Granada. Croe tried to remember if she’d ever been, and then cut that train of thought abruptly short. A memory had grazed the edge of her thoughts – the gardens and orchards of El Generalife, drenched in gold by the summer sun – that she did not want to revisit. It was a childhood memory, and Croe had few that were untainted by loneliness or disappointment. Those were feelings she was unwilling to admit into this moment.
She absently sucked her cigarette while Mallos informed her of his obligations, offered to take her wherever she wanted to go. Where did she want to go? She hadn’t been back to Earth since regaining her memories, and now that she was here…it felt strange. As if she’d gone to sleep on this planet, had a very long and unlikely nightmare, and awakened the next morning to discover the dream was real. A whole lifetime’s worth of changes had taken place while she slept. By some miracle, the man of her dreams was still here…but was she really the woman he thought he knew?
There was never time to process these things, with him around. In a moment he was beside her on the couch, his lips so inviting against her skin, his voice its own kind of magic. She leaned into him, dropping her spent cigarette into the empty glass and placing it on the table.
“Didn’t you just take one?” she teased, twirling a lock of his drenched hair around a finger. Then she kissed him softly – on his mouth, on his neck, on his shoulder – and stood, dragging him up by the hand he’d provided. “I guess it’ll be the second one for both of us. Such decadence.”
Mallos’ penthouse was large, but the layout was intuitive. She padded across the gleaming tiles into a hallway, through a stupidly enormous bedroom, and into the kind of bathroom that only belonged in luxury resorts. There was a time when the decadence of all this, of his life and therefor hers, would have bothered her. She tried not to think about that as she turned the sleek shower on, cool water raining down from panels on the ceiling. Standing under it was like being cooled by a summer storm. She lathered his back and shoulders with citrus-scented soap, before her hands got carried away.
It was a good life, Croe reminded herself. Even if it was not what she’d envisioned. Even if it was not what she deserved.
When they emerged sometime later, she was refreshed, but hungry. “Where’s your favorite place to get lunch?” she asked, making eye contact with him in the mirror while she towel-dried her hair for the second time that day, then deftly plaited it. “And do they have coffee?”
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