For this week's theme the added angst: "must be written from first person POV!"
How bizarre, Special Murder Mystery trip. Raffle ticket? Where's Poirot when you need him.
Table eight, I’m table eight. Two . . . Four . . . Six.
One more and . . . No, no, why would he? Just turn-a-round, and walk away.
“Kate.”
Hand to wrist and no escape.
Avoid eye contact.
“Kate, please. Sit down. We need to talk.”
Oh so familiar Swiss-French lilt and deep timbre. Damn you, Jean Paul.
Sit down? How dare he presume to sit at my table and talk to me as though nothing ever happened?
“Go to hell.”
* * *
The compartment door refused to budge, Jean Paul’s shoulder wedging it. It was all so unfair, so unfair. Why now, why come and taunt with his closeness, his eyes searching for what? Flesh searing flesh and I stupid in hungering his touch. "Go away."
“Kate, what happened, happened. I had no control over it. I didn’t walk away from you, if that’s what you’ve thought all this time. If I had, do you think I’d be here now?”
“Funny that, because on our so-called special trip to Venice, I remember your stepping off the train at Innsbruck and your last words, I’ll be no more than ten minutes. And there I was left on the train, wondering why you’d bailed."
“Believe me I’ve never stopped loving you.” His fingers to throat utter torture in loving intimacy of familiar caress. “I tried your cell phone as soon as I could, but you never returned my calls.”
“You quit our relationship, why would I?”
“I tried writing you and received no replies. I knew then you thought the worst, hence the ticket for this murder mystery trip with reference to a raffle. I know you pay for raffle tickets then forget all about them.”
“So what happened that day at Innsbruck?”
“I keeled over. Simple as that. Heart failure according to the specialist. Overworked and stressed out.”
“But I thought . . .”
“Am I forgiven for deserting you that day?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Even after what’s happened?”
“Yes. I love you, damn it, I love you.”
“Then you might want this. Delivered by courier that day, and the reason why I left the train at Innsbruck.”
“Oh my God, a rock.”
“But of course. Now can I come in or shall we take dinner first?"
"Come here, then . . ."
396 words – YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As you've probably guessed this is a scenario enacted on the Orient Express, the scenic image below of the Swiss Alps, the other inside a private compartment.
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