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“A child who can’t even make it past the age of seven without drowning itself in some brook or other,” she would have said, “is likely to make a very annoying adult.” And, to give Little Bartholomew due credit, he had managed to discharge his not-drowning duties thus far with admirable competence.
Lol
“Forgive my language, but”—his eyes were as steady on hers as the clasp upon her wrist, his mouth suddenly full of smiles—“fuck the world. I will change it for you if I have to.”
“I need to tell you I love you, Viola. Not only that I do but how I do.” “You don’t have—” she started. But she fell silent beneath the brush of his lips across hers. Besides, he had been right. It felt different to hear it. “I would say”—he shaped the words close to her mouth, as if each of them was its own kiss, a private prayer—“I love you as a man loves a woman, but we both know that love is not bound by such narrow terms. So instead let me simply tell you that I love you. I love you with the unfading flame of my friendship. With every drop of ardour in my blood. I love you with my soul,
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I’m swooning. I’m not okay.
“I want to be inside you. I want to know how it feels—to have our bodies joined that way. And I want to see you in pleasure. I want to see you lost in it and undone by it and transformed by it, and know it was me who gave it to you.”
