It was lunch time and as always, I walked to the park and sat on the park bench beside the old redwood tree and river that ran through town. It was the same every day and I had become a creature of habit. Andre was probably rolling in his grave at my predictability.
Today wasn’t much different as I sat down, unwrapped my turkey and avocado creation and took that first bit. It was then a voice behind me caught my attention. It was a voice that was so very familiar, but it couldn’t possibly below to him.
I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and face that disappointment, but what if it was?
“It couldn’t be.” I told myself. I moved here three years ago after the accident had taken his life.
The smoothness of that voice though… I could feel myself turning around, but then caught myself. No. It wasn’t possible. I saw the line go flat. I watched the doctors wheel him off after his body had gone ridged and cold.
Even now I could remember when we stood in the shadow of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg as he whispered in my ear, “Snowflake, you can’t deny the artist vookmanship of the castle.”
“No, I can not. Though, it just isn’t my taste.” I said.
His words and heat still sent a shiver down my spine. I was so cold that winter, but having him there with me … I sighed and returned to eating my sandwich.
A tall looming shadow fell across me, and said “You know mi zweet, you always were beautiful with your mouth full.”
I swallowed hard and was just about to spit some retort, but then my eyes met his and my heart stopped. I went completely numb. I just stared at the man before me.
Then he smiled in the way only I ever saw when we were alone.
“Andre?!” I said barely above a whisper.
[This came from an in class exercise about writing the impossible with suggestions of an accent. The above has no basis in reality. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by myself.]