Free Paradise - Part Two (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) by O.L. Casper Page A

break out all over my body. I don’t know why. I snap my head round, look at him. His diaphanous eyes burn into my soul. It feels searing. I haven’t slept enough. This is all in my imagination, I realize. I will say as little as possible, I tell myself—avoid trouble that way.
    “Have you heard the news?” he asks after what seems like an eternity.
    “About Isabella.”
    This was a statement, eyes downcast.
    “It’s horrible. There are no words.” So why did you call me here?
    I immediately curse myself for such selfish thinking.
    “You don’t have to say anything…”
    “I have no words,” I say, eyes still downward.
    I feel two such contradictory emotions, I didn’t know my brain was capable of accessing two such diametric points simultaneously. I am the definition of dichotomy. The outward expression I bear is the result of one of these feelings, the other feeling is pure joy and I am deeply ashamed of it.
    “I have always had a way of looking forward. Of moving on. My parents died in my youth…after some time passed I forced myself—programmed myself to just move forward, to do everything as I always had, as I always dreamed of, without any feeling. I had no feelings left. I just went on, never expecting to feel happiness again.”
    This explains a lot, I think. You’re marriage to Isabella for one. I curse myself. Tears swell in my eyes.
    He looks at me tenderly. Looking at the floor I can’t see it, but I can feel it. I don’t want to love him, especially not now, but I do. I love him more than ever. The sensation it causes is overwhelming. My heart overflows, spills out on the floor, like it has in so many visions.
    His even keel speaking, almost inhuman, continues: “The funeral is in three days in St. Augustine. We’re leaving this afternoon. I can’t bear to be here any longer. Not for a good while.”
    He coughs. There is no feeling in his voice.
    “I want you to be at the funeral. For Savannah, but for me too.”
    I don’t really understand the meaning of these last words. In fact, all of the events of the past few days are just washing over the periphery like some distant, incomprehensible dream. A thunder and lightning storm over a distant desert plain, an annoyance I’m almost not conscious of, a storm in a tea cup. And where am I in all this mess? Lost in a haze, a ghost without a face, a gray blur, the quintessence of stoic. Stafford and I are too alike. But where is he since clearly the rain isn’t touching him?
    To discern the answer to my thoughts I look up at him. He’s looking back at me with an expression of curiosity on his face, as if to say— I need to know where we stand . Or is this just another figment of my imagination? His questioning look could be about anything at all.
    “You’re not wearing any makeup,” he says.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Appropriate.”
    “Now you get to see the real me; plain, pale skin, big bug-like eyes, like a reptile.”
    “You are more beautiful without makeup. One can’t honestly say that about most women. Your skin is has a nice, somewhat faded tan. The face is porcelain. The eyes are large, hypnotic. The hair is lustrous, so smooth. You have the appearance of one who is very much in control. A woman who knows her own mind.”
    “You must forgive me.”
    “For what?”
    He smiles.
    “Blushing.”
    He laughs.
    There’s a long silence that follows.
    “Shall I be going?” I ask.
    “Only if you want to.”
    “Is there nothing else?”
    He pauses to consider.
    “What are your duties with Savannah today?”
    “I have to go look after her till this evening.”
    “If I gave you something to wear this evening with me, would you wear it?”
    I find the idea at once seductive and monstrous, considering the circumstances.
    “Yes, I would,” flows naturally over my lips.
    It sickens me as I say it with so much ease.
    “Good. Let me get it.”
    Stafford leaves and returns with a box.
    “Take it with you. Look at it on your own