Someone Like Her. Janice Kay Johnson

      He thought he took a step toward her, searching her eyes the way she often did his. Her pupils dilated as she stared back at him, her smile dying. He felt cruel when wariness replaced it.

      She inched around him as if afraid to take her gaze from him, then backed toward the door. “I’ll, um, see you later then? Say, two o’clock?”

      “I’ll come and eat lunch first.” He paused. “Your soup was amazing.”

      The tiniest of smiles curved her lips again. “Wait until you taste my basil mushroom tomato soup.”

      His own mouth crooked up. “I’ll look forward to it.”

      “Well, then…” She backed into the door frame and gave an involuntarily “umph” before she flushed in embarrassment, cast him one more alarmed look and fled.

      He stood there by the curtain, the soft beep of the machines that monitored his mother’s life signs in his ears, and wondered what in hell had just happened.