Drinker of Ink

by Shannon Castleton

“I shorted out.” I finally arranged words in my head. Peter smoothed my hair, face tensed in concern. He was good at smoothing my hair. Much better than Maman. He was good at holding me. Peter Breznik was holding me. “Do you short out a lot?” His lips pressed my forehead where my hair starts. I didn’t think so. The words kept slipping down a tunnel. But no, I had never shorted out. “You kissed the shadowed skin beneath my earlobe and my heart exploded.” I pressed my palm over the silky-cotton fabric of his shirt. “I like your blue sweatshirt better.” “Do you have a heart issue?” His hand covered mine. Yes. I had a heart issue: It was holding me. “You are my heart issue, and I have never shorted out.” I shifted on his legs to loop my arms around his neck and study his face, probably like a drunk. “I want to be your koala. Did I say that already? You know how they cuddle onto things?” His laughter burst out like a beam of light in his dimming office.