Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Unknown

am,” she offered glibly,
shaking her head, “and struck my abdomen as I fell.”
    “Losing
your baby.” She wobbled under the burden losing the battle to an onslaught of
tears. Angela shrank away when his hand snaked around her forearm as he
attempted to comfort her.
    “Don’t,”
she rebuked with a sniffle. “It happened a long time ago.” She wheeled, dashed
to the bedroom returning with the bag of wet things hugged to her chest. “I
need to get home.”
    Chance,
slow in reacting—his jaw dangling, didn’t reach her until she was half way down
the stairs. “I gave your father my word to see you safely home,” he preached to
her unyielding back. “Angela!” She never stopped moving. “Angela?” He burdened
her with a question he couldn’t resist asking. “How long ago was this?”
    She
plodded down the stairs hanging onto her bundle like it was her life preserver.
In the throes of abject misery, Angela’s pace dramatically increased putting
her at the door, in the street and on the run to anywhere to elude the pain.
Pure energy jolted through her bloodstream becoming the main source of her
being. The idea she was absolutely out of control was never an issue as she
streaked past dilapidated warehouses not yet converted to private residences.
Her empty-headed actions denounced the horrendous pain squeezing her heart. The
street, partially dry since the rain ceased, was deserted with the exception of
her fleeing form and the blur now at her back. Without warning, her feet
slipped from under her as her body took flight.
    Chance
dealt with her tantrum pretty much the same way he faced all obstacles in his
life, swiftly and head-on. He didn’t break a sweat as he thundered behind her,
relaying a stay put signal with a covert hand motion and caboosed his
body to hers while lifting her off the ground. Angela fought hard for her
freedom, crying uncontrollably now. Wondering if he’d driven her to this
madness, Chance swiped aside his regrettable accountability to wrap his strong
arms around her, bundle and all, after spinning her to face him. “Let it all
out, Angela,” he crooned softly into her ear, his hand gloved into her damp
hair.
    She
practically lay into him ridding herself of the pent-up anguish harbored for so
long. Ultimately, all energy fizzled reducing her to a pliable mess of emotions
clinging to him for support. He cradled her and her precious cargo all the way
back to his loft locking in not only them, but, also his rampant imagination.
Angela managed to cap her distress by remembering whose arms sheltered her. It
was evident she teetered on the edge of sanity and the time for release was at
hand.
    “Nearly
six years ago. Right before I came down from Chicago to volunteer after
Hurricane Katrina,” she whispered.
    They
were in his living area ensconced on the sofa inches from each other when she
spoke. She answered the question asked a while ago. The hushed level of her
voice drew him closer, so close he saw the sprinkling of freckles across her
nose. Freckles he hadn’t seen before. Freckles temporarily erased with an
application of makeup.
    “The
grieving process requires a number of steps to cycle in order to clear the way
to healing, Angela.” Chance pulled her legs across in his lap. She resisted
half-heartedly, too played out to fight. Next, he scooted over pulling her to a
horizontal position where her head rested on the arm of the couch. “An
unfaithful spouse, a miscarriage and the most heinous living conditions
imaginable, you sought to bury your pain in charitable works in New Orleans
surmounting the human need to repair your own spirit.”
    Angela
quietly listened to the words coming out of his mouth as interested in the
movement of his lips as much as his consoling tone of voice. All lulled her to
relinquish the remaining festering memories as he removed her soggy socks to
massage the soles of her feet. Her eyes shut allowing the rousing sensations to
course through her body,