Like Fire and Powder

12. One Step Forward . . .

It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

-- Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

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You knew you were dreaming because you felt weightless.

Blinking a few times, you raised your right hand, simply staring at it, and then as you spread your fingers, you turned your hand over, examining your heart and head lines. You'd never taken an interest in palmistry, but you'd learned the basics for fun . . .

And then it hit you.

Your life line was missing.

You were about to check your left hand when something caught your eye: it was your work desk.

Feeling compelled to get closer, you started walking toward it, and the closer you got, the more you could hear and then see a version of yourself talking, and then a shadowy figure materialized in the form of Emmalee, the girl you'd taken that statement from, back in November.

You weren't paying your dream self any attention; you were listening to Emma's excited, musical voice.

"The way Emily Brontë talks about souls is so deep."

"Sometimes I think about soulmates and stuff like that."

"Like, when will I meet my soulmate, y'know?"

You thought, When . . ? Something wasn't clicking.

Emma continued talking, but your desk, and the scene altogether, started sinking.

There is no "when," a voice hissed. She's dead.

As your desk got further and further away, the darkness of your surroundings changed, flickering through happy and sad memories alike, and it was dizzying. It felt like you were stuck in a slot machine or on a fast carousel, and just when you were about to look away, it revealed one place: Connor's home.

Our home.

From where you were standing on the street, you could tell that it was more lived-in. More homey, decorated.

And there were candles in the windows.

Because it's Christmas, your mind supplied.

You walked toward it and opened the front door because it was unlocked. The front hallway had a couple of pairs of shoes in it, varying from adult to children's sizes. You blinked slowly at a pair of baby pink shoes and neon Vans -- those definitely belong to a teenager.

You felt your gaze lingering on the shoes as your body moved upstairs, and then you took a left. You opened the door to Connor's room and cocked your head to the side at the sight of him and another woman in his bed.

You knew you should've felt mad, but you weren't -- you were curious.

You moved forward until you were standing over them, and then you gently brushed the woman's graying hair to the side. Her bony, wrinkled fingers twitched against Connor's stomach, but she otherwise didn't wake up.

You narrowed your eyes because something uncertain settled in your chest as you looked over the side of her cheekbone and the half of her eye. Even with her hair out of the way, you still couldn't recognize the half-buried side of her face, so you gently grabbed it and moved it away from Connor's chest.

Nothing could've prepared you for the fact that the woman was you.

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