Later that evening, Rosalie lingered with Hector on the veranda. He was silent as usual, his lush brown eyes locked upon some distant horizon that only his heart could know. She had learned not to disturb these moods, but tonight she yearned more than ever to reach him.

"Please tell me what you're feeling," she whispered. As always, there was no reply, only the unblinking, haunted stare that masked untold heartbreak and madness. Her aching for him was greater now than she had ever known, and slowly, hesitantly, she lowered her face to him.

It was only a flutter at first, a brief sensation as her lips brushed against his, but it felt like forbidden fire coursing through her entire body. Drunk with passion, she pressed her mouth ever more urgently to his, desperately seeking some sign, some ray of hope that he hungered for her as well.

But there was no hint of validation from his warm yet unyielding eyes, and Rosalie felt her passion turn to anger. "Well, I hope you're proud ofth yourthelfth!" she blurted. "All thith thime I waitedth for you, praying thath you could thare my feelingth! And now, ifth you'll let go of my thounge, I'm leaving you fthorever!"

Pass the Kleenex, Molly C.