“The front doorman?”
“Yeah.”
“He is a nice old man,” Arek agrees.
My head drops to the side with curiosity. “Is? He can’t be alive still.”
Arek rubs the back of his neck when he shrugs his shoulders. “We had to post him somewhere else. As a Velieri, you must move around quite a bit, or you run the risk of someone finding out your age. A group called the CTA, Correctional Territory Authority, manages relocation and helps Velieri start again.”
“George is alive?” I laugh.
“And will be for quite a while.”
On the window seat is a folded blanket that I grab and throw around my shoulders. The introduction to this world is still so hard to believe.
“My first steps, the first time I drove a car . . .” I list off to him.
He finishes my thoughts, “When you broke your arm, the first time you lost a pet, the sadness . . . the happiness. . . All of it. We were there.”
“My first kiss.” I breathe out and he quickly follows. “When I broke my arm, it took forever to heal. Why? If I’ve been like this my entire life.”
“But you haven’t. There was always the possibility that you would become Velieri again, but it is never understood whether someone who dies will have the chance. Books and rumors have mentioned that people may be restored because they have more to do, or God’s miracle to undo the unjust of human decisions, or some believe in the power you had before. But when you were attacked just a couple of months ago and you died—we knew. There was still Velieri in you. We don’t understand the rebirth process. Only that it will take seven years for your strength to be as it once was.”
We examine each other, waiting for the other to make a move, as my fascination for him draws me closer.
“Arek, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He drops his head to the side and closes the distance as though he’s done this a million times before—maybe he has. It’s nearly impossible to handle the way he is watching me.
“That I don’t remember.”
“You will.” He reaches out to move a piece of hair from my face. “Willow, I’ve waited years, hoping you would remember, but right now, it is best that you don’t.”
“I want to know everything.”
“We all do, but instead we should sleep.”
“Will you stay here?” I point to the corner, finally accepting that when he is in the room, I sleep better.
He takes in a deep breath, then nods. “All right.”
Within minutes I slip into bed as he lays blankets across the couch that is too short for him. In the window is a reflection detailing his every move, and for the first time peace descends and my eyes grow heavy as my head sinks in the pillow.
“So, the clothes in the dresser?” I ask quietly. “You have another woman in your life?”
“No.”
“After thirty-three years I’m sure that gives you a chance to get remarried.”
“Getting remarried or divorced is very much an Epheme concept. We don’t.”
I am tired and my eyes are sore around the rims, but what he is saying is shocking. Of course, coming from a society where half of everyone has gone through a divorce, it is difficult to understand.
“No one divorces?”
“It happens, but it is rare.”
“How is that possible?”
“If you haven’t lived thousands of years, your sensitivity to everything is dull, or immature, so you can’t grasp what we know.”
“Grasp what?”
He stands to his feet and just the movement alone makes the rhythm of my heart change. I watch as he walks around the bedposts until he is standing in front of me. Once again, his serious eyes stare into mine.
“Sit up,” he instructs. “And put your hand out.”
“My hand?”
“Yes.”
Embarrassed that my hand is unstable, I rub it on my shirt first. It doesn’t help.
“Now close your eyes.”
Sitting on my knees on the soft bed as he stands on the hard wood floor just in front of me, there is no telling what he might do. With closed eyes, every sense is heightened. Even a small whir of the wind outside becomes amplified.
It is unexpected when he lays his fingertips on my palm. Slowly he begins to trace along my hand. From my wrist to the tips of my fingers, he smoothly outlines every angle, but it isn’t this action that surprises me. This act is sensual, yet it is the feeling left on my skin after. Where his fingertips pass, the sensation is different—like someone blowing on wet skin. The spark remains as though his finger is still stroking that part of my hand, even though he has gone on to another. My blood courses through my veins like he is directing its flow. Just this slight touch makes the rest of my body spring to life in a way I have never felt before. The loss of focus is uncomfortable, so I snatch my hand back and, strangely, it takes a moment to recover. My chest rises and falls like a person who has just run a marathon, while the places he has traced are still alive.
