Mission Impossible Sweat-damp sheets clung to his back, his eyes lingering on the unfamiliar curve of Fran-- He was quick to correct himself. Allison’s hip. But it was an easy mistake to make, when she lay sleeping, content reduced utterly to form. When he slept (if he slept), he imagined Allison’s eyes staring back, pensive and disembodied, less her own with each passing night. “But I promised not to forget you,” he argued silently. He shut his eyes, venturing to glimpse Allison one more time, perhaps one last time, begging her to haunt him with those dark eyes, ever less her own.
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