Those Three Words

               The sunset was beautiful that Friday night; thin, watery crimson, orange, and baby blue slowly fading to a deep velvet violet. Those last few rays of golden light seemed to caress the clouds, so white and creamy, almost looking painted, before finding themselves bouncing off the redbrick church tower, and into my small room above the club.

                I had always loved the place; a good sized little town, church tower still the tallest thing around.  A town where your neighbors 'round the block still knew your name, where nobody's business was nobody's secret.

                I'd always love the view from my little room over the club; from my French windows, and parchment colored curtains, I could see main street, lit with golden streetlights and shop windows at night. Gentle laughter and conversation would drift in from the Cafe Milan across the street, as a slow jazz music found its way through the floorboards almost every other night. The room itself was small, but homely. Left of the door (which faced the windows) was my brass bed, and a small, walnut dresser. Five steps across was my kitchenette,  proudly displaying it's stove and brass french-press. A small refrigerator, it's main highlight, hummed contently to itself in the corner. Against the window was my desk where I worked, and right of that was the premium; a small, tilled bathroom.

                On a Friday like this, I'd be typing away contentedly, taking an occasional sip of Viennese coffee, it's maker glinting in the lamplight, poured fresh; home-rolled cigar in hand (my pay didn't cover tobacco; I used dried coffee grinds instead).

                But tonight, the keys were silent; everything else, muted. The only glimmering in the sunset was a pretty, twin barreled derringer; the only thing smoking was the top barrel. Sprawled in the middle of my room was a body, finger still on the trigger.

                I lit my cigar, or at least, I tried to.

                I took a deep breath, the smell of death was heavy in the air, overpowering the years of coffee smoke that had crept into the wallpaper. I sat at my desk, trying to figure out what had happened.

                From what I remembered, the times were hard on me; I was out of work and as a freelancer, friends were few and far between; not a woman in sight save this one dame; Lavender-Dawn. From what I remember, the times were tough for her too, though she'd never tell me what.

                She and I were, well, I could never really tell. She was different though; never afraid to speak her mind, kind enough to set me straight. The other dame's talked, sure, but I didn't care, neither did any of the guys at the club. See, we met for coffee every now and then, and I always felt something; I didn't know, but it was something.

                Damn, how could I be so stupid

                It was there all along, that sad smile, and distant eyes, that strange willingness to care. Sure we frustrated each other, and sure, awkward as I was, I felt like a sideshow. Could never do a thing for that headstrong woman. Sure I figured it was never meant to be; she was moving up in life and was skipping town with a bunch of others, but we wanted the same thing; a family. For some reason, thinking of her always warmed my heart.

                I remember we met for lunch that afternoon, just me and her strangely enough. She told me she wanted to apologize, for what I told her I didn't know, but I felt inside exactly what she meant. We talked for a bit, and she told me to ask her anything. Frankly, I was enjoying the moment, and not wanting to pry, I asked her some forgettable somesuch. She seemed frustrated, then, that reminiscing, almost forlorn smile.  I asked her what was wrong, she told me, nothing. Said I looked too closely to see the whole picture, that I bothered myself with detail without paying much attention to the story. We talked for a bit more, then parted ways; there was a certain air of heaviness when we said goodbye. I felt alone for the longest time. Another thing on my heart, another nail in the coffin.

                Stupid Idiot

                It was only now, looking at a lifeless body, I realized I loved her. Not that cliche movie romance, mind you, but a stronger sort of love.

                Someone once said that love isn't formed at an instant, but something developed from day to day, as you grew closer and got to know somebody. Love was accepting a person as is, and pointing out, for their sake what was wrong, and holding them close regardless. It was this sort of love, I now realized, that pulsed through my veins and stirred my soul. Love isn't just between lovers; it can be shared by any two human beings, who cherish each other for who they are.

                Now I realize, staring at the corpse, she might have loved me back. Dumbass

                If only I had asked her... Screw that, If only I had said those three words, three overused and clichéd words; I love you, then maybe this would never had happened.

                Looks like some questions aren't men to be answered.

                It's strange how little, and how much power three words can hold.

                Don't worry, a voice tells me, it's fine; you just made a bad call.

                Easy for you to say, I told the voice, I'm the one who's dead            

                The owner of the voice, a woman, unusually pale in a black dress, with raven hair and dark, deep-set eyes, took one look at my dead body, and gave a sniff. Well, she stated, can't turn back now.

Damn right; they'll find the body soon, though, I told her

Why do you care, she asks, you're dead

                But my love isn't

                The coming darkness started to show death's true form; her scythe finally faded in from the shadows, where her flowing robe trailed off.

                What about her, I asked death

                Well, she replied with a cynical smile, there's always the second barrel

                The sound of footsteps echoed in from the staircase, a woman's heels from what I could tell; a strong whiff of perfume told me who it was.

                Should we find out? Death asks, Or should we leave? Souls like yours travel best in the dying light...

                I looked at my room one last time, searing in the view into my memory.

                I looked at my body, growing colder by the second, and at the derringer, one barrel still loaded.

We're going, I told her