Are you a romantic at heart?
Fancy a little thrill and sometimes suspense with your romance?
Well, come on into my world.... I bet you'll like what you see.
The moment she emerged in the backyard she saw him. He was seated on the wrought-iron bench a distance from the clothes-lines with his back to the house and his face tilted up as if he was inhaling the sun.
From the back there was nothing that said he was Lincoln. Lincoln was one of the most athletic, meticulous men she knew; clothes ironed precisely, hair trimmed in a neat buzz-cut and body fine-tuned into a muscular work of art. This man was painfully thin; Even the black t-shirt he was wearing couldn't hide how bony his arms were as they poked from the sleeves. His hair was a scraggly salt and pepper affair that looked like the badly done dreadlocks of an aging man.
Definitely not Lincoln, she decided even as she took a step forward. The sound of her footsteps shifting the grass must've drawn his attention because he turned his head swiftly to face her. The first thing she noted was his full beard, almost as untidy and peppered with gray hairs as the hair on his head. But then her eyes met his –
And she knew! She knew those eyes.
"Linc." Her hands flew to her mouth just as Lincoln stood up to face her. The impact of seeing him was like being struck by a lightning bolt. Her world seemingly tilted on its axis and her stomach lurched. A weird buzzing noise started in her ears as all the neurons in her brain scrambled around trying to reconcile what she'd believed to be true for the last five years with the truth that was standing before her now. It shouldn't have been possible. Yet it was. Lincoln was supposed to be dead. Yet he wasn't.
His eyes lighting up with undeniable happiness, he started to limp towards her, and even without meaning to she started towards him. Then she was in his arms and he was in hers. In that moment her world righted itself as complete certainty flooded her. It was him.
It didn't matter that his body was all skin and jutting bones as she pressed her body to his. It didn't matter that the sharp scent of soap bit into her nostrils the moment she buried her head in the crook of his shoulders rather than the soothing cologne she was used to. It didn't matter that he was bone and skin rather than the muscular man she'd loved. It didn't matter that the hand he used to tilt her face upwards so that he could press a his lips to hers was missing two fingers.
