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What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind? She has learned to step between the thorny weeds, but there are some cuts that cannot be avoided—a memory, a photograph, a name.
March is such a fickle month. It is the seam between winter and spring—though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand, swinging wildly between January gusts and June greens. You don’t know what you’ll find, until you step outside.
Arnaud’s eyes were pleasant, but he had no chin. Jacques was tall, but dull as dirt. George was strong, but his hands were rough, his moods rougher still. And so she stole the pieces she found pleasant, and assembled someone new. A stranger.
Funny, how some people take an age to warm, and others simply walk into every room as if it’s home.
She pauses at MEMOIR, studying the titles on the spines, so many I’s and Me’s and My’s, possessive words for possessive lives. What a luxury, to tell one’s story. To be read, remembered.
Henry loves his sister, he does. But Muriel’s always been like strong perfume. Better in small doses. And at a distance.
Live long enough, and you learn how to read a person. To ease them open like a book, some passages underlined and others hidden between the lines.
Ideas are wilder than memories. And she can plant them, too.
His heart has a draft. It lets in light. It lets in storms. It lets in everything.
She moves among the books as if they’re friends. And perhaps, in a way, they are.
and in that moment, he can see what every artist saw, what drew them to their pencils and their paint, this impossible, uncatchable girl.
“Put your hand over mine,” he says, and she hesitates only a moment before pressing her palm to the back of his hand, ghosting her fingers over his own. “There,” he says, “now we can draw.”
She fell in love with the darkness many times, fell in love with a human once.
