Reflections
How in the hell had this evening turned out so badly? He’d only gone over to Amanda’s to give her a message. In hindsight, he should’ve just waited until morning.
The house had been dark, and he’d picked the lock and silently crept up the stairs. Not wanting to knock on her bedroom door, he opened it slightly. He was about to whisper her name, when he heard a gasp from across the room. Amanda’s mother stared at him in the reflection of her dresser mirror. Damn it! This was her mother’s room. Stealthily, he backed up and closed the door. Then he’d hightailed it out of the house, as quietly and fast as he could.
His head pounded with the headache from hell, and he dropped the keys he’d been trying to fit in the lock of his apartment door. After finally gaining entry, he switched on the light. Nothing. He jiggled the switch back and forth. Still nothing. Great. Between getting off the elevator and dropping his keys, the power had gone out. Although he thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t still been in the elevator.
Flashlight. He needed a flashlight. There was one on the shelf of the hall closet. He opened the door and patted around, trying to find it. Why couldn’t he find it? “Ouch!” Somehow he’d dislodged a box, and it’d fallen on his head. He rubbed his temple. His headache throbbed harder. The hell with it! He could find his way around the apartment without a light.
He made his way through the living room, gingerly feeling along the back of the sofa. Whiskey. A shot of whiskey would stop the pounding. A couple of stiff drinks and he wouldn’t care about the headache at all.
Maneuvering around the sofa, he knew it would be a straight shot to the wet bar. “Damn it!” He knelt and rubbed his knee. He had half a mind to throw the end table across the room. But with his luck, he’d only cause further damage to himself.
Standing up straight, he steeled his spine. ‘Okay, Stetson. The bar is in front of you. Just a few steps and you can wash away your pains.’ Holding out his hand in front of him, he hobbled forward and bumped into a smooth surface.
Destination accomplished.
He pressed his fingertips to his forehead and rubbed, hoping to alleviate some of the pain.
As he groped for the whiskey bottle, his fingers touched something waxy. A candle. Salvation. At least he could have some light and not injure himself any further. He felt around the top of the wet bar for the lighter. Success. He flicked on the flame and lit the wick of the candle. The wavering flame illuminated the bottle of Scotch right next to it.
He picked up a shot glass and poured himself a double, then threw back his head and downed the whiskey. It burned his throat, and he felt the warmth spread throughout his body and begin to ease the pain in his head. Nothing had ever tasted better. What the hell. He wasn’t going out again tonight, so he might as well have another. And another.
Setting the glass down on the wet bar, he contemplated having one more before heading to bed. The candle flame wavered, and his eyes were drawn to the mirror in front of him.
He squinted as he saw an image form in the background over his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
Lee turned around quickly. The room was in total blackness. No one was there. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was seeing things. Strange reflections cast by the candlelight. Yeah, that was it. He rubbed his eyes and opened them. Time to call it a night.
He grabbed the candle and started toward the bedroom. The lights suddenly came on. He blew out the candle and set it down on the bedside table on top of an open magazine he’d left there earlier that evening; one that he’d gotten as a freebie in the mail. The bold headlines of the article grabbed his attention. He swept it up and quickly scanned the piece.
No way! He groaned. No way!
According to this, the image he saw in the mirror was his soul mate.
No, wait a second. It wasn’t midnight when he’d seen the face. It was well after. And besides, he’d had several double shots of whiskey. That realization, coupled with his headache, made him breathe a little easier. He was slightly drunk and not thinking clearly. Yeah, that had to be it.
He rubbed his temples. ‘Aspirin. I need aspirin.’ He threw the magazine in the trash and went into the bathroom.
‘Amanda King and me!’ He laughed. Not in a million years!
The End
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: Scarecrow and Mrs. King and its characters belong to WB and Shoot the Moon Productions. No infringement is intended. This is written for entertainment purposes only. Please do not redistribute or reproduce this story without my permission.
Thanks: Rita and Miss Edna, you make my stories readable by catching all my grammar and other errors.
Sequel to Soul Mates.
Thanks: Rita and Miss Edna, you make my stories readable by catching all my grammar and other errors.
Sequel to Soul Mates.