We'll Meet Again

Ed gripped my hand as we made the sharp left hand turn. The last thing I heard him say was ‘I love you, so much’
Then nothing.

Waking up slowly hold my head as if it was going to fall off of my shoulders I struggled to remember what had happened the previous night. I didn’t remember much except for my silver R reg Honda Civic being a complete write off. Haha the insurance company are going to have a field day with my claim – surely they’d had worse though. I just had to make sure I fill the forms in correctly and so they are processed quickly.
I haven’t seen Ed since the accident; it’s been a few day. I’ll just give him time, he’ll come about. I’m desperate to see him though! If you’d have been in a collision with someone who claimed to be in love with you, you’d have thought they’d be right by your side for sure, no doubt about it.
However Ed’s the kind of guy who’s full of surprises, but quite reserved. He’s not keen on people routing round in his private life. It’s not like we’re attached at the hip either. It’s not unusual for us to go a few days without seeing each other.

I’d first met Ed 3 years ago in the dingy cafe in the square over looking the Canal Saint-Martin, where I was often engrossed in my favourite novel, Captain Corelli's Mandolin (which in a near miss with a desk fan he taped back together for me), when he asked if the seat opposite me was taken. We got talking, I say we – he asked me questions about my life and my job as an underpaid, overworked assistant for a woman who was ungrateful for all my efforts (and sometimes spat on me).
We laughed for a while, yet he never gave anything away about himself, except for his name, the fact he was new to the small town in which I lived and at the end of our conversation, his phone number.
His chocolate eyes captivated me, his dark brown hair framed his face well and the way he spoke burned my insides to the point where it was like a drug just to hear him speak. I went to sleep smiling that night.
Looking in the mirror now, inspecting the damage I mutter to myself,  ‘JESUS Chels, what a state!’
So I begin to brush my teeth and hair; hoping that my long fringe will cover up most of the bruising.

My name is Chelsie. I never reveal my age – what’s the point we all end up in the same place, right?
I live in Paris in a small 1920’s apartment which also over looks the canal is perfect for me, my trinkets and sometimes Ed when he stays over.
I have no pets as I have no time for them, my job as an assistant is grueling sometimes, you don’t get days off in the PA business and if you do, I’m yet to have one; having never complained about the work load to my boss I didn’t expect to any time soon either – she’d contemplate firing me there and then, but the realize there would be no one else she could trust - that’s all about to change now.
I have bright green eyes which are at this moment in time glazed with tears ready to escape as I attempt to wash my face. I never cry, I’ve learnt to keep my emotions in check.

After doing a double take at the clock I suddenly realized that the majority of the day had been wasted by me being passed out and it was now getting dark. The lights that hung by the trees on the edge of the canal had been put on and the sight had become breath taking, this is why autumn is my favourite season. The orange of the leaves compliment the night sky and the darkened water so well. Getting lost in the moment I forget what I’m doing, that is until my hair falls on my  face brushing over the purple and black beauty that is my face; carefully I put my jumper over my head grab my keys and decide it’s time to pay Ed a visit.