She yelled at me with tears in her eyes, hugging me for the last time. My elbow bent strangely behind her back, with my forearm traveling up the length of her spine. Monday, she'd said; we had met on Monday, and today was Friday. It had not been a lengthy romance, or, in fact, a romance at all, but she had visited every evening in the dead of night. She had had a boyfriend, whose name I never asked about and whose details seemed a pointless matter to pursue, but this was the crux of her visits, and my awareness of him had not relied on her ever speaking of him; indeed, I saw it in her eyes the first time I looked at her, when I had invited her in. On Thursday he had followed her to my door, and in madness, meant to kill her. He had not thought to do it quietly or swiftly, and I only managed to pry the bloodied electric turkey carver from his hand because he was at a severe height disadvantage. The rest of Thursday had been such a blur in my mind; I saw the blood on my hands after holding the instrument and I had met her Father, who was an unreasonably understanding man, and lying in my bed in the sunlight of the morning, I had reasoned that it was a dream I had woken up from. Thinking back, then, on the previous days it was something that I was sad to see disappear so quickly, but in the superficiality of it, it made sense that it was not real. There was no time line in my mind for the week that had passed, just scattered moments, fractured the way the events of dreams are. I was sure then that it had been a dream.
I must have given her such a strange look to evoke such emotion in her eyes, and she practically shivered in the silence of it. 'What day was it that we met?' were the first words to come out of my mouth and she answered dutifully my curious inquisition. 'I thought it had been a dream,' I said, and with that she came to life. The fear in her face gave way to joy and she yelled at me, with tears in her eyes, hugging me for the last time.