I bought wine, vodka, and whiskey. The guy behind the counter asked if he could come to the party. I smiled and wondered how he’d feel about being an hors d’oeuvres.
Two o’clock. I was going to be waiting in agony for the rest of my life for the sun to set. But it wouldn’t be the rest of my life. In nine years I would be his mortal age, if we managed to stay together that long. Then, well . . . then things would really get interesting.
I sat straight up once, absolutely convinced that I had felt a cold hand pulling my hair away from my neck. Then I shivered for the rest of the night with a chill that wouldn’t go away.
“You aren’t going to turn into a mouse, or a pumpkin, or some other damned thing, and leave me sitting here with nothing in my hands but a glass slipper, are you?”
“Life can be sad,” he agreed. “But we make the best of it that we can.”
I leaned my cheek on my free hand. His eyes softened and darkened. There was rain on the window and music and laughter all around us, but he and I existed in a pocket of calm outside of the rush of time. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and I grew pleasantly warm and sleepy. He was still pressing my hand between his. “This is nice,” I heard myself saying.