Symphony of Light and Winter Read Online Free Page A

in the mirror was far from pleasant, my face pale and splotchy with redness. For a moment, I wondered if I had hallucinated the entire evening, but the brush burn from Cyril’s five o’clock shadow was evidence. His grasp on my neck had been forceful, but the only blemish remaining was the circular irritation left by Michael’s necklace.
    I washed down two sleeping pills with wine. As I pulled the shirt over my head, his scent, heady, masculine, and raw, stopped me. It was mixed with something else. Perhaps cologne, maybe soap or aftershave, which added a touch of spice. I finished undressing but lifted the discarded clothing to my nose, inhaling deeply. I sighed. The pain in my chest eased and a sense of calm rushed over me. How can the aroma of such a turbulent man bring me peace?
    On one hand, I hated him for what he did. He controlled, accused, and dominated me. On the other hand, for the first time in ten years, I felt alive, as though looking through my eyes instead of those of a stranger.
    My eyelids grew heavy from the pills. I showered, dried off, and slipped into a T-shirt and panties. Upon leaving the bathroom, I reached down to retrieve the shirt that held Cyril’s scent.
    After making my way to the bed, I laid the shirt beside my pillow. So many questions filled my mind. What did he think I stole? How did he survive? When did he come back, and why wait so long to contact me? Why the Morgan Peters routine? Did he think I wouldn’t recognize him?
    But the most important thing: what was he?
    Inhaling Cyril’s essence, I closed my eyes, summoning our previous time together, looking for answers. But all I remembered was how sensual yet platonic our encounters had been, nothing like tonight. The butterflies in my stomach, the tightening of my jaw, and the anxiety filling my chest had nothing to do with his size or intimidation, but rather longing and desire. Was it possible…love? Those feelings frightened me more than he did. With my head resting on the shirt, my eyes closed, I hoped the morning sunrise would bring clarity.
     
    * * *
     
     
    Another cloud-covered, rainy Monday morning in Pittsburgh. I dreaded returning to work. Maybe Margie didn’t say anything.
    Not a chance.
    A small tear escaped. Wiping it away, I closed the door of my apartment, and vowed it would be my final tear.
    My corner office on the third floor held large, ornate windows, consisting of beveled glass in black-painted iron frames. I placed my leather messenger bag on the desk blotter, which contained numerous neon-colored Post-it notes with to-do items and random scribbles. My office had no need for personal items.
    I booted up my computer from behind the elegant mahogany desk and answered a few overdue e-mails. I thought of the best way to get another meeting with Overton, sans Cyril. Everything was peaceful and quiet until ten minutes before eight, when Clarence peeked in the doorway.
    “Sooo…”
    “Yes?”
    “You know I was impressed by how you smoothed over Willoughby, right? Well, that’s nothing compared to when I heard you let Peters take you against the wall. I think you might be my hero.” His tone mocked, but was sandwiched in true admiration. He could be such a twisted little bastard.
    “Is that what you think I did?”
    Clarence had shaved his goatee, enhancing his boyish charm. “If you ever want to delegate Peters to someone else, I volunteer,” he offered, almost giddy.
    My eyes stung with tears I refused to shed. I would not give in. “Very funny.”
    “Come on, you can’t leave it at that. Margie posted on Facebook that you were pretty much naked and he had you mounted against the wall.”
    “That is not what happened. Margie doesn’t understand. I’m going to have a talk with her.”
    Clarence took a step back in surprise at my reaction, but quickly recovered. “Oh, come on—”
    “No. End of story. I doubt we’ll have to worry about Morgan Peters ever again, anyway. Now, why don’t you tell me