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She smells like grass. And strawberries. Two scents I’ve always associated with summer. Warmth tries to crowd out the ice in my chest, but I ignore it.

Smelling like my favorite season, the stranger stares at me with one brow hiked as if she’s trying to decide if my question is worth answering.

“Two months.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly, coming up empty when I try to search my brain for something less robotic.

The only acknowledgment the woman gives me is a cluck of her tongue before eyeing the rose in my hand.

She doesn’t say anything before she grabs hold of her narrow waist and lifts her eyes back to my face. Cloudy, brown irises hold me hostage, latching onto me like an anchor and holding me in place.

An odd sensation prickles my skin when she simplycontinues to stare at me, so I clear my throat and ask another question. “You live out here?”

I’m almost positive she doesn’t. I might not be the friendliest neighbor, but of the six houses aside from mine on this street, I can match a face with every address. There’s no way I saw her before and don’t remember.

And since the graveyard is housed within the gates of the neighborhood, my curiosity persists.

“No.” An irritated huff escapes her before she can help it. “My father was a very presumptuous man. He figured by the time he was in the dirt, he’d be rich enough to own a home in this neighborhood. So, he bought a plot out here years ago.” She shrugs, sending the thin shirt climbing up her torso before she pulls it back down. “Funny because if it wasn’t for his gambling addiction, maybe he could have bought the damn house.”

My brow wrinkles at her use of the wordpresumptuousand the acid soaking her tone when “father” rolled off her tongue.

“Anyway, I’m glad we never moved here,” she continues. “This neighborhood was always creepy to me.”

Amused, I rock back on my heels and mindlessly twist the stem still clutched between my pointer finger and thumb.

“Creepy?” I echo.

The woman in front of me releases a whoosh of strawberry-scented air and I notice her tongue is red. What candy had she eaten before coming here? Had she bought it at the grocery store with the flowers?

“Yeah,creepy,” she emphasizes with an emphatic nod. More of her hair slips free and frames her face, the shorter strands in front kissing her soft cheekbones. “All the houses are old, and I heard the man who lives in the mansion ontop of the hill is mean as a snake. Everybody’s scared of him, and rumor has it he’s responsible for at least two people vanishing without a trace last year.”

“Yeah?” My lips want to smile but the stern look on her face keeps me from letting it bloom.

“Yeah. I don’t want a neighbor like him. Imagine accidentally walking on his grass and then you come up missing.”

Muffling a snicker, I hum and wait for her to tell me more.

“Have you met him?”

Running my free hand over my jaw, I bend the truth. “Nah, never seen him.”

“Well, just don’t piss him off.”

Without pausing to catch her breath, she moves on to other topics. And I can’t stop listening to her. Can’t stop wanting to know everything rolling around in her head.

She keeps talking but never introduces herself or asks for my name.

Not when she asks me if I’ve seen a show calledParadise. And not when she tells me about a book she read that reminded her of the show.

The woman doesn’t come up for air, and I find that I don’t mind listening to post-apocalyptic Cliffs-notes when they come from someone as excited as her.

She speaks like she’s racing an invisible clock, not used to a captive audience and trying to get everything in her head out before her time is up.

Fascination is the only way I can describe what she makes me feel. I can’t walk away. Can’t look away from the animated production she’s putting on with every inflection of her airy voice and every wild gesture of her hands. As strange and one-sided as this interaction is, I don’t want itto end. She commands all my attention. I don’t remember the last time that’s happened.

When the conversation finally lulls for more than a breath, she twists at the waist to study the darkness drenching the graveyard. “Fuck. What time is it?”

Ignoring the watch on my wrist, I pull my phone out of my pocket, wondering where hers is before I recite the time on my screen.