9

                                    

                                          
9
                          
.
                          
When he woke up the next morning, he felt as if he'd been hit by a bus. This was partly, of course, because he'd fallen flat on his face only a few hours prior. 
                          
Harry wanted to kick himself for standing outside the house of tulips and watching her from afar. As he rubbed his hand gingerly across the side of his head that hurt most, wincing from the contact, he decided it was best to act as if it had never occurred. 
                          
It had now been four days since he'd last talked to Eileen, and he didn't want her to think that he was avoiding her. It seemed wrong. And after she'd been so welcoming, he felt a sort of obligation to see her; the kind of obligation a person feels to write a thank you card, or meet and old friend for coffee. 
                          
So he showered, ate a quick breakfast, and returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Harry had started to look much healthier since he'd moved to the beach, even though he couldn't quite understand why. It was most evident in his upper body and face, which had filled out slightly, making him look somewhat stronger. As he gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror, ignoring the slight bruising of his jaw and the cut on his chin, he felt younger than thirty.   
                          
A thin smile played at his lips. 
                          
Not bad, old boy. 
                          
It didn't take long to note that a light rain had fallen outside. It seemed like it was finished, which he was very grateful for; but it would be wise to dress cozily, just in case. He shimmied into a (rather tight) pair of jeans and grabbed a warm jacket to cover his flannel. 
                          
For some odd reason, he had an urge to turn back one last time and confirm how he looked before slipping out the front door. 
                          
.

                          
When she entered his line of sight, she was on her porch, as usual-- however, today she wasn't tending to the tulips like Harry had expected. 
                          
He found her slumped over on one of the front steps, removing whatever had previously covered her feet in exchange for rain boots. A pair of loose, well-worn jeans clad her hips, and her entire torso was buried beneath a large black parka. 
                          
She looked ready to go someplace. 
                          
As he drew nearer, Harry found himself taking deep breaths, as if preparing himself. The morning air was cool and crisp as it filled his lungs, only to be released in warm exhales. He couldn't seem to stop moving his hands. Without thinking twice, he hid them within the pockets of his rain jacket, hoping to appear relaxed. 
                          
It was at that moment when Eileen turned her head against the breeze. Her lips tilted upwards into a surprised grin. It was clear now that she'd been wearing a pair of soft, pink slippers just a moment ago; the foot that didn't have a boot on it wore a dainty white sock covered in ducklings, a tiny frill of lace looping around the ankle. 
                          
"Hello, Harry!" she chirped. The porch step creaked as she shoved her foot into the second boot and sat back on her palms. "How are you today?"
                          
He felt a familiar burning in his ears, and reached to run a hand through his hair. 
                          
"I'm--"
                          
Suddenly, her face fell. 
                          
"Harry," she muttered with a voice filled with what appeared to be caution, or concern. He drew his brows together as if to ask what was wrong, but Eileen was already on her feet and approaching him. 
                          
The sunlight cast from behind the house flashed across her face for just a moment. It was vibrant, fleeting and golden; and he knew in an instant that he hadn't been under some strange spell the night before.