You've been sat at this delightful little café for the best part of an hour and a half. You've not had a sip of coffee, but the pot plant next to you has been remarkably well fed as you keep asking for refills. The pastry in front of you has not entered your mouth, but you've occupied yourself peeling off the thin layers of its skin, flicking them away in the breeze.
Your attention here isn't on the patisserie, it's on that church on the other side of the piazza, that magnificent stone building, that edifice of religion, that monument to faith. In your breathing days you used to attend regularly, you took the sacrament, you spoke the words, but you weren't there because you were a believer, you were there because of a woman, as you so often were in life. You were often dragged from pillar to post by your devotion to certain females, not one of them ever knew your name, not one of them ever deigned to speak to you. But you'd get to know them, get to follow them, know where they lived, know what there interests were. You'd like to examine them every inch if you could, but often your gaze was thwarted by clothing, curtains and other.
You've occupied so much of your time since being dead sitting in this café watching this woman accross the piazza whenever she leaves the church at night time. Looking through the fountain spray of the water, watching her majestic frame as it makes it's way over to the bus stop. Still she would not recognize you, still she would not know your name, but still you are obsessed with her, even in death, even now that you're a blood drinker. It's not even necessarily that you now want to tell her how much you feel, you've never told a woman how you feel, because you've never had the confidence. But this one, this one's special, this one's the one you were obsessed with when you died, and since you were brought back she's always had a place in your heart. You've known she's a missing piece of a puzzle, a missing piece of your puzzle. Somehow she's keeping you grounded, keeping you on the path of righteousness the priest might say.
You can't help but get to your feet as you see the congregation spilling out into the piazza, you can't help but kick your chair back and lay cash on the table as you see her make her way past the fountain, illuminated in the moonlight, that sprinkle of water making her frame hazy with beauty. You'd love to taste her, to taste her blood. You'd sworn off drinking blood from humans after the first time, you've only been a vampire for the past three years and have largely subsisted on a diet of dogs, rats, and the like. But the one time you fed from a mortal it went horribly wrong, the mortal bled out, he was exsanguinated, you didn't know what to do, you didn't know the correct procedure. When your sire found out he just laughed, and said: "Stupid girl. You can fix this, but first we need to put this body in a shallow grave, a long way from the city, and tell no one of this" So that's what you did, you buried the poor man, fairly deep, and tried to put it from your mind. Still the only blood you've been drawn to since that time is that of your beloved, that of the victim of your obsession, that of the woman who you wish you could express your true feelings for.