Lost and Found, a tale of Dead Man and Lillian

She walked to the door, hobbled still by the scarring to her right leg, but not badly enough to notice unless one paid attention. He could hear it on the other side of the door to her apartment. He had knocked, as he usually did, to let her know he was there and waited. He never used the buzzer, the sound was obnoxious which tended to touch on that part of himself that did terrible things. So, he knocked and waited until the click of the locks and latches signaled her arrival.

She smiled in that lopsided way she had, the scar tissue on the right side of her face pulling the corner of her lip back firmly while the other side curved upward into a gentle smile. Her left eye glowed the brilliant green of jade and the waters of some lakes in travel brochures. Her right eye, a glossy white orb, the cataract of scar tissue across the iris and pupil completely covering them. The tissue on the side of her face and part of her scalp wrinkled and puckered in the way that only burn damage can create, her right ear still partly there, the lobe and lower part of the curved shell of the ear missing. Her strawberry blonde hair grown long from the top of her scalp and lain over the damage to hide as much as she possibly could.

She reached out with her left hand, grasping his gloved digits without concern as she led him into the apartment. She could feel what was under the fabric of the gloves, but it didn't seem to bother her in the least. Her hands were bare, but she had taken to wearing long sleeved shirts of the loose and flowing variety, with closed or high collars but never turtle necks. He knew the fabric would rub painfully against the damage at her throat and shoulders. Today the shirt was a crème color with a round collar that fit close to her neck, the seam of the collar either cut away or designed not to have a collar at all. The sleeves were the same, loose cuffs that ruffled and swayed with the motion of her arms. Her pants were also loose fitting, soft and flowing fabrics with today's being a darker tan color that was tied with a simple sash of multiple earth tones and some dark reds and brilliant yellows. Her feet were bare, as he had suspected, and the slap/silence of her shuffled steps as she attempted to step as lightly as possible on her right foot were the only sounds after the door closed as she led him into the small kitchen and dining room.

"Please, sit. I'll make some tea," she said, her voice still a beautiful contralto, full of lilt and timbre and the sweet, soft rasp of the smoker. She had quit, of course, but the effects would remain, especially after the incident that was their meeting.

He sat silently, looking around the space with an appraising eye. Small kitchenette; stove, fridge, maybe three foot of cabinet top to prepare meals on between the two along with the sink, a grand total of six cabinet doors, four of them only a foot wide, and four drawers set next to the sink and between the stove. He sat at the two-person dining table on the other half of the small space, the garbage can behind him along with the connecting door to the hallway, while the window to the outside stood open but covered with gauzy drapes before him. The table top, a scarred yellow linoleum job with metal banding around the outside, was probably from the seventies or possibly even earlier. The chairs were old metal things, likely from a school, with thin wooden seats and backrests that squeaked slightly as he put his weight on it.

She bustled with an energy he was glad to see in her. The accident had drained away her will and desire for life, he could see that in the weeks following her release from the burn wards and hospital care. Now, though, she seemed vivacious and alive. Seemed. That's why he was here once again, to see to her mental state, her wellbeing. He couldn't really say why he felt the need to check up on her like this, it was a need he had no words for. There was no attraction here, for neither her nor him, and how could there be? She knew what he was.

"You still don't talk much, do you?" She asked over her shoulder, settling the kettle over the burner. Carrying a bamboo tray with two cups, a bowl of sugar, and a box of tea, she sat in the only other chair in the room. The tray was placed in the center of the table between them, her left hand moving deftly to place the cups before them both.