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Description
I

Jordan had a hard time remembering her parents. It had been twenty-three years since she had seen them. Growing up in the orphanage had made her independent, sure but it also engraved into her Darwin's theory of 'survival of the fittest'. Jordan hurried along the busy streets of Chicago, wrapping her coat tightly to her body, the crisp fall air was far different than the year long sweltering heat she was used to. As cold as it was, this is what she wanted. She worked most of her youth to save enough to come to America. Her childhood is Johannesburg was something she often tried to forget. The cold brought back the memories of the one thing Johannesburg had that Chicago lacked, warm winters.

Her mind wandered as she pushed her way along the overcrowded streets, thinking about how her life had changed since moving to Chicago. She shook her head, thinking sadly that is wasn't her doing, but rather the Irish Mafia, who she owed the change to. She picked up her pace, determined to make it home before sundown, when it wouldn't just be the wind off the lake that made her shiver.

She unlocked the door to her apartment, thumbing through the mail, all addressed to a Ms. Jisellé Barchou, her pseudonym. To the rest of the world Jordan Marlow existed only in memories, and very few at that. She dropped the mail on the vestibule table before glancing down at the blinking numbers on the phone stand. Two, the number flashed, she pressed play and walked to the closet to hang her coat. The first message was a gruff male voice, "612-837-2648".

"Next Message." the animatronic voice declared.

"Hey Jisellé, it's Sandra. I was wondering if you could maybe help me with my reports. I've been having a bit of trouble an no one else is done with theirs. Let me know, I'd really owe you forever! My number is 612-718-2125."

Jordan sighed as the voice declared the end of her messages. She picks up the phone and calls Sandra, "He can wait…" she thought to herself. The phone barely rang once. "Hello?!" Sandra sounded almost frantic.

"Sandra? It's Jisellé" Jordan's accent played nicely with that name, one of the reasons she'd chosen it.

"Oh, Jisellé. I'm so glad you called me back! I was loosing my mind. I didn't think I'd be able to meet deadline. Now at least I there's a chance! So, can you help me out?"

Jordan frowned, sighed, and answered. "Yeah sure, these aren't due for a few days. Let's meet tomorrow, at Caribou Coffee in the Watertower, 4:30pm alright?

"Oh…" Sandra breathed. "I was hoping we could get these done tonight, but if you have plans…" she trailed off.

Jordan was getting slightly irritated, "Well, I sort of have…a date…"

"Oh my! Forget I said anything about tonight then!" Sandra's voice was overly giddy.
"Right, well I will see you tomorrow at four-thirty then."

"You aren't coming to work?" her voice questioning.

"No, I have a day-trip, cleared it with Ron last week." Jordan lied. She felt like tomorrow might be a little too full for work.

"Okay then, four-thirty it is! You're totally saving my ass Jisellé, I owe you one. Thank you!"

"Right-o, don't worry about it. Be safe tonight Sandra." Jordan hung up before Sandra could question her more.

She walked to the kitchen and grabbed herself a drink. Nothing warms you up fast than a nice whiskey, on the rocks of course. Whiskey in hand she walked to fireplace and lit it up, the flames licked the ceramic logs, casting a dull glow on the walls. Sitting down on the couch she picked the phone back up and dialed the number from the first message, which was unfortunately forever engrained in her memory. "837-2648" she muttered as she dialed. She sipped the whiskey, the warming amber liquid slid down her throat as the phone rang. On the fourth ring the phone clicked in response to being picked up. "Jordan Marlow. Foxtrot. Hotel. Echo. One. Six. Three. Nine." she spoke slowly, after about ten seconds the same gruff voice from the message said

"Confirmation, Jordan Marlow, FHE1639. Connecting to a secure line, please hold." There was a brief moment of silence, then three clicks before the phone began to ring again. This time it was picked up before the end of the second ring.

"Jordan, we need you to clean up a mess down south of Rochester. Disposal is essential. Structure fire." The thick Irish accent made the message slightly more difficult to understand, the general idea was received though.

"Aie." she answered and hung up. Jordan rubbed her temples as she sat on the couch, polishing off the glass of whiskey she got up and went to her bedroom. She rummaged a few moment in the closet, coming back into the main hall, her hair tucked neatly into a grey pageboy, a dark brown trench coat, and a pair of black commando boots. If you didn't know better she could pass for a young man on the streets. She made her way to the door, stopping only briefly in the kitchen to pick something out of the drawer.

The cab pulled up outside a small Polish restaurant. The dimly lit restaurant was a local favorite, the sausages were both delicious and reasonably priced. The sign outside the door cast a pale orange light across the damp sidewalk as Jordan made her way to the door. She held the front door open for two young women who giggled and cast glances at the polite 'gentleman'. Jordan rolled her eyes under the cap and followed them in the door. The restaurant was fairly full, ignoring the hostess who was busy with those young women, Jordan walked straight back towards the kitchen. Just outside the door she yanked off the trench coat reveling a pair of black Dickies workpants cinched at the knee, and a man's button-up, white, long-sleeved dress shirt. She quickly un-cinched the pants, grabbed an apron, and a dishtub as she threw her back into the door that lead to the kitchen.

Jordan sat on the porch staring out over the lake, a cup of tea in one hand and English muffin in the other. The Chicago Tribune was spread over the table to her right. Crumbs and tea rings covered the top page, which was pushed aside to make way for the crossword, half complete, laying within arms reach of Jordan's right arm. The only discernible part of the top page was the headline "Small neighborhood restaurant destroyed by fire, seven dead and eleven injured." So maybe there had been more in the restaurant than she had planned for, it just made it more believable that is was a freak accident. The only ones who had died were the ones she barricaded in the kitchen, the injured were only cuts and bruises. She stretched out in the chair and watched the people bustle along the streets. The sun on her face made her momentarily forget how cold it was. Her morning breakfast on the porch, a summer habit of hers, would have to be put on hold until spring. A chill made it way down her back and she pick up her tea and the papers before turning to walk inside. Jordan spent the day getting ahead on her paperwork, too diligent for her own good, her hair fell in her eyes as she typed. It was always unruly after being held in check for any period of time. At two-thirty Jordan began to get ready to meet with Sandra, as the water ran over her in the shower and the temporary brown hair dye ran down the drain she thought about how much better her life was now, even if it wasn't picture perfect. She looked in the mirror as she toweled herself off, her honey-gold eyes looked so much less striking without the makeup.

She locked her apartment door and began the thirty minute trek to the Watertower. The brisk weather made her walk a bit faster than she normally would have, she pulled open the door to the mall and immediately slowed her pace. The mall was packed with people, which was unusual for a Wednesday, but Jordan pushed the thought from her head. As she got off the escalator she saw that Sandra was already sitting in the window of Caribou, waiting. Jordan had hoped to be the first one there, she opened the door and made her way to the seat next to Sandra.

"Jisellé!" Sandra sounded really relieved. "I thought you might have forgotten." Jordan looked at her cell phone.

"Sandra, it's only four-thirteen…" Jordan looked at her questioningly.
"Well, I've been here since three-twenty." Sandra said sheepishly, "I'm such a wreck lately that I'd lose my mind if I had the time." she nervously straightened her numerous stacks of papers along the coffee shop window's bar. Jordan looked at Sandra scoffing at her and her busy life of boys and fashion. She had brought this upon herself really, but being the kind of person she was Jordan found herself truly pitying Sandra. She sat to the left of Sandra and took up the stack furthest to the left, which was almost out of her reach.

"Wow Sandra. I didn't think you were this far behind. I mean have you even started working on this quarter's paperwork or is this all of it?" Jordan tried her best not to sound too irritated.

"Heh, well. . .;you see I tried, but ever since they gave us the new format I've been unable to get anything done." Sandra was looking away from Jordan's stare.

"But Sandra, the new format just switches two paragraphs." Jordan couldn't hide her annoyance any longer. "This is 4 months worth of work and you want us to be able to finish this by tom-"

"Not tomorrow. . . ;" Sandra cut Jordan off "I was thinking maybe we could get it done in two days?" Sandra's voice rose in the hopes that Jordan would agree.

"I don't know, possibly if we worked all night tonight and worked until about four in the morning on Thursday. Then it's a maybe. . ." Jordan signaled a waitress over to the bar where they sat and ordered them two Viente House Brews. Sandra almost popped out of her seat as she squealed quietly at Jordan's consent. "This is going to be a long night" Jordan thought to herself.

Being the wiz she is at the companies paperwork Jordan's theory panned out to be over exaggerated by about sixteen hours. The clock on the wall struck two-twenty seven as Jordan unlocked her apartment door and threw her purse onto the floor. Tonight was not the night for her to give a rat's ass about how the apartment looked. Her jacket was on the doorknob of the hall closet, where it would normally have been basically ironed before being put away. Her bangs were rows of tiny knots, a habit from when she was a child, that only came out when she was deep in thought. The phone stand blinked signaling a new message but right now Jordan could care less, she dragged herself to the bathroom and began to rip her clothes off and work out the knots that made her lime green bangs look like neon rope lights. She brushed her teeth in her bra and panties before finally making it to her room to grab a huge shirt, compliments of her past boyfriend, and fall into her bed she didn't even bother to get under the covers.

It wasn't until she was on her way out the door to get to the office that she remembered the answering machine. Pouring herself a tea to go, she pressed the button.

"One new message." The robotic woman proclaimed.

A familiar gruff voice echoed through the apartment, "I need you, call me." Jordan froze. She launched herself at the machine to hit replay. Listening to the message again she couldn't believe her ears, she stood there frozen to the spot, thinking of all the possibilities.

It was a good ten minutes before Jordan had regained her composure, poured herself another tea, the first happened to be on her wooden floor now, and got going to work. She walked in the door forty-two minutes late, still completely frazzled and lost in her own thought. She made her way to her desk as eyes followed her every movement, co-workers and administrators alike, in disbelief of her current state. To them Jisellé was the prime example of a extraordinary employee, when she was at work. Lately her unexplainable disappearances caught the eye of the higher ups who couldn't, for the life of them, figure out what caused her to miss one day here and there so frequently. To them, as long as she didn't exceed her yearly vacation days, they couldn't complain.

The day passed in a blur of busy-work and wary eyes. Jordan wasn't really sure when she left the office that day. The first memory of the day after the voicemail was her stop at Teavana for a bubble tea to calm her nerves. Her mind was so full of questions Jordan couldn't remember which reports she had done at work today, let alone who she had spoken to or even if she'd been reprimanded for being so late. She slowly made her way up the stairs to her apartment, all her thoughts converging on one idea.

"What could it be that Dorian needed? Could it be that Finnegan has. . ." she let her thoughts trail off as she let herself into the apartment.

The light from the hall filtered into the apartment, casting a deformed shadow of her on the far wall, She hung her coat in the small closet, as she felt around for a hanger her hand brushed something cold and metal. Her mind snapped to attention as she continued searching for a hanger, pretending to have not noticed. Her mind immediately darted to the drawer in the kitchen, she hung the coat and closed the closet door, sliding silently into the kitchen she picked up the Colt 45 magnum and placed it in her waistband. Within minute she was hidden and in sniper position, the closet door opened silently, Jordan took aim watching as a shadowy figure exited from the closet. The man who stepped out was of a tall and large build, his pale skin seemed to almost glow in the dark apartment, he turned to face the sitting room scanning the room for any sign of life. Jordan's face twisted with anger as she recognized the face of the man she had almost open fired on. Flipping on the light and scaring the man half to death Jordan lunged at him eyes burning with anger. Dorian let out a frightened yelp as Jordan brought him to the floor. Rage in her eyes she stared to scream

"Do you have any fucking idea how close you were to dying just now?! Who in their right mind hides in people's closets. Better yet who the fuck hides in closets of people they know are licensed killers? Do you have a death wish?" Her voice was venomously angry.

"I'm sorry," Dorian mumbled, his Irish accent making it even harder to understand "I didn't want anyone knowing I was coming over. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean…" He trailed off.

"You mean what? What was so important you'd risk your life to tell me? Well, other than a mission…" Jordan's face was scrunched with confusion, her thoughts were catching up with her.

"Well…I don't know how to say--I love you" He turned over and knocked Jordan from his chest as if she weighed nothing. Jordan sat there motionless, the look on her face, her lack of comprehension obvious.

"You…what?" Her voice squeaked. She slowly turned her head to face Dorian, who immediately turned to look out the window at the lake below. "Dorian? I don't understand, why me? I mean of all the women I've seen you with the-"

"They were a show, I wanted you to notice me, be jealous of them. I wanted you to want me the way I wanted you." His eyes were staring into hers now. His stare was unnerving and she cast her eyes to the floor.

"Dorian. . .I, I just don't know. I just. . .didn't think. You and me? Pishaw." Silence filled the room as Dorian turned to look back out the window, brokenhearted.

"You know," he said, without turning back to her. "It wasn't your looks that made me fall for you, it was your voice." Jordan stared at the floor, until she head the door click. She knew he was gone, but there was still so much more to say. . .

Description
I

Jordan had a hard time remembering her parents. It had been twenty-three years since she had seen them. Growing up in the orphanage had made her independent, sure but it also engraved into her Darwin's theory of 'survival of the fittest'. Jordan hurried along the busy streets of Chicago, wrapping her coat tightly to her body, the crisp fall air was far different than the year long sweltering heat she was used to. As cold as it was, this is what she wanted. She worked most of her youth to save enough to come to America. Her childhood is Johannesburg was something she often tried to forget. The cold brought back the memories of the one thing Johannesburg had that Chicago lacked, warm winters.

Her mind wandered as she pushed her way along the overcrowded streets, thinking about how her life had changed since moving to Chicago. She shook her head, thinking sadly that is wasn't her doing, but rather the Irish Mafia, who she owed the change to. She picked up her pace, determined to make it home before sundown, when it wouldn't just be the wind off the lake that made her shiver.

She unlocked the door to her apartment, thumbing through the mail, all addressed to a Ms. Jisellé Barchou, her pseudonym. To the rest of the world Jordan Marlow existed only in memories, and very few at that. She dropped the mail on the vestibule table before glancing down at the blinking numbers on the phone stand. Two, the number flashed, she pressed play and walked to the closet to hang her coat. The first message was a gruff male voice, "612-837-2648".

"Next Message." the animatronic voice declared.

"Hey Jisellé, it's Sandra. I was wondering if you could maybe help me with my reports. I've been having a bit of trouble an no one else is done with theirs. Let me know, I'd really owe you forever! My number is 612-718-2125."

Jordan sighed as the voice declared the end of her messages. She picks up the phone and calls Sandra, "He can wait…" she thought to herself. The phone barely rang once. "Hello?!" Sandra sounded almost frantic.

"Sandra? It's Jisellé" Jordan's accent played nicely with that name, one of the reasons she'd chosen it.

"Oh, Jisellé. I'm so glad you called me back! I was loosing my mind. I didn't think I'd be able to meet deadline. Now at least I there's a chance! So, can you help me out?"

Jordan frowned, sighed, and answered. "Yeah sure, these aren't due for a few days. Let's meet tomorrow, at Caribou Coffee in the Watertower, 4:30pm alright?

"Oh…" Sandra breathed. "I was hoping we could get these done tonight, but if you have plans…" she trailed off.

Jordan was getting slightly irritated, "Well, I sort of have…a date…"

"Oh my! Forget I said anything about tonight then!" Sandra's voice was overly giddy.
"Right, well I will see you tomorrow at four-thirty then."

"You aren't coming to work?" her voice questioning.

"No, I have a day-trip, cleared it with Ron last week." Jordan lied. She felt like tomorrow might be a little too full for work.

"Okay then, four-thirty it is! You're totally saving my ass Jisellé, I owe you one. Thank you!"

"Right-o, don't worry about it. Be safe tonight Sandra." Jordan hung up before Sandra could question her more.

She walked to the kitchen and grabbed herself a drink. Nothing warms you up fast than a nice whiskey, on the rocks of course. Whiskey in hand she walked to fireplace and lit it up, the flames licked the ceramic logs, casting a dull glow on the walls. Sitting down on the couch she picked the phone back up and dialed the number from the first message, which was unfortunately forever engrained in her memory. "837-2648" she muttered as she dialed. She sipped the whiskey, the warming amber liquid slid down her throat as the phone rang. On the fourth ring the phone clicked in response to being picked up. "Jordan Marlow. Foxtrot. Hotel. Echo. One. Six. Three. Nine." she spoke slowly, after about ten seconds the same gruff voice from the message said

"Confirmation, Jordan Marlow, FHE1639. Connecting to a secure line, please hold." There was a brief moment of silence, then three clicks before the phone began to ring again. This time it was picked up before the end of the second ring.

"Jordan, we need you to clean up a mess down south of Rochester. Disposal is essential. Structure fire." The thick Irish accent made the message slightly more difficult to understand, the general idea was received though.

"Aie." she answered and hung up. Jordan rubbed her temples as she sat on the couch, polishing off the glass of whiskey she got up and went to her bedroom. She rummaged a few moment in the closet, coming back into the main hall, her hair tucked neatly into a grey pageboy, a dark brown trench coat, and a pair of black commando boots. If you didn't know better she could pass for a young man on the streets. She made her way to the door, stopping only briefly in the kitchen to pick something out of the drawer.

The cab pulled up outside a small Polish restaurant. The dimly lit restaurant was a local favorite, the sausages were both delicious and reasonably priced. The sign outside the door cast a pale orange light across the damp sidewalk as Jordan made her way to the door. She held the front door open for two young women who giggled and cast glances at the polite 'gentleman'. Jordan rolled her eyes under the cap and followed them in the door. The restaurant was fairly full, ignoring the hostess who was busy with those young women, Jordan walked straight back towards the kitchen. Just outside the door she yanked off the trench coat reveling a pair of black Dickies workpants cinched at the knee, and a man's button-up, white, long-sleeved dress shirt. She quickly un-cinched the pants, grabbed an apron, and a dishtub as she threw her back into the door that lead to the kitchen.

Jordan sat on the porch staring out over the lake, a cup of tea in one hand and English muffin in the other. The Chicago Tribune was spread over the table to her right. Crumbs and tea rings covered the top page, which was pushed aside to make way for the crossword, half complete, laying within arms reach of Jordan's right arm. The only discernible part of the top page was the headline "Small neighborhood restaurant destroyed by fire, seven dead and eleven injured." So maybe there had been more in the restaurant than she had planned for, it just made it more believable that is was a freak accident. The only ones who had died were the ones she barricaded in the kitchen, the injured were only cuts and bruises. She stretched out in the chair and watched the people bustle along the streets. The sun on her face made her momentarily forget how cold it was. Her morning breakfast on the porch, a summer habit of hers, would have to be put on hold until spring. A chill made it way down her back and she pick up her tea and the papers before turning to walk inside. Jordan spent the day getting ahead on her paperwork, too diligent for her own good, her hair fell in her eyes as she typed. It was always unruly after being held in check for any period of time. At two-thirty Jordan began to get ready to meet with Sandra, as the water ran over her in the shower and the temporary brown hair dye ran down the drain she thought about how much better her life was now, even if it wasn't picture perfect. She looked in the mirror as she toweled herself off, her honey-gold eyes looked so much less striking without the makeup.

She locked her apartment door and began the thirty minute trek to the Watertower. The brisk weather made her walk a bit faster than she normally would have, she pulled open the door to the mall and immediately slowed her pace. The mall was packed with people, which was unusual for a Wednesday, but Jordan pushed the thought from her head. As she got off the escalator she saw that Sandra was already sitting in the window of Caribou, waiting. Jordan had hoped to be the first one there, she opened the door and made her way to the seat next to Sandra.

"Jisellé!" Sandra sounded really relieved. "I thought you might have forgotten." Jordan looked at her cell phone.

"Sandra, it's only four-thirteen…" Jordan looked at her questioningly.
"Well, I've been here since three-twenty." Sandra said sheepishly, "I'm such a wreck lately that I'd lose my mind if I had the time." she nervously straightened her numerous stacks of papers along the coffee shop window's bar. Jordan looked at Sandra scoffing at her and her busy life of boys and fashion. She had brought this upon herself really, but being the kind of person she was Jordan found herself truly pitying Sandra. She sat to the left of Sandra and took up the stack furthest to the left, which was almost out of her reach.

"Wow Sandra. I didn't think you were this far behind. I mean have you even started working on this quarter's paperwork or is this all of it?" Jordan tried her best not to sound too irritated.

"Heh, well. . .;you see I tried, but ever since they gave us the new format I've been unable to get anything done." Sandra was looking away from Jordan's stare.

"But Sandra, the new format just switches two paragraphs." Jordan couldn't hide her annoyance any longer. "This is 4 months worth of work and you want us to be able to finish this by tom-"

"Not tomorrow. . . ;" Sandra cut Jordan off "I was thinking maybe we could get it done in two days?" Sandra's voice rose in the hopes that Jordan would agree.

"I don't know, possibly if we worked all night tonight and worked until about four in the morning on Thursday. Then it's a maybe. . ." Jordan signaled a waitress over to the bar where they sat and ordered them two Viente House Brews. Sandra almost popped out of her seat as she squealed quietly at Jordan's consent. "This is going to be a long night" Jordan thought to herself.

Being the wiz she is at the companies paperwork Jordan's theory panned out to be over exaggerated by about sixteen hours. The clock on the wall struck two-twenty seven as Jordan unlocked her apartment door and threw her purse onto the floor. Tonight was not the night for her to give a rat's ass about how the apartment looked. Her jacket was on the doorknob of the hall closet, where it would normally have been basically ironed before being put away. Her bangs were rows of tiny knots, a habit from when she was a child, that only came out when she was deep in thought. The phone stand blinked signaling a new message but right now Jordan could care less, she dragged herself to the bathroom and began to rip her clothes off and work out the knots that made her lime green bangs look like neon rope lights. She brushed her teeth in her bra and panties before finally making it to her room to grab a huge shirt, compliments of her past boyfriend, and fall into her bed she didn't even bother to get under the covers.

It wasn't until she was on her way out the door to get to the office that she remembered the answering machine. Pouring herself a tea to go, she pressed the button.

"One new message." The robotic woman proclaimed.

A familiar gruff voice echoed through the apartment, "I need you, call me." Jordan froze. She launched herself at the machine to hit replay. Listening to the message again she couldn't believe her ears, she stood there frozen to the spot, thinking of all the possibilities.

It was a good ten minutes before Jordan had regained her composure, poured herself another tea, the first happened to be on her wooden floor now, and got going to work. She walked in the door forty-two minutes late, still completely frazzled and lost in her own thought. She made her way to her desk as eyes followed her every movement, co-workers and administrators alike, in disbelief of her current state. To them Jisellé was the prime example of a extraordinary employee, when she was at work. Lately her unexplainable disappearances caught the eye of the higher ups who couldn't, for the life of them, figure out what caused her to miss one day here and there so frequently. To them, as long as she didn't exceed her yearly vacation days, they couldn't complain.

The day passed in a blur of busy-work and wary eyes. Jordan wasn't really sure when she left the office that day. The first memory of the day after the voicemail was her stop at Teavana for a bubble tea to calm her nerves. Her mind was so full of questions Jordan couldn't remember which reports she had done at work today, let alone who she had spoken to or even if she'd been reprimanded for being so late. She slowly made her way up the stairs to her apartment, all her thoughts converging on one idea.

"What could it be that Dorian needed? Could it be that Finnegan has. . ." she let her thoughts trail off as she let herself into the apartment.

The light from the hall filtered into the apartment, casting a deformed shadow of her on the far wall, She hung her coat in the small closet, as she felt around for a hanger her hand brushed something cold and metal. Her mind snapped to attention as she continued searching for a hanger, pretending to have not noticed. Her mind immediately darted to the drawer in the kitchen, she hung the coat and closed the closet door, sliding silently into the kitchen she picked up the Colt 45 magnum and placed it in her waistband. Within minute she was hidden and in sniper position, the closet door opened silently, Jordan took aim watching as a shadowy figure exited from the closet. The man who stepped out was of a tall and large build, his pale skin seemed to almost glow in the dark apartment, he turned to face the sitting room scanning the room for any sign of life. Jordan's face twisted with anger as she recognized the face of the man she had almost open fired on. Flipping on the light and scaring the man half to death Jordan lunged at him eyes burning with anger. Dorian let out a frightened yelp as Jordan brought him to the floor. Rage in her eyes she stared to scream

"Do you have any fucking idea how close you were to dying just now?! Who in their right mind hides in people's closets. Better yet who the fuck hides in closets of people they know are licensed killers? Do you have a death wish?" Her voice was venomously angry.

"I'm sorry," Dorian mumbled, his Irish accent making it even harder to understand "I didn't want anyone knowing I was coming over. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean…" He trailed off.

"You mean what? What was so important you'd risk your life to tell me? Well, other than a mission…" Jordan's face was scrunched with confusion, her thoughts were catching up with her.

"Well…I don't know how to say--I love you" He turned over and knocked Jordan from his chest as if she weighed nothing. Jordan sat there motionless, the look on her face, her lack of comprehension obvious.

"You…what?" Her voice squeaked. She slowly turned her head to face Dorian, who immediately turned to look out the window at the lake below. "Dorian? I don't understand, why me? I mean of all the women I've seen you with the-"

"They were a show, I wanted you to notice me, be jealous of them. I wanted you to want me the way I wanted you." His eyes were staring into hers now. His stare was unnerving and she cast her eyes to the floor.

"Dorian. . .I, I just don't know. I just. . .didn't think. You and me? Pishaw." Silence filled the room as Dorian turned to look back out the window, brokenhearted.

"You know," he said, without turning back to her. "It wasn't your looks that made me fall for you, it was your voice." Jordan stared at the floor, until she head the door click. She knew he was gone, but there was still so much more to say. . .