago, but I owe him.”

“Yet, you agreed to meet me here tonight.”

Roxanne says nothing.

Amy lifts her coffee cup, “How did you become what you are?” not saying vampire out loud.

“That’s a long story.”

“Where were you born?”

Roxanne states, “Cannes, France. My father was Alexandre, Duc of Canua. I was the youngest of ten children seven girls, three boys.”

“He was killed in the Revolution. What was it like growing up?” she read things on Wikipedia.

“My brother Armand used to enjoy lying next to me as I slept, pleasuring himself. I told my mother once. She slapped me for the breach, said basically men will be men, never mind it, never speak of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When I was thirteen I told our family priest, Father Gaston Bouvier, he raped me, made me do things in the name of the saints and the blessed mother. I wonder to this day why I didn’t kill myself. Then I met Fletcher Jenkins, the best and worst day of my first life.”

“He made you a vampire?”

“No, but he was responsible for it, in a way.” Roxanne lets out a sigh, “It was 1787, I was sixteen. Fletcher arrived in France on a mission for his uncle, the Duke of Middlesex. You see Lord Percival wanted a rare diamond necklace he insisted belonged to him and the Jenkins family. Percival promised Fletcher if he retrieved it, he would finally acknowledge him as Heir to the Duchy, which came with unimaginable wealth and lots of land. Fletcher was greedy and ambitious. I wanted out of my father’s house. That’s how my journey began once upon a time.”

ii

The Massie family has one of the grandest gardens in all of France: rose bushes, purple and white lilac bushes, lavender, poppies, stone benches, statues of various Greek gods and goddesses. There are grape vines, topiary trees, olive trees, sculpted hedges and a rippling stone pond. The palace looks out over the sea.

“You mustn’t cry, Gabrielle.” Fletcher Jenkins sits on a bench beside the red headed girl in red and white, “All is not lost.” He has not come all this way to France to lose, “The Ball is in a few hours.” good looking with reddish brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

Gabrielle nods her head speaking in almost a whisper, “Mama says I must wear white and be presentable. She chastises me for bringing shame to the family. She is going to marry me off to Count Laurent, he’s sixty.” Burying her face in a kerchief, crying like a trapped animal.

Fletcher barks, “That will not happen, but you must be brave for me.”

Gabrielle shakes her head, “Sometimes I feel such loneliness and despair.” It drives her mad, “But what you ask, I cannot.”

Fletcher stands up, “You have two choices, come with me or stay here. There is nothing else. Coming with me means you will have to do things; staying here means the same, but which will keep you in hell.” He has heard rumors of Revolution, her family is not well liked, “There is no sin today, only justice.”

Gabriella lowers her hands, “Yes, I will do it for you.” Having no choice; besides, she has thought about it.

Fletcher kneels down, “I promise life will be good when we go to England. I will be Duke, and you will be a Duchess.” Taking her hands tenderly kissing them, “Place your faith in me. Do what I have planned.”

Gabrielle nods her head. Her future in France looks bleak, filled with only misery.

“I shall be with you the entire time.”

The Gold Ball Room of Palace Isabelle glitters in the afternoon sunshine. Gabrielle stands at one of the French doors admiring the herb gardens, the sea view beyond.

Armand enters the hall saying, “I came as fast as I could.” Gabrielle has been sending him little notes recently, this intrigues him.

Gabriella does not turn around, “Your wife is getting fat.” Everyone mentions it.

Armand insists, “She’s pregnant.” For the fifth time; no matter, there are plenty of other bodies to enjoy in the palace.

“Do you want to commit a terrible sin?

“Yes.” The thought excites him.

“So do I.” Gabrielle says sweetly, “You brought it with you?”

“I had to ask Mama for it. She wasn’t happy about Sophie wearing it tonight.” His wife being fat, “But she gave in.” Armand is her favorite.

Gabrielle turns her head slightly, “Let me see it.”

Armand reaches into his pocket pulling out the sparkling red diamond, the colors of which dance over the room.

“Do you trust Lord Fletcher?”

Armand shakes his head insisting, “No.”

“Look at him, standing there in the gardens. I am sure he is plotting something sinister.” Gabrielle smiles at Fletcher. Suddenly, she is excited by what she is about to do.

Armand whispers, “Gabrielle.” She promised they could do it right there on the golden floor, only if she could wear the Scarlet Diamond necklace. He does not mind a witness. It will be joy thinking of the sin this evening during the Ball. Maybe he will go to confession later. Father Bouvier enjoys such things.

Gabrielle turns around, lifting an eight inch Rifleman’s knife, plunging it into Armand’s chest over and over; and, as he falls to the ground, she kneels down, cutting his throat, stabbing him in the eyes, over and over.

Fletcher runs in pulling Gabrielle off Armand, “That is enough!” blood oozing everywhere.

Gabrielle’s breath is heavy, she never realized it could be so exhilarating, “Now what?” overcome with a joy she has never felt before.

“The Scarlett Diamond.” Fletcher grabs it from Armand’s fist before helping Gabrielle stand.

“I want to kill the priest, too.” Gabrielle loathes him the most.

“One thing at a time. Remember what we planned. Someone needs to find the body and soon.”

“Yes, Fletcher.” Straightening her blood soaked dress.

Alexandre Massie spends hours alone in his study, devising schemes to make money; so far, he has been quite good at it.

Gabrielle burst into the room, “Papa!” crumbling to her knees in a fit of anguish.

“What is it girl?” Alexandre cannot abide this intrusion, pushing his chair back going to her, “You are covered in blood, you wretched creature.” No compassion, only annoyance.

“Papa! He’s dead!”

“Who’s dead?”

“I found him there on the floor of the Gold Room! I cradled the dear man in my arms as he took his last dear, dear breath!” wrapping arms around her father’s legs, “There is an assassin loose!”

Alexandre shoves Gabrielle away, “Who?”

“Our beloved, Armand!” letting out a cry, “The sainted man!” convulsing in a fit of tears.

Alexandre rushes out of the room in an instance.

Fletcher steps in, “Very good.” impressed by her acting talents.

Gabrielle pushes herself up, “You don’t think they will suspect?” the thought crosses her mind. Her family loathes her.

Fletcher waves his hand, “Not at all, they think you are vapid, not a brain in your head.”

“Can I kill the priest now?”

Fletcher rolls his eyes, moving his head back and forth, “Alright, you can kill the priest now, then we are leaving for England.” His ship is waiting in the dock.

St. Quentin’s Church is located right on the Massie Estate; a little chapel for Aristocrats to pray in and make offerings.

Gabrielle walks into the church with hands behind her, “Father Bouvier.” She knew he would be here at prayer. The priest enjoyed tying her hands behind her back, sodomizing her at the foot of the altar.

“Gabrielle, what are you doing here? I have not sent for you.” Father Bouvier does not trust her, “What are you hiding?” he enjoyed the screaming and crying; choking her.

“I’m here to make penance. Am I not allowed that?” Gabrielle walks down the aisles, inching closer to him.

Father Bouvier points an accusing finger, feeling a little frightened, “You are a filthy creature, condemned to hell already for your many unnatural sins.” Saying this as if he is not in control of his own actions, not to blame, “I am a sainted man who you seduced in your wickedness. I am blameless.” His confessor told him so.

“I have always had this strange thought, that I am going to live a very long time.” Lifting the rifleman’s knife plunging it into the priest’s heart, digging it in, pushing it so hard it pokes out through his back. He falls to the floor silently.

After, Gabrielle walks slowly out of the chapel, taking Fletcher’s hand saying sweetly, “Now I’m ready.” experiencing a serenity she has never felt before.

When his nephew arrives back in England, Lord Percival is happy to take charge of the Scarlett Diamond, dismissing Fletcher all together. Lord Percival decided to make his eldest daughter Heiress to all Middlesex titles and land. Lady Victoria Jenkins will be officially named Countess Llangollen, the future Duchess of Middlesex.

Before Lord Percival can begin the complicated process in changing the rules of succession via a special remainder, he comes down with a fever. Doctors try every potion and serum available. His daughters pray feverishly, promising God all manner of good works in return for their father’s recovery.

Gabrielle arrives at Heathrow House carrying a round pot.

Fletcher’s three cousins, Victoria, Elizabeth and Maud greet Gabrielle tepidly in the foyer.

“What is this?” Victoria asks; neither Gabrielle nor Fletcher ever visit.

“I heard your father is unwell, so I brought some soup. It has many healing properties.”

“Will soup help?” Elizabeth asks, not seeing Gabrielle as any kind of threat; a woman never thinks of evil. Her father far too powerful.

“It cannot hurt. My brother Armand was once almost carried off by a fever. Our cook made this very soup, and he returned to health.” Her eyes light up as if to add emphasis.

The three girls cluster together speaking rapidly. Maud poking her head up, “We consent to it.” They will try anything.

Gabrielle lets out a sigh, “I’m so happy.”

The girls feed their father every bit of the soup; however, after fits of vomiting through the night, Lord Percival Jenkins dies the very next day.

Fletcher then becomes the rightful 10th Duke of Middlesex, 8th Earl of Llangollen, 2nd Viscount Baltimore. Fletcher and Gabrielle marry one month later.

iii

The couple now performs Billy Joel’s You May Be Right: the lady on the drums, the man playing the electric guitar and singing vocals, Greg poised with a saxophone for the solo. The patrons going wild singing along.

“Lord Percival never wanted the diamond. He saw it once; thought Fletcher might get killed trying to steal it. Of course, he didn’t count on Fletcher meeting me.”

“According to Wikipedia, your brother Armand died of consumption.”

Roxanne places a hand to her chest, “You mean Wikipedia is wrong?” her eyes shifting towards Devin, now seated at a table with several young men, “For nine years Fletcher and I lived together. I was a good wife, a good hostess, kind to the tenants, I had a garden, people liked and respected me. I gave Fletcher two sons Christian and Marcel. Fletcher had many affairs, but he was good to us. I had everything a woman then could want.”

“Were you happy?”

“I thought I was, but perhaps I was just not living my old life. I loved my children. Several years back I took tour of Heathrow House. The guide had a lot of things wrong about those days, but in the retelling the truth always gets lost.”

“What happened?”

“Fletcher did business with the Earl of Scalloway, a wealthy Scotsman with a pretty daughter. Isla was eighteen. Her father had influence, power, but no sons. Fletcher could turn on the charm and he was brilliant. Fletcher and the Earl invested in shipping company which became quite profitable over a short time. I had nothing, no country, no family. I was twenty-five, that was considered matronly back then. Fletcher wanted me dead.”

iv

Nightmares torment Lord Seamus MacMurray, Earl of Scalloway; In them his daughter Isla is burned alive; Lady Gabrielle Jenkins always somewhere close by. He confronts her in the apple orchards on the Jenkins estate in Essex, warning her if anything happens to his daughter, she will pay dearly for it.

After he leaves, Gabrielle remains seated a bench waving a black, green and gold fan; it is a hot summer’s afternoon. She ponders her future, what to do next, she has few options.

“I came to call on you Lady Gabrielle, inquire on your health today.” Count Danneberg has been a guest at a neighboring estate; he plays cards with Fletcher and a group of his friends.

“Really?” Gabrielle is not impressed. Count Danneberg rather ordinary, a little chubby.

Count Danneberg sits at her side, “You are troubled. I hear things.” looking around before leaning closer, “You are in danger.”

“I know my husband plans on divorcing me.” She will lose her children, her tittle, everything. She will have nothing, “Sending me to a convent or worse back to France.”

“It’s much more dire than that. He doesn’t want you around at all.”

Gabrielle glares at him.

“He asked me to kill you, figuring I needed the money.” Count Danneberg grabs Gabrielle’s hand kissing it, “I could not, would not.” Confessing his feelings, “I love you. I have from the moment we met.”

“What?!” Gabrielle rips her hand away from his grasp.

“Do not spurn me.” Taking her hand once again, “I adore you.”

“Count Danneberg.”

“Your husband is plotting to kill you. It must be done tonight. I have agreed to do it for a price. He invited me to dinner, so he could watch, make certain it was done.”

“Is this love, Count Danneberg?!” jumping up, moving quickly away from him.

“Listen to me!” he follows Gabrielle, “I beg you.” grabbing her arm, “It’s not what you think. I am soon to return to Berlin, where I was born and raised.”

“Peace in your journey.”

“You can come with me.”

“I have my children.”

“You have nothing, you are going to die tonight, but that need not be the end.”

“You are mad.”

Count Danneberg points to his face, “How old do I look to you?”

Gabrielle guesses, “Thirty-five, forty, perhaps.”

Count Danneberg make a face a little put out, “I changed when I was thirty, fifty years ago. I’m almost eighty-one.”

Gabrielle gasps, “This can only be madness talking.”

“No matter, I will save you tonight, mon amour. We can then travel together to Berlin with two thousand pounds. I’ll buy you a palace to rival your Palace Isabelle.”

“But you are going to kill me?”

“I’m going to make you a Vampire.” Which he planned on doing regardless; however, it would be nicer if she consented.

“A what?” having never heard the term.

“A Vampire.”

“What is such a thing?”

“There is a lot of folk lore, mostly wrong.”

Gabrielle’s mind cannot comprehend his words, “You say you are going to kill me.

How can I trust you?”

“Had I not agreed he would have found someone else to do it.” Count Danneberg reaches into his jacket pocket pulling out a small knife; cutting his throat, blood slowly begins oozing out.

Gabrielle gasps, “You are bleeding.”

“Yes, but it’s no more serious than emptying one’s bladder. Tissue heals, blood clots, the organs work. We are healthy. The only difference is, we must hunt for blood every month during the hunger, like women’s times.” he assures her, “Mine has passed already. We look like you, but we are not like you.”

“You are a demon?”

Count Danneberg shakes his head, “No and we are not cursed, but we are marked. Vampires are descendant from Adam and Lilith, through their son. According to the legend, Lilith killed her tempting snake, serving it up for Adam on a golden tray. He was unimpressed. Eventually, she grew bored with Adam abandoning him and her son, running off with a handsome archangel. Then Eve was created. Adam and Lilith’s son Raziel could not reproduce biologically, but he could create through a bite, his tribe settled in Babylonia. They shunned the world and history until it caught up with them. They had longevity as in Old Testament times. We do age slowly and live a very long time. Only a steak through the heart can end our existence early. We only come into being by the bite of a vampire and only after death. It must be done quickly while the body is still warm.”

“How did you?”

Count Danneberg waves a hand, “A cold winter’s evening in 1846 where I drank too much beer, coffee, ate too many mushrooms, too many hot peppers. My housekeeper saw me drop in the snow. She was a vampire. Good employers hard to come by.”

“Will it hurt?”

Count Danneberg assures her, “Only for a couple of days; you will be tired and weak. Then…we don’t get sick. We can feel pain and pleasure. There are good and bad vampires. Life is what you choose.”

Gabrielle nods her head, consenting to it having no other choice. She is not ready to die.

That night Count Danneberg joins the Jenkins for dinner. Fletcher monopolizing conversation talking about his recent purchase of land in Scotland, how many tenants he could get. Count Danneberg brought with him tarts, insisting they both try one. He hands a blueberry tart to Fletcher; a raspberry tart to Gabrielle; immediately after eating the tart Gabrielle is overcome with stomach upset, saying she will retire to her rooms early. Fletcher wishes her a pleasant evening, going off to visit Isla and her father.

Count Danneberg appears in Gabrielle’s room, sitting on the bed waiting for her to leave her first life; holding her hand, feeling her heart stop, her breathing end, leaning over biting her neck, his saliva mixing with her blood.

In the morning Fletcher returns to Heathrow House, visiting Gabrielle in her room; assured she is dead, he calls for servants to wrap her body up, take it to the cellar. He will deal with the corpse later. The next day handing over two thousand pounds to Count Danneberg.

One month later a festive mood has overtaken Heathrow House, Lord Fletcher is to marry Isla MacMurray.

Isla can hardly sleep the night before the wedding, lying awake in bed, staring out at the full moon shining big and bright through her windows; sitting up startled upon seeing a silhouette outside, then a form appears at the foot of the bed.

“Isla.” A man’s voice calls out.

“Who are you?” thinking it could be an angel bringing her good tidings; Isla has never had an unkind thought in her life, “It’s hot.” Feeling beads of sweat drip down her forehead, the mattress burning her skin; she tries getting out of bed, but her feet are paralyzed, “Help me!”

Lord Seamus is startled awake by a shove, “Who’s there?”

“Lady Gabrielle Jenkins.” Who has been almost forgotten about, no one even checked on her body, “I have the most tragic news for you, Lord Seamus, your daughter’s bed in on fire, you must go to her now, save her.”

Lord Seamus runs as quick as he can down the long corridor, into his daughter’s room which is now engulfed in fire. He calls out her name, “Isla! Isla!” the door slamming shut; the room explodes.

News of the tragic events spreads quickly. Lord Fletcher has locked himself in his library, refusing to even eat.

“Hello, Fletcher.” Gabrielle appears to him.

Fletcher jumps up, “You are dead!” She must be a ghost haunting him; or this is a nightmare.

“You know I could have had compassion for Isla and her father. But I was your devoted wife for nine years, neither showed any compassion for me.”

“What trickery is this?” for the first time Fletcher is genuinely frightened.

“Take good care of my sons, give them a good education, see that they are well treated, even if you cannot love them. I bid you farewell, Fletcher.”

“Gabrielle, I hate you!” he shouts as she disappears.

v

The duet strums guitars singing Hearts classic Crazy On You.

“Count Danneberg and I settled in Berlin, we lived happily together for thirty-two years, we had a lovely castle. I called myself Gretchen and learned to speak German, a beautiful, descriptive language. Count Danneberg was devoted to me. Beethoven wrote Opus 11 for me.”

“What happened to Count Danneberg?”

“He loved drinking and gambling. One evening after a particularly rancorous card game, he was stabbed in the heart by a drunken card player. No, we don’t crumble to dust, but our bodies do decay faster than normal.” Looking momentarily sad, “I mourned him for a time.” Her countenance cheerful once again, “Then it was on to Italy for a few years and back to England for a while. Always a different name, different identity, different life.”

“What did you tell friends?” even back then people asked about family.

Roxanne lets out a long sigh, “I was always an orphan, raised in a convent, easy to remember.”

“Did you ever see Fletcher or your children?”

“Not Fletcher, but I did see both my sons on their wedding days, so handsome. Christian lived to be eighty-nine and Marcel lived to be ninety-two. Fletcher died in 1810 from a heart attack. I heard people say he used to scream out my name in the night. He never remarried.”

“Did you ever return to France?”

“Several times. I lived there from 1851 to 1865. I liked Empress Eugenie, tragic woman, though. Empress Elisabeth of Austria is another story entirely, couldn’t stand her. Met some relatives, had an affair with a Russian Grand Duke.”

“What was your favorite place?”

“I enjoyed living in Russia, lots of fun parties before Nicholas and Alexandra came along. I was at their coronation, got away from there as quick as I could. The United States was the place to be back then, the Gilded Age. I was on the Titanic, really a beautiful journey until it wasn’t. I was in Molly Brown’s lifeboat, woman talked until dawn.”

Amy takes a sip of coffee, “How much of vampire lore is myth?”

“We can change our form, we can materialize only to a place that is close by; we can make things move, create fire, and hypnotize people. We have reflections, we can walk out in the sunshine, we aren’t bothered by crosses or garlic.” Roxanne shows off her fangs, “I blame Bram for those rude misconceptions.”

“Bram Stoker.” The author of Dracula.

“I spent hours talking to him about things, he would always argue with me. Finally, I just said ‘Bram, who am I to argue with you a man, you know everything. Do it your way’.”

“Well, that certainly was interesting and disturbing.” Amy is at a loss. Her You Tube audience might not find it so entertaining. She thought it would be much more glamorous.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. Larry has never gotten over 1930’s Hollywood, the sex, drugs and glamour. He became a guru in the 1960’s, palling around with The Beatles in India. Not my scene at all.”

“Perhaps I’ll head to England, visit Heathrow House, clear up some of the falsehoods on Wikipedia.”

“You do that.” Roxanne’s gaze turns longingly to Devin.

“So, will you…?”

“But I could join you, it would be fun. I haven’t been back home in a while. I remember Charles and Diana’s wedding. Who could have guessed that would be the disaster it was? Oh wait, I did.” Roxanne grins, “It would be rather delicious telling those old stories myself.”

“You don’t want to do it.” Meaning kill Devin.

“No.” Roxanne feels as if she is alive after being dead for two hundred and forty-four years; Devin makes her feel such peace for the first time in her long life, “Why did this happen now?” asking Amy as if she has an answer, “I was happy before.” Or thought she was.

“We get comfortable with how things are. Then, something happens to shake us, it doesn’t have to be good or bad, but that something makes us realize how unhappy we’ve been all along. It takes a brave person to face it. Most people aren’t, because we have to admit our own faults, our own weaknesses. The truth is no one has power over us, save what we give them.”

“You’ve never been inlove?” it is not a choice.

Amy shrugs her shoulders, “No, but I would like to be one day.”

“It has to be this way.”

Devin walks over to Roxanne’s table, “Are you done, Querida?” he has grown impatient for their evening.

“Yes.” Roxanne tells Amy, “It was nice talking with you.” Standing up taking Devin’s arm.

“Let’s stroll along the water.”

Roxanne gushes like a young girl, “I love the moonlight.” Her eyes turning sad, “Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For keeping you waiting.”

“I forgive you for everything.”

Both bid Amy good night.

Bio

Catherine Cahill was born in East Hartford Connecticut. She worked for the State of Connecticut for thirty-one years, retiring in 2017, moving to Florida. Since then, she has devoted her time to training in Mixed Martial Arts and writing stories.