When he wakes up she is standing near the edge of the bed, on the side with the bureau. In the semi-darkness of the room he sees the stark white of her shirt, a slash of light that announces her presence. Her arm is lifted; he only sees it after his eyes adjust to the darkness, enough to pick out the silhouette of her dark tuxedo, lost in the vast swaths of shadow.

He cannot make out her face. When she speaks her voice comes from behind him.

'Tell me this is the last time.'

He answers, 'I'm sorry.' And then, 'It is a part of me now.'

'Only because you let it.' She does not move; her raised arm does not tremble. 'Since you want to. Let us speak of the past.'

'No, I do not—I do not wish to do that.'

'Is this not why you have called me back?'

Her other hand is resting at her belt, her fingers inches away from her holster. They both know that the gun is empty.

'I don't know why I keep doing this,' he admits.

'Because this is who you are now.'

He finds he cannot refute her. Her voice remains flat when she speaks again.

'Very well.'

He reaches out for her. She does not move when he runs his fingers over her stomach, her belt, her sides. She feels like frozen meat.

'When my time is up we will be in the same situation,' she says. 'An eternal dance. I will see you then.'

An apology finds its way to his lips; he dismisses it to instead say, 'Goodbye.'

 

When he wakes he is standing at the edge of the bed, on the side with the bureau. In the semi-darkness of the room he sees the whites of her eyes, her roving gaze taking in the stark white of his wedding gown, the ghostly transparency of his veil. He lifts his arm. On the bed, she takes a breath.

He says, 'Tell me this is the last time.'