There's something about the look in his eyes that pulls him in every time, even when he knows nothing good can come of indulging this particular craving. When he craves blood, when he imagines the coppery taste in his mouth and the smooth, damp feel...
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• don't mistake love for weakness •
Forks is exactly as I left it: rainy, grey and boring. I've not been here for at least half a century and yet the only thing that's changed about the place is the people living here.
Even that, I think, is a generational shift. Relatives of the people who lived here before.
The rains splatters against the windscreen as I drive through it, the windscreen wipers swiping across the glass. The roads aren't too busy, although I suppose with the population of Forks there's never a point that they're ridiculously packed.
My eyes shift to the dashboard where an opened envelope sits, tucked into the corner by the glass. Scrawled across the front is my name and the address of an apartment I'd managed to buy for a decent price a few years ago in Valencia.
Maybe it wasn't the smartest idea to live in a place where the sun is — mostly — always shining when my skin sparkles in sunlight. What can I say? I enjoy feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin, I always have, even if said skin will never be warm again. Some may call that masochistic but I gave up caring about such things decades ago.
At least in Valencia most people mind their own business. If someone catches sight of something sparkling on a balcony they just assume it's a piece of furniture or decoration and go on with their day.
You don't get that sort of freedom in small towns like Forks.
The car jolt when a tire slips into a pothole in the road before righting itself. I peer out of the door window as I turn the steering wheel to drive around the corner, taking in the sight of townspeople hurrying up an down the street, some ducking into shops while others clutch their coats and umbrellas tighter and carry on their way: too used to the weather to be truly bothered by it.
This is why I prefer sunny places. Why torture myself with grey skies and crappy weather when I can have sun-soaked trees and warm breezes?
Esme asked me to meet her at a coffee shop down the street from the high school in her letter. She didn't say what about, not that I would have expected her to. Telling me the contents of the conversation will give me the opportunity to tell her I'm not interested before she's had the chance to convince me whatever it is is a good idea.
The letter came about three weeks ago, delivered by a very attractive mail man in his twenties with whom I had a very nice sleepover. He went above and beyond the line of duty designated to his profession that night.
I think he was fired the next day. I didn't see him again, either way.
There's a green Volkswagen in the corner of the car park and a BMW in front of the coffee shops' double glass doors when I pull in. I park the car beside the BMW and reach out to grab my wallet from the passenger seat.
