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</div></div><b><div style="margin: auto; overflow: visible; max-width: 439px;background: #0000000; color: #000000;text-align: justify"> <span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Paris, 1962</span></div></b><div style="margin: auto; overflow: visible; max-width: 439px;background: #0000000; color: #000000;text-align: justify"><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><i>It would do.</i><br/>
<br/>
Yes, Arabella supposed it would do for then, or maybe this was as far as she should go. Maybe she had entertained her morbid fixation enough already. Something about him seemed sweet, too sweet to be the ghost or play the role. Just a stranger with a familiar face… and familiar lips. There was something there even in the few seconds it lasted. Something that shouldn’t have been. Something that should have told her it was time to stop. She had never listened to warnings before but if she were kind she would have told him to leave. She wasn’t kind.<br/>
<br/>
“Just don’t take too long to decide” He had the night. It was the most she could give; although she wasn’t sure if it was a gift to herself or him, maybe both. She was taking note of his smile. It was a while longer when he asked if they should be going inside  that she realized she was cold and his thumb was moving against the back of her hand like it had done it a thousand times before and she hadn’t noticed, as if it were normal and natural to her. She didn’t do this. Even with Christofer, they barely ever held hands. It was too intimate, too sincere, it wasn’t what this was- not what it was supposed to be anyway.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, sorry-” She pulled her hand free of his to go digging in dress pockets for keys. She only needed one hand for it but it was an excuse for escape. The door was open a moment later and then there were stairs. They winded their way up five flights of them only to end up at another door. She unlocked that one and let them both in without needing a reminder. It opened on a small entryway that gave way to a cramped living space made up of a few rooms; mainly a living room that overlapped with her kitchen, a bedroom, and what could only be a bathroom hidden just behind a narrow door.  It was littered with half-finished sheet music notes frantically, written and scratched out, pens, empty or near-empty glasses, and quite a few empty bottles. Not a single surface was free of them.<br/>
<br/>
“Excuse the mess,” Arabella said, pulling off the knee-length black boots she had on and tossing them near the door. “ I wasn’t expecting company…” Who was she kidding it would have looked the same either way. She stepped further into the main living space and pulled on her dress. It was cold and damp from the rain it collected on their way to the first door. In the next moment, she was pulling it over her head and throwing it over a chair to dry out. She was left in the black silk slip she had on underneath. “I have Wine if you’re interested?” She asked, turning back while a hand fixed her bangs, the rest was still a mess. She didn’</span>t <span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">have mind to care. </span></div>