Marshal heard the loud ting announcing the arrival of the elevator. He simply stood there for an entire minute, lost in the soft echoes of Francis' voice. He had dreamt about her last night, leaving behind her lingering smell vanilla to tease his nostrils.
He knew what he heard was her voice, something he could have distinguished from a mile a away just a few days ago but seemed to slowly fade. Her laughter that had rung in his ears was softer now rather than full boisterous quality it previously held.
He curled his hand around his loose tie in a nervous motion. The elevator was about to close when a slender black hand pushed between the slight parting of the doors, jerking the elevator open again, revealing the form of a woman with each inch.
And as the entire figure presented itself, Francis was back. For there stood in front of them, Gloria Jones.
Gloria was the very embodiment of Marshal's temptation but now merely represented his guilt. She entered the elevator, pushing her small hips against Marshals, the unconscious intimacy not lost on Marshal. He had broken things off with her a few days before Francis had died, not wanting to start his life with Francis along with a mistress.
Gloria had thought then that it was best to step back for the moment. Let him play house with his suburban boring bride to be as she waited. For she knew Marshal would come back to her. She was what he wanted. She was what he deserved.
Francis could never drive Marshal wild the way Gloria could. But, at the same time Gloria was more the mistress than the wife. She did not want to have Marshal's children or take care of his house. She was too driven for that. And now that Francis was out of the way maybe Marshal would pick up where they had left of before.
Her hazel colored gaze fell on Marshal and she knew he was weak enough to crawl back to her soon enough. He would crawl back to her in a drunken haze. She recognized that lost look in his eyes all too well. He was defeated man. And everything about his appearance indicated that.
From the wrinkled dress shirt to the bed hair that no longer looked effortlessly sexy. His cheeks had hollowed as if his grief made him look like he had died the moment he saw Francis' dead face and was a walking ghost. A weak stench of alcohol surrounded his feeble presence.
He was a broken man and everything about him was announcing it to her.
Gloria found herself envious of that. She wondered if someone would look as broken over her were she to die in this moment.
Probably not.