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Summary
Felicia Hardy is dreaming again.
She knows because she’s hanging out with Flash and he’s standing tall next to her, six foot something of muscle and neon athleisure, not in his chair or levering himself around on his crutches. She knows because she’s standing in an apartment she recognizes but can’t place, the elevator doors closing behind her, facing two people; it’s a man and a woman, she thinks, has the vague, shifting impressing of red hair on her, but when she tries to focus on him—on either of them, but especially on him—her brain balks, running right up to the edge of looking and then veering away to stare at the art on the walls, the plant between them that they’re repotting.It isn’t right. She should be looking at them. She should be looking at him, and he should be looking at her, and he should be shocked and she should be—satisfied, vengefully satisfied, a painted veneer over hurt and anger.