the reunion; cas & mat
Matilda might have requested prompt delivery, but it was hours later when he pulled up outside her residence, engine idling with a purr for the gutters as his tires chewed up their brokenhearted gravel and crammed date-rape close to their chipped tooth curbs. Caspar was parked, had been for a minute, but he couldn't seem to pry his hands from their white-knuckled shipwreck-clutch from the helm of his steering wheel. A swelling rage had anchored him there.
He could not begin to calculate, to excavate, to fucking extrapolate the reason for Mat's resurfacing. Not that she needed a reason, the Matilda he knew was not a creature of reason. The woman was whim come to life. He had nearly convinced himself to forget her after five years of getting the fuck over her... but what did that count for now? He'd come to her call all the same. The siren beckoned, and so he readied himself to be dashed to bits on her reef as he got out of his car.
As per his history, the man dressed for a fashionable funeral. Above her door, the moon wore a sickle sneer. He noted it, and then rang her bell.