'Cause I Like Him Too Much

Chapter Thirty-Two

  After that midnight seethe I received, George never called. The month had passed, and things became better between me and Aunt Anne. Only sad to say, I wasn’t able to talk with George anymore.  I didn’t want to bother worrying, for I knew he and I didn’t want that incident to happen again. And he might be busy, so the two of us just had to wait then. But missing him made me feel sick too. Or maybe it was just me, having difficulty getting up, with an ache on the few parts of my body.

  Patience is a virtue, they say, so I tried to cope with our current situation that time by frequently reading the letter (considering it might be the last), he sent.

I miss you. I miss those kisses, the warmth of your breath against my face, your soft little sighs calling my name. It leaves me very sad that you cannot be here with me. Each day I dream of you, each day I yearn to see you, and feel your caresses on my weary body. I miss you, and I love you, my angel.

Kisses, lots of kisses,

George.

 So frequent I kept holding it, I had clumsily misplaced its envelope, causing me to lose that covering where the address George used was written. Now if I would like to write a letter too, I should wait another post from him so that I would know where to send my own epistle, and to make sure it would be delivered to him correctly.

  I held his message close to my chest while I slanted my back against the two, soft pillows, letting the scant sunshine from the window beam upon my face. Right now, there was nothing more to do, except to smile and reminisce the good times we had got together. Remembering that the first time when he had imprisoned me with his lips, led to this so strong and warm attachment.

  As I started shutting my eyes for a moment, a knock occurred right on my door. It creaked open, I saw Aunt Anne, her head peeping in.

   I hid the paper I was holding under the bed’s mattress and rose in a snap, coming closer to where she was standing.

“Oh! Come in, Aunt Anne.”, I said, opening the hard flap wider, she had a tray containing a teapot and two small cups with her. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing at all. Was I interrupting?” Aunt Anne beamed slightly, hesitating when I offered her a chair to sit down.

  I shook my head. “No. It’s alright.”

  Aunt Anne breathed deeply, clamping her hands together. “Join me for a tea.”, she spoke. “Upstairs.” Then in a blink she was gone.

  Is she intending to have a talk with me? that I concluded firstly. It must be very something important. And private too.

  I left my room and went to the stairs up to hers. I admit I was a curious, and nervous, not forgetting how she reacted when she caught me in the act, having a phone talk with George. Was it the matter she wanted to bring up?  Or was it something else?

  I knocked on her door, she summoned me to enter. I got in, and she told me to sit down. And I did what she said. I slouched, sitting on a small cushioned chair, with her across me, and a small table where the tea set was laid, standing between our seats. My hands, which had become sweaty, I placed them both on my lap as I looked silently at Aunt Anne, who was busy pouring the steaming hot beverage to our tiny cups. I know I was there because she invited me so, but I wasn’t feeling relaxed, nor comfortable. Instead, I felt a forcing twinge beneath my nerves that caused me to wait, to foresee something that wasn’t quite right. Something from my aunt I expected her to tell me.

“Hope you fancy chamomile.”, I heard Aunt Anne glinted, giving me my part.

  I took the cup of tea, but only stared at it. I was certain that I wasn’t just there for a proper English tea party. I wanted to hold my tongue and cower with my thoughts, for Christ’s sake. But I just couldn’t stop, I couldn’t just draw back.