Sabbatical
The woman is sitting on the ground, cast in lovely dawn shades of gold and pink. Her legs are crossed, hands folded in her lap, and her lush white curls fall over one shoulder like an avalanche. There is not a speck of blood on her hands or on her pants, despite the pool spreading slowly beneath Sephie’s back. For some reason, that is what Sephie is most focused on at this moment—the blood is hot and wet and deeply unpleasant, and she envies the woman for not having any on her. The car that struck her and drew the blood is long gone, a hit and run, and the coffee shop’s customers will not come for their caffeine fix for almost an hour. Unless the woman shows a heretofore unforeseen interest in things like cell phones and emergency services, or a particularly helpful spook wanders past and kicks up a fuss, Sephie is reasonably sure that she will be dead by then, and the only thing to greet her regulars will be the sticky pool of red.
Sephie frowns, or at least Sephie considers frowning. Fine motor functions are slightly more difficult than usual. The coffee shop won’t be opened today, if she dies. This bothers her rather a lot—that’s years and years of her life in that coffee shop, and it seems absurd that something so transient as death should stop her from opening it and making cappuccinos. Maybe her spook will stand up and take care of it, she thinks. Spooks have done stranger things.
“I’ve been on sabbatical for thirteen years today,” the woman announces with a serene smile, looking down at Sephie.
She’s been answering that for years now.
“That’s nice, miss,” Sephie rasps, and the blood on her lips is salty.
