by Melanie-Anne

In a library in Washington he looks up from his book to see the most beautiful girl in the building staring at him. She smiles, ducks her head, and he amends his thought: she's the most beautiful girl in the world.

(He'll never be free of her.)

She gasps as he pushes her against a wall. Her legs are around his waist and they're tugging at each other's clothes in an effort to feel skin on skin. His mouth is hot on her neck. She says his name, and he thinks he's the luckiest man alive.

(Maybe they're destined to destroy each other.)

"Jonathon Donahue Bristow, do you take this woman to be your wife?"

"I do."

(He is bound to her, and she to him.)

The ground falls out from under his feet when the policeman speaks. She can't be dead. It can't be true. Please, Lord, let it not be true.

Later: Wait, what do you mean she was KGB?

(He wonders what he ever did to deserve this.)

She smiles at him on a train in India, her eyes inviting him to touch her. It takes all of his self-control to look away. He's not sure if he wants to kiss her or push her out the window.

(He should have kissed her, he thinks.)

One betrayal more than his heart can take, he dances with her, kisses her, and puts a bullet in her head. In his mind, she'll forever be falling into that pool. He remembers the first time she smiled at him, his world tilts on its axis, and he spends the night with his head in the toilet.

(She refuses to stay dead. He wishes he wasn't so relieved.)

He is Sisyphus, and she is his rock. Nothing he says or does is untainted by her presence in his life. He carries her in his mind - his heart too, though he'll never admit it - wherever he goes.


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