I moved toward her as if drawn in by her gravity, her magnetic pull, as if her presence put a spell on me, that same wild desert magic from years ago. Abbi meandered through the crowd, unaware that I was on a collision course with her that I could no longer control. People I slid past called my name, extended hands, offered to buy me a drink, but it all fell from me like drops of rain down my bare skin.
The ballroom was crowded. As I made my way toward her, she would disappear only to reappear when I craned my neck, shifted to the side or stretched up onto my tiptoes, all self-control seemingly gone. Every time I caught a glimpse of her it was like seeing her for the first time.
She wore a modest black gown, simple in every regard except for the fact that it was on her. The seemingly formless material glided over her like water over a statue of Venus. The water itself was not beautiful, but rather the way it followed the curves of the goddess's waist, hips, all the way down to the delicate bones of her wrists. Her hair was swept up into a simple chignon at the base of her neck, and the way the flicker of candles caught her golden locks reminded me of the sun on her hair in the mountains by the lake.
As I drew nearer I thought I should feel like a predator stalking his prey: dominant, dangerous, in control. But I couldn't help but feel like it was the other way around. I was walking into a trap, like a rabbit walking willingly and eagerly into the jaws of the wolf. But I couldn't stop myself, not any longer. I needed to be nearer to her, even if that meant being consumed.
Abbi's back was to me as I moved to stand behind her at the table of hors d'oeuvres.
"Do I need to check your purse?" I asked, my lips at her ears.
Abbi didn't start or startle, as if she'd known the whole time that I was approaching her. She turned slowly to face me in the small space I left her between me and the white linen-covered table. Her lips quirked up into a grin as she looked up at me.
"Do you intend on apprehending me?" she replied.
She wore very little makeup, just a brush of blush across her freckled cheekbones. It was the same flush she had as she came stumbling and smiling off that dance floor. It was the same sweet, raspberry pink she had when she laughed during our handfasting ceremony. It was the colour of the sky just after the sun sank low over the mountains, it was the colour of her lips after she kissed me for the first time, it was the colour of her breasts after she'd come with me inside of her.
Abbi watched my face and I wondered if those intelligent, thoughtful hazel eyes were reading my thoughts.
"Am I free to go?" she asked softly. "Mr O'Sullivan?"
She plopped a bacon-wrapped date into her mouth and sucked her fingers one after the other. When I remained silent, she slipped past me. I followed her as she weaved through the crowd of tuxedoes and evening gowns, designer labels and Swarovski crystals, pockets of Black Amex cards and Mercedes keys.
"What do you plan on stealing tonight, Ms Miller?" I asked.
Abbi didn't glance back at me. She had no need to. She had known I was there, following. And, I thought, she'd wanted me there, following.
"Why are you so sure that I intend to steal something?" she asked, greeting people casually as she moved easily through the crowd.
I nodded to a few faces I half-recognised or sensed I should half-recognise.
"Once a thief, always a thief."
Abbi laughed and the sound cut through the din of the ballroom like a knife against a crystal champagne glass. "I remember another set of lips drinking from that wine bottle, Mr O'Sullivan."
The memory of her fingers brushing mine as we passed that wine bottle back and forth in that linen closet hit me with the same realness as a random shoulder.
I stumbled as I followed Abbi. I hadn't been able to stop myself then. I wasn't able to stop myself now.
Abbi grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray and sipped it as we circled the ballroom. "What are we supposed to do at parties like these?" she asked.
"Survive," I said.
She eyed me over her shoulder. I noticed like a strike of lightning the flash of mischievousness in her eyes.
"Survive?" she repeated, as if it were a dirty word. "I would rather starve than merely survive."
Her words surprised me.
"That seems a little bit melodramatic, no?" I asked.
Our conversation paused as we exchanged quick niceties with this executive or that, this important person or that, this douchebag or that. Abbi managed to slide away from the small talk as easily as water down a mountain stream.
"Perhaps it's melodramatic," she said, her voice hushed so only I could hear her as we smiled and nodded through the crowd. "But still, one is living and one is not."
I quirked up a curious eyebrow.
"Starving is living?" I asked. "Isn't that a contradiction?"
Abbi grinned devilishly over her shoulder again, and she was no longer in an elegant ballgown, but Converse tennis shoes coloured in black, a white button-down, and a vest two sizes too big.
"Life is full of contradictions," she said, her eyes darkening. "For instance, you can't stand me and yet you can't seem to stay away from me."
The thrill of her, the excitement of her, the danger of her like the first few sparks on dry grass before an unstoppable wildfire filled my
