Feral: Part One Read Online Free

contentment as the sound of the spray and the heat seemed to rinse away the stress of the afternoon.
    As I reclined, the details in the wall caught my attention and brought back so many memories. My bathroom was my favorite room, and as always, it reflected the same tone as my bedroom. When I was a child, both had been done in light pinks and lavenders, giving it a Disney princess feel. As an adolescent, they had been made over with bright colors of blues, purples, and pinks. Everything had always been hand designed and painted by my father, who had an eye for minute details and, being a physician, had hands that could carry out his plans with utter grace and beauty.
    Needless to say, it was with a lot of sadness that I decided to change both the semester before I left for England, but after a lot of discussion with my mother, we came up with designs that we thought my dad might have approved of if he were alive.
    Both the carpet of my bedroom and the tile of my bathroom were in similar camel shades, but where my bedroom walls were a light sandy-mauve with sponge-stippled patterns of gold and chamoisee, the small shower tiles were various and muted shades of brown, cream, mauve, gold, and ochre with the rest of the walls painted a lighter shade than the floor tile. I had then taken a creamy eggshell color and carefully brushed it in a certain direction at a specific height, making it look like waves crashing onto the beach.
    I was immensely proud of the work I had put into both rooms, and could only hope my father really would have approved were he still alive. I personally believed he would, and my mother had only confirmed my thoughts.
    But as much as I loved my bathroom, I was turning into a prune and had to get out before my skin shriveled up like the dried plums—funny how one had to be wet and the other had to have its life sucked out of it to accomplish the same effect. 
    I managed to drag myself out of the tub and downstairs for some of the leftover pasta. As I sat curled up in the leather recliner, I took in the tiny changes my mother had made to the living room while I was gone, all the while thinking about the beautiful Simon Treviso.
    The dark wood floors had not changed and neither had the strategically placed Persian rugs. The muted walls were still the same unusual shade of orange, but a couple of old photos were gone, substituted for some newer ones from Christmas and Thanksgiving. The sofa, love seat and chairs hadn’t been replaced, but they had been moved, and she’d also replaced the wood coffee tables with new ones. Their tops were made of haphazardly-cut, randomly-placed sections of variously colored stone, but they were unexpectedly attractive.
    The small splashes of dark color around the furnishings brought to mind the gentleman’s hair, and the purple calla lilies scattered around the room in their ivory vases reminded me of his curious eyes. That particularly unusual feature was still a surprise in my mind, and if it were not for his head of dark hair, I’d wonder if he had some form of albinism.
    I wasn’t entirely sure why I was still thinking of Simon Treviso after such a brief encounter. It was very likely he was a professor at the university, and to be thinking so intensely about someone in that position of power was probably unhealthy. Of course, the likelihood of him being my instructor was slim, but the principle still applied. And he was probably married to a modelesque beauty with two perfect children.
    With a frustrated groan, I shoved a small shrimp into my mouth.
    I was a relatively-grown woman, I thought, so I should not have a crush on a married man who was probably twice my age. It was ridiculous and a little bit pathetic. I mean, sure he was undeniably attractive, but that was the extent of it. I should let it go at that and not think about the beautiful human anymore.
    Unfortunately, all I saw in my dreams that night were eyes the color of violets.
     
    The rest of my week was