She promised that we would be together, but I was so afraid of what she might say that I couldn't bring myself to ask.
She had a long-standing obsession with death. She told me that she had been in the habit of writing a letter every day to her mother at the time of her death, and that she would send it immediately after she wrote it. She would continue to do this even after she was married and had children.
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She promised that we would be together, but she didn't mean it.
I'd been in her car for almost an hour when I saw the lights of a car approaching. It was a red Mercedes. The headlights were on, and I recognized the car. I didn't recognize the driver. I knew who the passenger was, though.
"Why are you following us?" I said.
She looked at me. "I had to see you." She reached out and touched my arm. "Get out, both of you," she said. "Now."
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