𝗜𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘀 | 𝐁𝗼𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲/𝗥𝗙𝗞

XLIII: "5,835 Days"

In the still of the night, Evelyn pushed the door to her bedroom, making her way to the warm bed where her lover was soundly asleep. The moonlight snuck into the room through the curtainless window and her eyes darted on it as regret washed over her entire being. It was unlike her to be drunk and impulsive, but she had allowed Bobby to take her to their old tryst where something forbidden — more sinful than other sins — had happened.

Yet, amidst the regrettable chaos, it was heaven, beautiful beyond words; a baroque painting on the outside but esoterically renaissance. Millions of stars in the pitch-black sky witnessed their heated passion, and the night breezes couldn't stop them from getting warmer and warmer in each other's arms. No matter what the Gods had tried to keep them apart, the more powerful destiny Goddesses knew the sinners were worth fighting for.

Evelyn's body stiffened like a plank when Paul enveloped her in his arm. Tears streamed down her ears as she silently wept. There were about a million obstacles in the way, yet she persisted and followed her heart — was it worth the guilty conscience?

It was no longer the alcohol and cigarettes that were messing with her head; she had found herself drunkenly besotted with Bobby again — a mistake she had never thought of repeating after the other man came into her life.

She closed her eyes, weary of the selfsame sin tainting her soul. She had hoped when she woke she'd be in Cambridge, and it was all a long bad dream starting from when her father stepped inside the diner and berated her outside.

But it was all too real; Bobby's warm lips on her skin; the medallion of his gold chain outshining the moon—as it flailed at his thrusting motion—and their longing gazes throughout the day and night. Nothing was as real as their lovemaking.

"Hey, you awake?" A gentle voice called out to Evelyn as a ray of sunshine hit her right in the eye; the pounding in her head made it hard to reply.

"Yeah... what time is it?" She languidly sat up and stretched her arms, realizing she was in yesterday's clothes.

Paul, wide-eyed and freshly dressed, switched the plate he was holding to his right hand and glanced at his watch. "Seven thirty—look, breakfast in bed." He sat down across the crapulous woman.

"You never did this back home," she remarked while scrutinizing the food.

"Because I can't cook for shit. Mama said you love croque-madame, so she did—specially for you."

She narrowed her eyes teasingly. "Mama, huh?" There was a hint of guilt in her voice.

Paul bashfully smiled — it was Julia who insisted! "Are you gonna eat or what? I did make the rose tea." He gestured at the steamy teacup.

She leaned forward to peck her lover's lips; there wasn't any spark — not like the one she received at the beach earlier — but she was inclined to brush it off as desensitization.

While cutting her breakfast into pieces, she thought about seeing Bobby for a closure they both desperately needed, but when Paul hummed a song and tidied the room to look presentable, she had to stop everything. "Do you wanna meet my friends?" She felt terrible about going behind his back, and this was a pathetic attempt at lifting the weight off her shoulders.

Paul, in a thespian manner, turned on his heels. "Ooh, friends of the high society? Of course!"

She chuckled. "No, you silly goose. Just some people that have nothing better to do than dancing and drinking all day."