Christian lifted his brow in surprise as he felt and icy cool object touch his bare chest. He opened his eyes, shut them again in and effort to clear his vision, and opened them again. In front of him stood a doctor, a stethoscope was the object he had felt.
"Where am I?" Christian groggily said.
"Everything appears normal, looks like he did get a beating though, should get some rest," the doctor said, ignoring him. He then grabbed his bag and headed towards the door.
"Thank you so much," Bridgette said reverently, opening the door after paying him.
Christian recognized the girl, yet he couldn't pinpoint who. The day was such a blur, and the pain of grief began to come back at him, and he was wishing for unconsciousness again.
"I recognize you," he blurted out.
Her face brightened. "That's good that you recognize me," she replied.
"Oh God, I can't even remember what happened," he said rubbing his eyes, "everything�s still so hazy."
Bridgette pulled a cool sheet up on him. "You need to get rest then, I insist you stay, I wouldn't want you passing out in the road again,"
"I couldn't impose..."
"Then don't impose and just listen to me," she answered.
He smiled. The first smile she had ever seen. But the smile still lacked true well-being and happiness for you could still see the worry lines on his forehead, the pain in his eyes.
Thunder rumbled in the sky, and a downpour continued through the night. At supper, Bridgette sat alone in the dark kitchen, listening to the rain and nibbling on her supper, not genuinely hungry. She questioned how different the day's events had been. She began to unearth the true reason why she was letting a complete stranger into her house for the night. As just curiosity began to prove false, she turned away from the idea, how foolish of her to think. Yet, she smiled as she thought of how equally wonderful it was. The question truly was if he could like her, and to that she would not barter with for the time being.
Sunlight poured into the room, beaming in on Christian's face. His black hair in a mess, some of it covering his forehead in clumps. He quickly tried to locate where he was, and as fast as he had, the pain of yesterday rolled over onto him, as it had every day. It was a never-ending rolling rock of grief that sometimes would slow in the night hours if not dreamt about. Every morning the rock would fall from the higher step of yesterday, gaining speed and crashing into him, becoming worse with every passing week. He rubbed his face and sat on the side of the bed. The room was empty. He buttoned up his shirt, ran his hand through his hair, and retreated down the steps to confront Bridgette, whom he now remembered completely. He entered the room, Bridgette unaware of his presence. She contently was cooking something in the small stove, and he cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up in awe. Shirt half buttoned. Hair in misfit clumps. Dreamy green eyes looking upon her. She shook her head and shamed herself for thinking that way about a man she did not know. For all the knowledge she had about him, he could very well have been married.
"Good morning," she said quietly.
"Hello," he said shyly.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
Christian seated himself at the table in a "yes" to her answer. She set a small plate of food in front of him, the aroma of it was inviting.
Bridgette desperately tried to think of questions to ask, but none sounded right. She went over them in her head, realizing before she said it what was very wrong with each.
"How have ya been?"-He just passed out in the road before being beaten up, and obvivously seems distraught, what do u think is the answer genius?
"What's the book about?"-he barely wanted to give it to you, look what happened afterward.
"Did you like the Moulin Rouge?"-it's...well..
Bridgette didn't see a problem with asking that question. The MOULIN ROUGE had been a very famous place, and she was oblivious to the fact of how much sentimental importance it held.
The question was stated.
"The Moulin Rouge?" he choked, dry tears in his eyes.
Bridgette saw his pain amplify by thousands. She had narrowed this mysterious man down to one thing-A man who had something go terribly wrong at the Moulin Rouge. But what? She felt like crying as she saw him almost breakdown in front of her, the metioning of a few words starting a pang of grief, a "brain-freeze" like pain that could only wear off.
"Thank you Bridgette," he sobbed, "but I must go."
With that he left the room, her shop and home, fleeing as he had before. Bridgette no longer knew what to say, and let him leave. Her interest only grew more so, and she became infatuated by him. She saw through the shell he had created, a romantic and passionte soul lied inside him, and she desperately wanted to bring it out again.
