He leaned toward Sheila, and she leaned toward him. Their eyes closed as their lips puckered. He could feel the warmth of her skin as they drew closer. Then, the touch. Expecting the willing taste of her lips, he met the smooth, if disappointing, contoured wall of her cheek. He pulled away.
As his once rising passions gave way to the sinking dread of embarrassment, he fought with his injured pride. He knew Sheila. He’d never known her to lead him on. The quiet voice of his reason shouted over the booming din of his anger.
She was staring at something, he realized. Her body was rigid and cold. He followed her gaze. Looking out through the window, he saw that the rain had stopped. It had been one of those dull, drizzling days, and there was a meagre sort of sunset color to the clouded horizon. Then his eyes saw it.
There was his faded reflection in the glass, and hers, their faces two dim, white spheres floating over the street, but it wasn’t two. There was a third face, as it were, the face of someone standing over Sheila’s shoulder, but there was no one there, not really. They were quite alone at their table. His eyes went back and forth from the reflection on the window to the quiet restaurant they sat in, scouring the room for the source of this uncanny illusion.
Then, as his gaze passed over his love, he caught a little motion. He stopped and stared at her lips. Was it his imagination? Could he almost hear what she said?
“Not now,” he thought she whispered. “Go away.”
He looked up, and now there were only their two faint faces looking back at them like ghosts in the street.
Tale Told 