<div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2Fbf%2Fce%2Fd7%2Fbfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg&amp;hash=2a885aee2bf802c8fc3f4db8d536c61c" title="bfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg">
<img alt="bfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2Fbf%2Fce%2Fd7%2Fbfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg&amp;hash=2a885aee2bf802c8fc3f4db8d536c61c" data-url="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/bf/ce/d7/bfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="width: 264px" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="bfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg" class="bbImage" data-url="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/bf/ce/d7/bfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2Fbf%2Fce%2Fd7%2Fbfced7f5b7dd78f82ff87fe249347755.jpg&amp;hash=2a885aee2bf802c8fc3f4db8d536c61c" style="width: 264px" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div></div><div style="margin: auto; overflow: visible; max-width: 439px;background: #0000000; color: #000000;text-align: justify"><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">His letter never made it to her. Not until almost a full month later, sent not by mail, but hand-delivered by officers at her door. She saw them coming from her window in the upstairs study, the nook where she liked to read. It was cold and rainy and when she saw them walk up to the door she already knew why they had come. She supposed she knew weeks ago when her letters went unanswered. If she were really being honest, she knew when she read his last letter. She could see through the gentle way he tried to assure her everything was okay even when it most definitely wasn’t- she both loved and hated it about him. Nothing had been ok since he left for the war. Nothing would be ok after. It would break her and she knew it. It was why she fought so hard to cling to hope that he was still alive. Her David, just lost somewhere, too busy fighting his way back to write her yet. She had almost finished the song. She wanted to tell him about her dreams, they were brighter every night since the first. He would come back. He had to. He had to. He had to. <br/>
<br/>
He wouldn’t <br/>
<br/>
Grief settled into her bones and made a home. It weighed them down like lead when she forced herself up on her feet and down to the front door to accept her visitors. She hated them, hated them like it was their fault for taking him away. Her father, tall and stoic as ever, tried to stop her at the bottom of the stairs "Adelaide." was all he said. It was his way of protecting her, shielding her from the world like it couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t see it. She was hurt already, but maybe he’d been right. She pushed past him and this time he let her go without a fight, only gave a look of sad defeat. It was the first and last time she wouldn’t have to fight him on a matter concerning David. The first and last he’d show support, standing at her side when she opened the door.<br/>
<br/>
She wished she hadn’t. Seeing the uniforms and solemn faces made it real. David Wakefield had no family left in this world, or at least one they could find. All he had was her, his letter addressed to her bringing them to her door. Somehow that hurt more than when they informed her he was dead. It stung her somewhere deep to be confronted with the fact she was the only one left to remember him, the only one to care that he was dead. After her, who would be left?<br/>
<br/>
The letter, his letter, had barely touched her fingers when the sob tore through her chest. It was ugly and loud and painful. It felt like a spear tearing her apart. One followed after the other. Once it started she didn’t know how to make it stop. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to. He deserved an ocean's worth of tears and she’d give it to him if she could. Her knees went weak as the sob shook her. Hands caught her shoulders. Her father pulled her against him, thanked the men, and sent them away while she cried, clutching her lover's letter to her chest. As if to guard it. As if it were him. As if it weren’t already too late. <br/>
<br/>
She could not bring herself to read it, not yet. </span><br/>
<br/>
<div style="text-align: justify"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Paris, 1962</span>​</div><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Singing? Arabella’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t sing, well sometimes she did for herself, but not in any professional sense. Never for anyone else’s ears. What made him think she could sing? She didn’t say anything about it even if she thought the comment strange. She was distracted by her drink then. Her own fingers curled around the base of the tapered glass. She liked the way the coolness of it felt against her skin. These clubs were always unbearably hot from all the bodies shoved together puffing out smoke. She imagined hell was not so unlike A basement experimental jazz club. A trumpet shrieked like a dying animal as if to only prove her point; she almost laughed at the little inside joke with herself as she brought the glass to her lips.<br/>
<br/>
The gin hit her nose before it hit her lips. It smelled and tasted like pinecones. She remembered it like an old friend and her eyes rolled back to her side, checking her silver admirer was still there. She imagined he smelled like pinecones too if she got close enough to check. He or the stranger in her head. She found herself wanting to check. Wondered if he’d taste like pinecones too. Her skin still felt hot, too hot for the usual heat the club gave off. When her eyes lingered on him however she forgot the flush in her cheeks. Looking at him made her sad. Almost unbearably so but she could not get herself to turn away entirely. Like a toothache begging to be poked. <br/>
<br/>
Sadness was not unfamiliar to her. She had joked with Christofer that she’d been born with a broken heart. Maybe it was true. Her heart had never felt more broken than it did then, looking at him. She could swear he was feeling something like it too from the way his hand stiffened around his glass. She pretended not to notice and tipped her head, downing half her drink at once. Her nose burned when she swallowed and set the glass back down for the moment as he turned into her and spoke again. None of the strain from his hands made it into his voice. <br/>
<br/>
“Yeah? What have you heard?” She was half curious, half calling his bluff. He was feeding her lines or half-truths she was sure. If he had been there she would have noticed him before now wouldn’t she? She kept waiting for the light to shift so she could watch his face change with it. It stayed the same even as he pushed hair away. She watched the movement with intense fixation and scrutiny. She didn’t know if she was relieved or unsettled. She forced her eyes away. She leaned forward on the bar on her elbows and watched condensation drip down the length of Henri’s drink with the same intensity. “I don’t know what kind of guy you are, I don’t know you.”<br/>
<br/>
For some reason, it felt like a lie when it left her lips. She felt she knew him already, or a version of a man she wanted him to be. She was pondering it when he pointed to the additional drink. "Hmm?” it took her a moment to register the question and its implications. “Oh! no- “ She turned her head to glance behind her until she found the wiry dark mop of hair and stupid grin leaning over a table gazing starry-eyed at a girl. The same girl he’d been falling over himself to talk to the last four nights. She was cute in a girlish way, Arabella thought they matched in that way. Tonight it looked like she’d decided to give him the time of day. <br/>
<br/>
“There isn’t anything you’re keeping me from.” She waved a hand and straightened up. She twisted towards him again while tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. The cigarettes he held out to her caught her attention instantly. The ich she felt before he distracted her came back now with a vengeance. She bit her lip and offered an appreciative glance when she pucked one from the package. She kept it teetering between two fingers, unlit. Instead of bringing it to her mouth, she reached again for her glass to finish off its contents.  “Do you want to get out of here?” She asked and finally brought the filter to her lips. </span><br/>
</div>