What Sarah Said

There is something about the whimsy of summer that enthrals her entirely.

Perhaps it is the way in which the sunlight fragments as it hits the glass panes of the high-rise buildings surrounding her apartment, or the way in which the shadows of those far below dance a faceless tango across the sidewalk. Or maybe it is the way in which the trees morph from their soft spring pink into a lush green, leaves twisting gently in what little breeze there is against the sheer blueness of the unblemished sky. Even the heat prickling her skin makes her shiver and sends delightful spasms of warmth deep into her very bones as tendrils of honeysuckle fragrance fill her lungs to capacity.

However, this is not the summer she knows. The temperature reflected in the sparkling mercury of the thermometer soars far beyond any acceptable realms of heat. This is not summer; it is simply too warm, uncomfortably so.

No, this is not summer. This is hell on earth.

Beads of crystal-clear perspiration trickle down the neck of the open bottle of wine on the worktop. She watches them lazily for a few moments, following them as they slowly track their way to the bottom, pooling together in a tiny, transparent lake of water on the marble. The same perspiration slickens her fingers as it transfers from the glass she is drinking from onto her skin. The icy coolness is comforting while it lasts, even if only for a few seconds. Lifting the glass to her lips, she takes a sip and grimaces gingerly as the alcohol burns the sides of her throat. She is not a wine drinker, not by any means, but it is the only chilled liquid in her apartment and as her father told her as a child, beggars cannot be choosers.

The doorbell rings as she goes to take another mouthful. She knots her eyebrows together for a second, confused: nobody should be visiting her, not here, not today. She checks her phone for any missed messages or calls – nothing. Her legs chafe as she hoists herself from the bar stool. Even standing up in this heat is almost impossible, and she can already feel sweat beginning to form in the crooks of her elbows and knees as she walks to the door. With a ceremonial grunt, she throws the door open.

There is a man standing in her doorway now. He smiles brightly at her as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, reminding her of the Weebles toys she used to play with as a child. There is a slightly smattering of a five-o-clock shadow across his jawline. The hair on the back of his neck – not unlike her own – is slicked down with sweat, but the rest defys gravity in fluffy, obstinate spikes. He is scruffy, but not unkempt, she notes – the oafish appearance is obviously intentional, as is the fade in his jeans and the holes in his shirt.

This man, standing so brazenly in her doorway, seems both entirely foreign and startlingly familiar to her at the same time. She cannot work out where she has seen him before, but she has a nagging sense of déjà vu that simply will not leave. He grins lopsidedly at her, seemingly lapping up the confusion etched into every feature of her slightly-rounded face. As he slowly brings one of his arms out from behind his back, she jumps with a start – something about the disarming smile, something that she cannot remember, sends a rush of adrenaline through her body and she tightens her fingers into fists, nails digging into the fleshy softness of her palms. A bouquet of roses is thrust in her direction and suddenly she feels her body relax, but only a little. After all, there is still a complete stranger standing in her doorway.

“Sarah Jackson,” he says, voice low and grating as his smile encapsulates his eyes, “you’re just as damn beautiful as the day I killed you.”