Free Make Me Sin by J. T. Geissinger

downy touches my forehead, the barest whisper of pres sure. Sparks sizzle in its wake. The voice from before speaks softly into my ear. But now it speaks guttural, primitive words I can’t understand.
    “Idi spat, laskovaya moya. Spat.”
    “Don’t go,” I beg, fretting at the good-bye I sense in the gentle whisper. “Don’t go yet. Please.”
    A moment of silence follows, then I hear an exhalation. “I won’t,” murmurs the voice in words I can grasp. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
    I’m awash in relief. He’s here. He’s not going. I can sleep, safe and sound.
    And so I do.

    I ’m jolted awake by the sound of a garbage truck lumbering down the alley outside a nearby window. I bolt upright. My heart hammers. Confused, I look wildly around the dim room for a few moments before I realize I’m in my bed, at home.
    I’m still fully dressed. My head pounds. My eyes are gritty. My mouth is a desert.
    I pad to the bathroom, use the toilet, and pop two Advil with a gulp of water from the faucet. By chance, my gaze lands on the digital clock on the counter. I have a heart attack when I realize I was supposed to be at the downtown flower market three hours ago to pick up fresh flowers. It’s Monday, Fleuret’s busiest day of the week, when the majority of our corporate accounts have to be installed. Before lunch.
    There are two dozen local business owners who are going to be furious with me today.
    Not even bothering to brush my teeth, comb my hair, or otherwise make myself presentable, I run to the bedroom and shove my feet into a pair of sneakers, leaving the laces untied. I grab a jacket from the closet and drag it on while I dash to the living room, frantically searching for my handbag. It’s on the coffee table. I fly out the door, and sprint down the stairs, out the building, and across the sidewalk. I fall panting on my car.
    It’s 5:50 a.m. In ten minutes, my shop staff will arrive, and there will be no fresh flowers for them to work with.
    Desperate to find a solution, I begin a series of wild calculations. It will take me twenty minutes to get downtown, at least an hour or two to shop for the flowers—if I’m fast—another twenty to get back to Fleuret. Best-case scenario, I’m looking at an arrival time of approximately eight o’clock.
    Right when the driver arrives to start loading the delivery van with all the arrangements that won’t have been made.
    I pound on the steering wheel. It makes me feel a little better, but doesn’t help the situation. I dig my cell from my purse, hit Contacts, and select Trina’s name. I need to send her a text to let her know she needs to be ready to start putting out fires today.
    But I’ve already sent Trina a text, this morning at one thirty. It’s there in black and white. I stare at the message, befuddled.
    Can you do the market this morning? Feeling sick. So sorry. Will be in as soon as I can.
    I have no recollection of sending it.
    I sit in my car, staring at the text, until a tentative honk makes me look up. An older woman in a battered Volvo is motioning to me. She wants to know if I’m leaving. Even at this hour parking spots are at a premium.
    I wave at her, start the car, and head to work.
    When I arrive, I’m relieved to see Trina definitely got my text, because the shop is buzzing with activity.
    “Morning, Carlos,” I say to the young Latino guy who processes the flowers. There’s a mess of leaves and stems around his feet from the stem chopper. He’s starting to sweep up.
    He smiles, nodding. “Morning, Miss C.”
    Farther inside the shop, hidden from the main sales floor behind a wall, are the long stainless steel design tables, where Trina and Renee, my junior designer, are standing chatting while they arrange. White plastic buckets of flowers surround them. Trina’s working on an extravagant, modern piece for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s office—I can tell whose arrangement it is because they spend the most, and it’s