James. She had thought the name would taste foreign, alien, but she was wrong. It’s warm and familiar and she feels like it was dying to roll off her tongue for far too long.
“James…” she’d tease, poking him. She might moan it in pleasure. Or yell it in incredulous anger.
“James,” she’d sigh, exasperated. Yawn it on falling evenings. Sing it with a smile.
“James,” she’d whisper, trailing her fingers up his bare chest in the dark before dawn when the silence reigned.
“James!” she would scream, numb with loss, racked with grief, engulfed with pain and shaking with fear.