He also happens to be the central character of the book I'm writing, so that was probably important..
He liked the rain. Not slight showers that snuck in and then back out, but serious storms. He wanted lightning that lit up the sky and thunder that shook the earth to its foundations. Men and women ran below. Some wielded umbrellas and while an unfortunate few held newspapers against the torrent. None looked happy to be caught by the downpour.
The deadman was safe, though, concealed in glass and concrete. Thunder rattled the windowsill before vibrating through his bones. It felt good. It was on rainy days that his mind seemed to move a little faster, a bit more impetus placed with the pleasure. As always lately, he thought of her.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sailor's tongue, the complete package, to be sure. She could fight like a man but flirt like a woman. Even her smile was something special, infectious, drawing him out of dark moods. The fact she was fearless was perhaps the best thing about her. He could flash his wide, white grin and she wouldn't bat a lash. She was immune to the Fear that seemed to infect everyone else. To her, he was a person.
Of course, she had her faults. All women did. She was a dirty mick to start. In a city where race mattered, it was certainly strike one. She wasn't exactly sane, either. Any person who could face down a draugr with a grin was certifiable. That was strike two.
Her family's hospitality was definitely strike three.
The deadman reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of Lucky Strikes. It wasn't as if his body needed them anymore. Tobacco, alcohol, food and air, all of the familiar addictions had fallen away. Still, he ate, drank and even smoked with the best of them. To drop them was to lose the last vestiges of humanity he had left. Sometimes, he just needed to feel human.
A flick of a Zippo and the deadman inhaled.
Maybe that's why he thought of the girl. Soft, pink lips. Freckles danced along her cheeks and ran down her shoulders. The thought shook its way down his spine, more pleasing than any rumble of thunder. She had struck out in his head, but her memory still occupied other regions. He didn't need the girl, but he sure as hell wanted her. The deadman couldn't forget the feel of her in his arms again, her warm skin easing the cold from his. The contact was just too brief. She had said he wasn't her type, some old line about commitment.
Maybe it was true. Maybe it was for the best. As slim as it might be, the girl had a chance at a normal life, maybe even a happy one. Marry some well-to-do, get the white picket fence, and she'd be well on her way to the American dream. He wasn't good for her, and certainly could never give her that. She sure as hell wasn't good for his long-term prospects of survival. That tiff in the alley showed that clearer than anything else.
His eyes returned to the empty streets as water rushed along curbs and through sewer drains. The thunder was gone, and so was the lightning. The deadman was left alone with a forgotten Lucky Strike and a mind run amuck.
He couldn't forget her smile.
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